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imagine-it-to-be-true · 3 years

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Fix You - Caius Volturi x FemOC Three Shot: Part 2

Hey guys! So, originally, this story was supposed to be a One-shot. But because of the overwhelming amount of requests I’ve received (thank you so much sweeties, by the way), I’ve decided to make it into a three parter. This is part 2, and the first part can be found on my blog. I’m not sure when I get around to writing part 3 as uni starts back up today, but I’ll try my best not to keep you in suspense for too long. This part is more centred around chaos than romance. Nothing belongs to me (including the GIF) Also, warnings: violence, blood, death.

Andromeda’s POV

The sensations were weird. First, I had been in a lot of pain around my stomach region. I could hardly breathe, let alone express my pain to the handsome-yet-creepy, blonde stranger taking care of me. Though I’m sure he knew. I mean, even I knew I was dying, and he was helpless to save me, so I didn’t bother speaking. I could see the concern in his eyes and hear his sweet whisperings as he stroked my cheeks and wiped away my tears. But these little comforts were not enough to stop the hurt. Then, when I saw him holding a huge syringe, it sent me into panic mode. I never liked needles, not to mention ones which were about to inject unfamiliar liquids into me. But he reassured me it would help, which calmed me down. Not like I could defend myself in that moment anyways. I guess it couldn’t hurt me more. It turned out he was right. After a few minutes, I noticed the pain slowly going away. Maybe it wasn’t the liquid, but the fast-approaching release of death, I wasn’t sure. My cries began to slow, and I could feel more pleasant sensations, such as the pale man stroking my hand with his thumb, gently massaging circles into it. Then, he asked,

“What is your name, omorfiá mou?”

Gasping for air, I attempted to speak,

“Andromeda,” came my whispered reply. With my half-opened eyes, I was able to see his perfect lips draw up in a smile. Focusing on his features, I didn’t even realize that my pain was entirely gone, and I was feeling rather loopy. I watched the man bend down closer to me, brushing my hair back and running his ice-cold knuckles down the side of my neck. Suddenly I felt a sense of vulnerability. I felt his cool breath hitting my ear as he whispered,

“Do not be afraid. You will live forever. You are mine now, and I will never let anything hurt you again.” I was confused and fear began to resurface. I had gotten away from one creep, only to be taken by another. This man scared me to my core. But before I could dwell on my thoughts, I saw him quickly lean down towards my neck, as if he was about to kiss me. That was not what happened.

Indeed, I momentarily felt his cool lips touch the sensitive skin of my neck. But then a sharp pain erupted. Whatever it was that he injected into me was definitely helping. I was aching again, though differently this time. It was a dull, electrifying, fiery sensation, which immediately spread from my neck to my brain, and all the way down to the tips of my toes. My body was on fire, but it was not as intense. If one were to be scratched over and over and over again, pain would increase. This was what I was going through. It was continuous and that was making it worse. An hour had passed, then two, then I lost count. I couldn’t see anything anymore, my vision clouded. Yet I could still hear him. He never seemed to leave. Others would come and go. Time would pass and I would feel needles in my arms. I assume he kept injecting me with whatever it was, which managed my pain; probably morphine. I learned his name was Caius from others who had come in and spoken to him. Caius. What an unusual name. But it fit him.

He had injected so much morphine into me that the dull burning sensation eventually stopped. That, or perhaps I adjusted to it. I could not tell how much time had passed, but by now, it had been a while, for sure. I had given up. If it were not for his constant voice, and feeling of his icy hands touching my own, I would have believed I passed on. But eventually, my vision slowly began to return. I hadn’t felt injections in hours, and no pain returned, which was strange.

The entire time I lay there, presumably dying, I thought of my life. Who would miss me? I had no parents. Both died in a car crash when I was 12. I was in the back seat and miraculously survived. Given no time to adjust to the tragedy, I was immediately placed in a foster home in New Haven, where I experienced endless amounts of bullying. But as with all foster children, my stay was temporary. For the next five years, I bounced from one home to the next. This made me reserved, quiet, and untrusting. I was socially awkward and had very few friends. My main comforts came from the company of animals. Truthfully, I got used to this solitary existence, finding that I expressed myself better through storytelling than the spoken word. In fact, my unfortunate childhood did not impact my standing at school. I was always a good student, and this landed me a fully paid scholarship to NYU where I completed a double degree in journalism and history. The lack of family and friends allowed me to dedicate all my time to my studies and work, which was conducting research for my professor. Then, after graduating, I decided to make a drastic change and start fresh with a move to Europe. For the last two years, I had spent my time travelling several countries and writing articles on historical artifacts, buildings, and churches. I sold my stories to networks as a freelance historical journalist, living alone and moving often from place to place. In fact, Volterra was my last stop in Europe before I planned to relocate to Egypt and focus on Pharaonic history there. Not many of Volterra’s tourists knew about the building I had been photographing, which was off the main street and down an alleyway. It was not glamorous, but historic, which drove me to it. That is where I was and what I was doing when I was suddenly grabbed and dragged into a dark alleyway.

My life had been flashing before my eyes over and over again. I wanted to live. To do better. To be better. I was sick of being alone. So, when my vision began returning, I was filled with motivation to live. Really live. Finally, I could focus my eyes. I stared up at what appeared to be a bed canopy. It was velvet, and dark red in color. To my right, I could sense the smell of burning candles. It was so prominent that it made my nose burn. My hands were balled into fists, grasping the cotton sheets and I could see that I ripped holes in them. How much pain was I in that I ripped a bedsheet with my bare hands? I then noticed something strange. I was not breathing. Since when was I not breathing? This frightened me immensely, and I bolted into an upright sitting position. As I did, the bed violently shook. The canopy swayed as if it would collapse at any second. Did I do this? I’m a weak little girl who couldn’t even fight off a drunk man in an alleyway, how was I doing all this? I heard a sound to my left and immediately snapped my head towards the source. It was a young woman – girl more like it – that I did not recognize. She had strange red eyes, much like my rescuer. But she frightened me more than him. There was a certain evil surrounding her, I could sense it. How, I did not know. All I knew was that she did not wish me well.

“Hello, Andromeda.” She spoke coolly.

I looked at her, suspicion and confusion painted over my face.

“H-how do you know my name?”

“Master Caius told me.”

‘Master?’ that sounded strange. Not something a girl would call a man. What was this, a sex trafficking operation? Before I could speak, she continued.

“He has been by your side. He will return any minute now. He went out hunting for you.” She spoke like an information-giving robot: just spewing facts, unmoving, her expression unchanging.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Hunting… that’s not necessary. I- I don’t eat meat.” Her expression finally changed. Her smirk transformed into a creepy smile, and she let out a laugh.

“Believe me, dear girl. It is not exactly meat he will be returning with.” She turned on her heels and stormed out of the room. Two guards opened the bedroom door for her and shut it as she left. So, they have my room guarded. I guess they aren’t going to let me leave.

I was not in a hurry; I needed to see Caius. Thank him. And ask him how he was able to fix me. Was I remembering correctly that he bit me?! What a strange thing to do. I looked down on my stomach, which was completely injury-free. Then, I reached my hand to the back of my neck, trying to feel any bitemarks there. Nothing. What the hell? I did not understand. I had a lot of questions and needed answers, the most pressing of which was why my throat was on fire. I would have asked the girl, but something in me yelled to keep my distance from her; that she was dangerous. Slowly, I stood up from the bed, noticing that the white dress I had on when I was shot was no longer on me. Instead, I wore a soft, white nightgown, with lace on the collar. It seemed like a typical garment from Tudor England, or something. It was unlike anything I had seen in any mall or shop. Come to think of it, the entire room had a historic, gothic feel to it. The décor resembled a royal palace.

My feet hit the marble floor and I began walking around the room, making my way to the bookshelf. There, a massive assortment of books awaited. However, they were not the typical books one would find in a normal home. These were all historic and ancient. I picked up a copy of the Iliad. Looking at the bindings, I could tell the book was old. More interestingly, it was still written in Homeric Greek – not a language many would be able to read. Whoever this belongs to was most definitely smart.

Suddenly, I felt the burning in my throat worsen. The sensation intensified to the point where I was nearly panicking. Ready to run for the doors and ask the guards for help, I heard footsteps approaching.

The door swung open, and the man… Caius walked in. No longer dying, I could properly admire his features. He looked perfect, truly. Not a single flaw on his face or skin. His nearly white, blonde hair carefully combed back behind his ears. He moved towards where I was sat in an armchair and knelt in front of me. Immediately, I was filled with a calmness. It was like I was home. I cannot describe it completely, but it was as if all problems were erased, and I was safe. This was the second time I managed to judge a person based on feelings, all within the last few minutes. First with the young woman from earlier, and now Caius. Before he could speak, the feeling was gone, and replaced once again with unease and danger, as I watched the young woman reappear, dragging a man by his wrist. Behind her, the guards entered the room and stood on either side of the man. I could feel that he was not dangerous, as the fear was practically radiating off him. The woman stepped behind him and gave him a push towards me.

“Dinner,” she stated coldly. I looked from her to the frightened man, to Caius. I could see annoyance on his face, as he turned to her and spoke.

“Must you, Jane? Do you not know of patience?”

“Forgive me, Master Caius. You were not one to show patience often, and I do learn from you.” She stated simply.

When Caius turned to me, I was grasping my throat, which was burning almost unbearably. “What is happening?!” I choked out.

“I know this will not make sense to you right now, and I will explain everything, I promise. But the only thing that will stop the ache is if you drink blood. You need to drink this man’s blood.” Caius whispered to me, out of earshot of the poor man.

I froze and looked at him with wide eyes, face in complete and utter shock.

“WHAT?! What did you just say?!” I exclaimed, not believing what I heard.

He sighed and leaned in once again, whispering. “In order to save your life from your injuries, I was forced to turn you into a vampire. You need blood, and you need it now. Trust me.” He tried again.

“I WILL NOT! ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!” Hastily standing, I pushed him away. My intention was to give him a normal, hard push so that he gets the message. But nothing prepared me for what happened. When I pushed him, he went flying across the room and hitting a marble column, which shattered on impact. Immediately, the room was filled with noise and dust as the column went crashing down around him. I pushed myself into the corner of the room and watched in terror. That impact would have killed an elephant. Yet Caius, simply rose, brushing dust off his blazer and pants. The evil woman – Jane as he called her – appeared emotionless as she turned her attention from Caius to me.

“Fine. More for us then,” she said. What followed, was simply too much for me to handle.

First, I heard Caius yelling, “Jane, NO!” In one swift motion, she tore the frightened man’s throat with her teeth. Blood gushed out from the wound, spilling all over the white marble floor. I screamed in terror. But what was even more terrifying than the poor man’s death, was the smell of his blood. It was driving me crazy. It was like nothing I had ever experienced it. I craved it. Needed it. And was so close to taking it all for myself. But with any remaining strength I had left, I stopped myself. This was not me. I was a vegetarian because I cared for the well-being of animals. There was not a thing in the world which would force me to do anything to harm another living soul. So, I curled up in a ball in my corner and rocked back and forth, trying to focus my senses on anything other than the delicious smell of blood.

“I will deal with you later. Take him and leave, now!” I heard Caius’ voice. “You are not to come here again; you are not to see her! Now go!”

“Yes, Master Caius.” I heard her disgusting, venomous voice once again as she left. The doors closed and the room was filled with silence.

I momentarily thought Caius left too, but then I felt the sensation of safety return to me.

“How did I do that?” I ask with a shaking voice.

“You are a new vampire. For the first few weeks, you will be stronger than the rest of us. This will pass, and you will adjust.” He said gently.

I continued hugging my knees and rocking. Caius continued.

“This is not how a newborn should experience the first moments. But Andromeda…” he hesitated, “You need to feed. If you do not, it will only get worse. Your awareness will seize to function, and you will eventually kill more than you would have otherwise.”

With no response from me, Caius reached for my hands, placing his own over them. This woke a rage inside of me. I grasped his wrists and pushed him backwards. His back hit the wall, not as hard this time. I began speaking.

“You did this to me. You made me this… this… monster. This is on you. You should have let me die. Now, because of your selfish need for heroism, I will murder countless others.”

We both rose to our feet. He gently approached me again, saying my name, but I held my hand up to block him. “Get out. I don’t ever want to see you again. I hate you.”

With that, I pushed him towards the direction of the door. He paused,

“Andromeda-”

“GET OUT!” I picked up a glass vase and threw it in his direction, and he finally left. I sat down on the cold marble tiles, pressing my back against the wall, and screamed in agony.

#caius volturi #caius #twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #volturi #volturi imagine #oneshot requests #oneshots #vampire #love #romance #hurt comfort #jane volturi

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lov3nerdstuff · 3 years

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Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.35}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 3k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

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"I'm going to die, am I not?" Robin sighed in a shallow voice before she could help it, while fear wrapped around her heart like a vine of devil's snare. "You wouldn't be sitting there like that if it was anything else."

Snape didn't reply, but his eyes found and followed Robin's as she toed off her shoes and then carefully maneuvered through the papers on the ground, hopefully without stepping onto any of them until she stood right before him. With a heavy weight in her chest that made it harder to breathe by the second, she looked down at him for a moment in silence, but it was only when she took his hand ever so gently that every bit of defeat and doubt faded from his features to leave only calm determination behind.

"I will not let you die, Robin. You know that." He finally spoke up in an overwhelming certainty that his eyes conveyed now as well. "No matter what these papers say, we will be fine."

Letting out a breath she didn't know she had been holding, Robin gave him a nod and a half smile on instinct. If he seriously thought they were going to be alright, then they would be. Perhaps that had to be enough reassurance for now, enough for her to cling onto, enough to keep calm and deal with whatever was coming. With a sigh she finally sat down next to Snape in their small circle between the papers and took in all the different stacks of parchments spread around them. They were of various ages, in various stages of decay and with a multitude of different handwritings on them. Gods, where to start… perhaps, with the most obvious thing to do.

"Tell me about it." Robin merely said, calmly almost as if they were merely talking about a new kind of potion they were experimenting on, then looked up at Snape by her side. "What are we dealing with here?"

"A prophecy." He sighed in return. "An old prophecy that is, and I daresay those tend to be the very worst."

"Great."

"Perhaps you should read for yourself what it is about and how it came to be." Snape said, then frowned to himself for a moment while his eyes scanned the papers, before finally his features relaxed once more into calm factuality. "At least the most important parts of it all. The history around it up to the present day I might as well summarize for you afterwards."

"Have you actually read over all of these parchments already?! There are literally hundreds of them!"

"I read fast." He flatly defended himself against Robin's incredulous expression, but once she gave him a no-kidding look, he went on to elaborate. "But I also skimmed through a lot of it merely to be able to group it into categories. About half of these papers are mere copies of older texts that were only made to preserve the content and document the process thereof. The other half consists of about eighty percent personal accounts of those affected by the prophecy, and merely the remaining twenty percent are information abundantly necessary to understand the prophecy itself as well as its history. Those I have read entirely, yes."

"Wow…" Robin breathed, while her eyes drifted over the sea of paper in front of her. "It all sounds terribly complicated, if I'm honest."

"It will make more sense once you read for yourself." He replied almost reassuringly and handed her one of the smaller stacks of parchment, a mere ten pages, perhaps. "This is a late 19th century transcription of the first original text that was written in the early 14th century by the wizard who cursed your bloodline."

"What?!"

"Just read, will you?"

With a sound that started as a scoff but ended as a sigh, Robin let herself lean further into Snape's side before finally allowing her eyes to trail over the delicate handwriting as carefully as possible in the golden light of the fire. And boy, what she got to read right there she hadn't been expecting, not even anything close to it at all. It was a bloody mess, and not the least bit less messed up. But reading she did, and she started at the beginning.

It had all begun in the early fourteenth century, when an unfortunate man had fallen in love with an even more unfortunate woman. The man, a wizard born into one of the most reputational bloodlines at the time, namely into the family line of the Morgans. The woman, a witch herself, descendant of a rivaling family with no less power or influence than the former. The bloodline of the Bennetts. And as fate so often, so cruelly demands, the unfortunate man in line of the Morgans fell so deeply in love with the Bennett girl that before long, his love turned poisonous and into obsession. The young woman in return felt nothing but fear for the Morgan man, fear and even disgust perhaps, and she continued to condemn his countless advances, to flee from him whenever she could. Driven to madness by the girl's insistent rejection, the man set out to force her into marriage, to force her into loving him, but the Bennett girl would not be so easily subdued. Defying his will, she saw her last resort in fighting him as an equal, and he saw his last chance with her in fighting back. And fighting they did, to the bitter bloody end, to the very last draw. But as Morgan looked down at her on their moss covered battlefield, broken and shaking on the ground in her unwilling surrender, he saw that she would never relent. And if she would never come to love him, if she could never be his, then she ought to be no one else's either. He killed her in a frenzy of blind rage, a step further down on his descent into madness, and he only realized what he had done when it was by far too late.

Eaten up by grief and guilt, in unconsolable agony over what he had lost, he painted a portrait of his love, his eternal flame, to preserve her spirit for all the time to come. And yet he could never forgive himself for what he had done, could not live without the only thing that made his life worth living, could not live with the suffocating guilt.

Thus he took the painting, and the jewelry of his love; a locket which he had always adored, for it was a piece she had always worn with such intent adoration. He then had placed an intricate curse on the two objects, and on the two bloodlines of the Morgan and Bennett family in return. A curse that would make history repeat itself, generation for generation, until one day, the Bennett line would triumph over the Morgan one, and thereby give the original ancestors both their punishment and their redemption. The tragedy was to repeat until a Bennett girl would finally kill a Morgan man, or the two lines would be tied together for all the time to come. Having placed that curse, and having secured that the tokens of this prophecy would be found, the original Morgan had written down his sins and soughts, before finding his bloody end at his very own hands at long last. Cursed to suffer in death, until one day his distant heir would be defeated by the heir of his love.

Robin looked up from the papers with a deep frown, with lips parted in confusion and incredulity. "Is this some kind of joke I just don't understand?"

"I am afraid it is not."

"Well, either way, this can't have anything to do with me. I don't even know anyone by the name of Bennett! I mean sure, I have the locket, one locket, to be precise, and we don't even know if it's the one! This… All of this is just mental!"

"And yet in the light of the present ongoings, it would make perfect sense, wouldn't you say?" Snape's voice was surprisingly calm for the absurdity of the topic, and deep down Robin knew that this indeed was no joke, nor some goofy tragedy. This was perfectly real, and somehow, she was caught up right in the middle of it.

"I still don't understand why… or how… or… anything about this at all." She scoffed to herself, while her frown deepened to suppress the angry tears of helplessness. Fine, so someone in the fourteenth century had possibly cursed a locket she had in her possession, and a portrait Morgan had in his. So what?! She wasn't a Bennett, nor a Morgan for that matter. What on earth did she have to do with any of this?! Angrily, she ripped the locket off her neck in one abrupt yet considered movement, and the chain once again bit into her skin like a violent whip. But she didn't care, rather on the contrary, the pain posed an almost pleasant distraction from her mental state of utter torment. Without any remaining care, she tossed the necklace onto one of the paper stacks by the fireplace, then glared at it as if that would melt the piece of jewelry out of existence by the sheer furnace of her fury alone. But all it did was to make her eyes hurt, and to make them tear up even more as Robin failed to come to any other conclusion than the one laid out before her. She would have to accept the facts, if she liked them or not… but that didn't mean she had to understand them any more than this crooked tumble of words in her head allowed her to.

After a few long seconds at last, seconds she used to unsuccessfully sort through her own frenzied thoughts, she first felt the cool brush of Snape's fingertips on the soreness of her neck, then the soothing tingle of his magic on her skin as well as in her mind, and finally the welcoming softness of his lips pressing gentle kisses to the back of her neck. Obviously he understood that no words in existence could better the chaos that had become of her mind right now, and in return those feathery kisses were all it took to break through the clouds of anger that surrounded her, like a beaconing ray of sunshine. Robin found herself sighing before she knew, and for a few silent minutes upon that, she merely enjoyed the comfort of his lingering embrace. She wasn't alone in this, and she didn't have to deal with it alone. Thus, the only question of relevance was how they usually dealt with these kinds of problems, and the only answer was the same as always: together. By taking on one piece of the puzzle at a time.

"So…" She finally started again, and turned her head just enough to look at Snape more comfortably now. If they would talk about this now, there was no place for stray emotions. If he could stay calm and rational, so could Robin. "Basically this means that ever since the fourteenth century, whenever a male descendant of the Morgan family lived at the same time as a female descendant of the Bennett family, the man slowly turned insane with love for the woman until matters ended in one final fight over life and death? And as of yet, the Morgan man has killed the Bennett girl every single time?"

"Yes, and no. It isn't as easy as that, unfortunately." Snape replied, but thankfully went right on to explain. "The cycle of repetition begins only and foremostly when the first of the two descendants comes into contact with the cursed item connected to their family line."

"You mean when the woman finds the locket, or the man finds the portrait?"

"Precisely. The curses placed on the objects ensure that both the witch and wizard will inevitably find their respective objects. Thus, when Morgan came across the portrait, you also had to find the locket not long after. Or the other way around."

"But I came across the locket all the way back in first year, entirely by chance! Does that mean I was the first to find my object? Assuming that I even am the person this prophecy speaks of, that is."

"Not necessarily. Curses as well as prophecies have a tendency to make everything seem like it happened by chance. In hindsight, you might as well have taken the first chance you got to acquire the locket. It was your first holiday outside of school, after all. The first opportunity to seek out your object by yourself after becoming aware of magic in the first place."

"That's just overly confusing, if you ask me."

"It is indeed confusing, and since there is no way to nor point in determining who came to their object first, it is luckily not entirely relevant for the matters at hand." He went on, to Robin's luck, with the more pressing matters. "Once both parties have found their items, the repetition of history as is dictated by the curse is inevitable. Which is what makes it inevitable for them to meet, and to hate each other from there on even without knowing of the whole history behind any of what is going on."

"But when the two people are doomed to hate each other until things escalate, where does the whole 'obsessive love' thing come into play?"

"From the accounts I yet went through, there seems to be an equal amount of love and hatred in both parties."

"I see. So basically, this whole thing can't be talking about me then." Robin concluded with a huff, and a shrug in useless defiance. "I just hate Morgan, and that only ever since he started being an arse. For the majority of my time at Hogwarts, I was almost indifferent to him, and even now I only hate and fear him because of what he's doing to me."

"That is indeed quite a peculiar fact we still need to consider." Snape mused, and yet again Robin found herself glad that he had already seen her every thought and emotion. He knew that what she said was true… she didn't harbour an ounce of affection for Morgan, and never had. They both knew that.

"As is the fact that I am not a Bennett. My parents are muggles, and I can almost guarantee you that I wasn't adopted." Robin added in to the argument, then found herself sighing once more. "Can we even be sure that I'm the woman in question? It seems so unlikely, especially since I could just have the locket in my possession by coincidence."

"You forget the perhaps most important piece of undeniable proof there is…" Snape gave her a meaningful look, as if he had only just now thought of it himself. "The portrait. It depicts the original Bennett ancestor, and-..."

"It depicts me." Robin finished the sentence in a quiet voice, and her shoulders slumped upon the final realization of what that truly meant. "So I really am the pendant to our very own lunatic Morgan ancestor, huh?"

"It seems so." Snape's voice was no louder than hers now, and he, too, looked quite as discontent with the facts as Robin felt on the inside. "I have no idea how or why that is possible in the first place, but seeing as it is the way it is, perhaps it would be wise to postpone this question in favour of more urgent ones."

"Right, yeah, you're right… We have the present and future to deal with, the past can wait. I just… have a difficult time thinking about the end of the story. If the curse and repetition, the whole bloody prophecy, is still in place today, does that mean that-..."

"Yes. Over the last five hundred years, the cursed descendants of the Morgan family have killed the cursed descendants of the Bennett family."

"Every single time… Don't forget to mention that." Robin breathed to herself, and yet the words sounded as strange and foreign as the idea was in itself. Twenty generations, and not once had her side won the fight. Not that she even felt like she had a side, no, it was rather the fact that this entire prophecy seemed like an ill-fitting garment that didn't belong to her that concerned Robin the most. It still felt like none of this had anything to do with her, even though it most obviously did.

"That is mere coincidence." Snape countered in a huff of defiance, much like the one Robin had displayed herself mere minutes ago, but it was his words indeed that made her snort now.

"Didn't you just say that there is no such thing as coincidence in prophecies?" She quirked an eyebrow up at him, and yet again couldn't help smiling at least a little. No matter how dim the situation, there was always a tease on either of their lips to make it better.

"I meant to say that there is absolutely no factor that predetermines the winning of the Morgan descendant over the Bennett one." He replied with a roll of his eyes upon her tease, but Robin could tell that he appreciated it as a shift of tone nonetheless. "If there was, the entire prophecy would be rather pointless."

"True."

"Thus, there is absolutely no reason to assume that you will suffer the same fate as did the others before you. In fact, you do have one advantage over Morgan that everyone who came before you did not."

"And that is?" Robin raised her eyebrows at him in question and curiosity alike, immediately catching onto the spark of hope that came with the prospect of an advantage indeed. Perhaps, not all was lost.

"Me."

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reshirement · 3 years

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Sending one right back at you :) for the OTP questions, for bagginshield, 1, 6, 12, 27, and if you’re up for it 29 & 30! (no pressure of course I know it’s a lot)

hey, no worries @sunnibits! i love these! i used to have a friend where i’d post question lists that were sometimes a mile long, and she’d come into my inbox like ‘ALL OF THEM HAHAH’ so i’d have to spend two days writing an essay. 😂 not to say i didn’t do exactly the same thing 👀 but in any case thank you for the questions!

1. Who is the most affectionate?

This is a tough one because I think they’re both very affectionate, if in different ways. Physically affectionate, Thorin is going to top out on this one. If he wants to hold Bilbo (and Bilbo doesn’t seem to be in any kind of mood to stop him in a serious manner) he’s going to hold Bilbo or take his hand, give him a kiss, wrap him in his cloak and rest his chin on top of his head, that sort of thing so there’s absolutely no mistaking how he feels.

Bilbo, on the other hand, while he enjoys that sort of affection very much, I think would show it more in other ways. Rearranging meetings or taking on additional projects in Erebor when he thinks Thorin has too much on his plate, making sure Thorin eats more than once a day and eats well by cooking for him (honestly he will feed this dwarf hobbit style if he can get away with it, food is important), having a warm hearth, hot bath and a filled pipe ready for Thorin when he returns for the day from wherever he’s been, little daily things beyond the physical that absolutely radiate love and care.

6. What is their favorite feature of their partner’s?

Hm. If you asked him, I think Bilbo would mention Thorin’s blue-grey eyes, the strength of his arms, the silver-threaded fall of Thorin’s hair. Things you can wax lyrical about in a sonnet or a story, things that make sense to share in conversation. But really, his favorite bits of the dwarf are probably more intimate, personal details, like the curve of his ear, visible on the rare occasions Thorin puts his hair back in a loose tie, the slight curl of the smile hidden just under his beard when he’s teasing. The roughness of his hands, the paler, almost dainty skin of his feet always hidden by heavy boots (once he stops chuckling about them, anyhow). Pieces of Thorin that feel like they’re just Bilbo’s, those are his favorites.

As for Thorin, I think he mostly appreciates Bilbo’s softness both in face and body (something the dwarf has not had much of in his life, and indulges in with Bilbo), watching the laugh lines develop around his eyes and mouth, the smirk Bilbo gives him when the hobbit feels he’s done something exceptionally clever, or when they share a private joke.

I also think he probably also has a fascination with Bilbo’s ears, but never brings it up because that’s just asking for a teasing volley about their pointed similarity to the ears of elves (which Thorin would vehemently disagree with both on principle and because honestly they look absolutely nothing alike, he’s spent a lot of time considering this, you see).

12. Who initiates kisses?

Depends on which part you’d consider ‘initiating.’ Thorin, for sure, is the one to swoop in for a peck on the cheek, a full snog or anything in between whenever the whim strikes him, but Bilbo is what I like to call a kiss angler. He’s the one who is going to make eye contact and tilt his head just so, or lean in just a bit too close over Thorin’s shoulder to see what he’s working on, probably with an additional, unnecessary hand on the shoulder that will tilt their faces that much closer.

This tactic is often subtle, and is meant to draw the dwarf in without technically shifting his focus from anything else, and honestly is such a common occurrence that the movement won’t even register with Thorin before he complies and Bilbo gets his kiss (not that he would mind in the slightest!)

27. Who would sing to their child back to sleep?

Both of them. Thorin has nephews he raised, so I’m sure that move would be old-hat to him, and as a lighter sleeper, it would probably be him most often rising in the night to see about a child’s distress.

I think Thorin would absolutely sing to soothe a child as a go-to method, crooning a lullaby or two, and while I’m certain Bilbo would sing as well if a child wanted him to, he’d probably have to be asked first. After all, Bilbo’s a story-teller, and more likely to offer a tale over a song to calm and distract a little one from fears in the night.

29. One headcanon about this OTP that breaks your heart.

I think Frodo is right, Bilbo knew the value of the mithril quite well, but I don’t believe he knew at first when it was given to him, or had any inkling of it’s value, other than as a gift from someone he loved (whether he realized it yet or not) that he was profoundly worried about given the dragonsickness and the armies at the time.

But eventually, Bilbo found out. Whether from a dwarf friend visiting him in his home, or an old history book he was perusing years down the line, eVENTUALLY Bilbo learned what the mithril was, how incredibly valuable, how profoundly irreplaceable, and Thorin had handed it over freely with his heartfelt ‘It is a gift’ to Bilbo whilst in the throes of dragonsickness where he trusted not even his own kin.

Now as I said, years down the line, Bilbo’s at home, he’s coping, he’s living. He’s pushed it down in the traditional hobbit style of ‘I’m going to keep everything right here and then one day I’ll die.’ (considering the people he lived with in the Shire, there wasn’t exactly another option for him.) He’d loved Thorin then, and still does, but it’s a painful, perhaps romanticized tragedy, one that exists solely in the writers’ mind. Perhaps other than a double-handful of small moments, there was no real tangible proof that Thorin felt as he did, and it would be easy to convince himself over the years that whatever connection they appeared to have was perhaps a one-sided one. That they were dear friends, nothing more. After all, it’s easier to grieve a personal loss if it’s confined to the tragedy, and not the shape your future might have taken.

But the mithril, once the gravity of that gesture truly sinks in, what it meant, what it means. I can imagine that unlocking some terrible floodgates, and all of a sudden the battle was only yesterday and he’s grieving because Thorin loved him too, and he’s angry, furious. Angry at Thorin, angry at the both of them for not saying anything sooner, angry at himself, the dragon, the armies, the sickness.

Angry at what he lost, what they all lost, and I can’t imagine him being anything but horrendously overwhelmed, and feeling heartbrokenly alone. I think the mithril shirt would in that very moment go from a nostalgic comfort to a terrible burden, and I believe the night that Bilbo discovered the true worth of the mithril was the same night it ended up in the mathom-house.

30. One headcanon about this OTP that mends it.

Now that that godawful headcanon is out of the way, how about this one for the book!verse? After the Battle of the Five Armies, Erebor held too many ghosts. Thorin did not fall, (though perhaps he meant to fall, what with the leaving behind of the armor before making that suicidal charge) and abdicating was not only the best option considering his actions under the goldsickness and how that might impact Erebor and future treaties with neighboring kingdoms, but also he fact that he’s lived his whole life for his people, he has succeeded in securing their ancestral home, and maybe carving his own path is now a desired option. He’s free.

Fili and Kili also live, but don’t want the throne. They’ve been raised in the Blue Mountains, and they love their uncle, love Erebor because of Thorin, and without him there, they’re not super interested in entering the line of succession, so Bilbo and Thorin travel to the Shire because Bilbo is adamant that it would be good for him, and Fili and Kili follow. It is closer to their mother, after all, to visit back and forth.

And perhaps the book Bilbo writes is helpful to them staying on the down-low. Everyone important in their life is sure to know the truth, so what if these three unnamed dwarves are the other hidden residents of Bag End (or perhaps, just one hidden resident and two visiting nephews), kept safe from discovery from friends and family both, and Bilbo and Thorin, somehow, had their happy ending?

tl;dr: THE LINE OF DURIN IS FINE, EVERYONE IS FINE.

#asks #otp questions #sunnibits #sorry i wanted to make sure i could sit down and answer in full <3 #thank you for the questions!!#that last one I guess isn’t technically an headcanon as much as wishful thinking but ah well

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ohwereusingourmadeupnames · 4 years

Text

Happy Birthday, Tony Stark

Pairing: Peter Parker/Tony Stark Rating: Mature (M) Word Count: ~11k Notes: Tony’s birthday is an important holiday in my life - so I decided to celebrate with this cute little fic. @stark-bb supplied the beauty for the end & I’m really happy with the way it turned out. Happy Birthday, Tony - this is how 50 should have gone for you! Warnings: endgame fix-it (kind of), NSFW stuff, hurt/comfort, insecure!Tony Summary:

It's Tony Stark's birthday - which means there's tons of reasons to celebrate. Check out his relationship with Peter over the course of two birthday's.

For his 50th, Peter goes all out - but is it really the night that Tony wanted?

Or, the one where Peter plans a party and all Tony wants is his love instead.

Read it on A03 here

In retrospect, after Thanos, actually getting to 50 was a miraculous thing.

It took him and Bruce 6 months to figure out how to bring everyone back after the snap. The easiest part of it all was going back in time to collect all of the stones – despite a couple of little hiccups, the job was well done. The gauntlet Tony constructed could easily be coined as one of his greatest technological masterpieces – and when Cara Danvers came back looking for Nick Fury, their answer to who would yield it was nicely answered.

There wasn’t much time between the stones being used and the gauntlet being stolen right out from under their grasp. With the total annihilation of Avenger’s tower, it didn’t seem all that surprising that they were all of the sudden looking down into the abyss of a full-on war. There were so many of Thanos’ troops that for the first little bit of the battle – it didn’t seem like they were going to get anywhere close to winning.

Then, the portals opened up and every single person Tony could remember ever hearing about or seeing stepped through. His eyes caught and kept Peter’s when Cara pulled him out of the ditch with the gauntlet held tightly in his arms. There were so many other things that were important in that moment – the world was on the cusp of decimation once again – yet, he couldn’t break the eye contact. He didn’t want to.

Pulling Peter into his arms the second he could felt like the most natural thing in the world – when the kid dusted in them not that long ago, the world felt a little less special. Now, the scale shifted back to normal. The picture of him and Peter they took when he put together his ‘internship’ was one of the biggest catalysts in his adamancy in figuring out how to solve the time travel issue and put things back to right.

He didn’t plan to press the kiss against his cheek – the adrenaline of battle and finally succeeding made it easy to override the thinking portion of his choice of actions. Peter melted into him and it suddenly felt more than okay. The mumbled “this is nice” drove home the point and Tony let himself have that – the embrace, the comfort, even the solace that came from having Peter back again.

The rage of battle swept them away from each other and for a while, Tony was focused on being the perfect distraction for Cara – her final move of sweeping and engaging just enough to get the stones off of Thanos and onto the gauntlet the single greatest in Avenger history. Watching Thanos drift away into nothingness felt more satisfying than Tony cared to admit – and when he fell to his knees, it was from being overwhelmed that maybe, just maybe, they saved the world for good.

Aftermath in the face of a tragedy that only half of the population remembered was a little weird. It took a lot of explaining to the ones they lost for everyone to make sense of the missing time – of the life that got put on hold because of a crazy vendetta. Tony tried hard to document the progress he and Bruce made through the construction of the time machine and their ideas about the stones so he could explain to anyone that asked. Though – it was unsurprising that Peter was the only one that even wanted to know.

So – Tony explained it to him. They talked through the schematics he initially drew up when solving the irregular blip that Bruce initially couldn’t. Peter’s questions were educated and the things he inferred before Tony could tell him were some that even Bruce did not conclude. He can’t help but be impressed by the kid’s true intelligence. Tony spent so much time trying to protect him, he never took the time to pay the closet attention to him as a person – to the extremely smart and talented individually Peter absolutely was.

In the end, the boy left with a much clearer understanding of the ins and outs of the journey to get him back. It appeased him a grand total of two days before Peter came knocking again. His excuse didn’t seem nearly as sound this time. He kept listening for May to come through the door even though he knew she was working the overnight shift – Tony could see it for what it was, a plea for distraction, for the company of another human being that wasn’t going to ask questions or wonder out loud about things that shouldn’t be spoken about ever again.

It quickly became a routine between them – Peter showing up later into the night with a feeble excuse to come in and spend time with Tony. Tony didn’t spend any time pretending, though – each time it happened, he opened the door and let Peter come in without worrying about the muttered excuse thrown his way.

Dealing with shit was a personal thing, the understanding of that was something Tony knew very intimately.

His own special way of dealing pulled him away from Pepper – their relationship crumbling at the seams when Tony refused to give up the suit. After everything, he felt it to be too big of a compromise – he loved her, but some things were bigger than ultimatums and their inevitable consequences. Losing half of the population made that pretty clear.

And though Tony hated to admit it, he came to rely on the kid’s presence – their late night tv binges one of the only things that chased the nightmares away. Despite seeing him on an almost daily basis now, Tony still dreamt about the way Peter faded from his arms, the impossible to hold feeling of dust running through his hands the worst part of it all. He figured they would stop when the world started to spin the right way again – yet, he couldn’t escape them. It took a lot more brain bytes than he originally thought to push away the few reasons he could come up with as to why that actually was.

No matter how much he didn’t want to think about it, letting Peter in all of those nights ago set the course for them. Tony couldn’t deny that he learned to heal a little more every single time Peter came through the door – the ease in their conversation slowly but surely becoming something that Tony couldn’t live without. They forged a closeness with every night that past – one that Tony quickly had to put in a safe category. There were so many times he found himself wanting to reach across the couch and grip Peter’s hand in his own. So quickly, Peter became a steady source of comfort.

Sooner rather than later, the Avengers were suiting back up – the idea of instituting regular rounds and patrolling schedules winning without question when Steve brought it up. If they were going to deal with entities like Thanos ever again, the need to be better prepared reigned supreme. Luckily, the rest of the group recognized his and Peter’s familiarity and always paired them up. It felt nice to work with him and Tony absorbed every single second of it. They were constantly learning together and when the time came to actually fight, they’d be prepared – some of their tag team moves way more than enough to truly debilitate an opponent.

Of course, being patrol partners meant dealing with the times that things turned to shit. Though there weren’t big time things forcing all of the Avenger’s to assemble, they still dealt with things that were dangerous. Peter, no matter how many times Tony shouted at him about keeping it on the safer side, refused to ignore intuition – even if it led him astray nine times out of ten. It was extremely frustrating, and the only downfall Tony could find with being back to saving the world so soon after the last time.

Things got interesting when Peter almost died taking down Mysterio. It took them a few minutes longer than they expected to get across the pond and into a position where they could help – so Peter handled a lot of it on his own. Tony was glad they spent all the time they did training – some of the moves Friday showed him were truly impressive and genuinely lifesaving. It felt shitty to find Peter broken and bloody – there was no mistaking the pure intensity of the battle that raged before him.

Tony pushed aside all of his personal feelings and helped solve the problem – the best thing he could do for Peter was get things under control, there wouldn’t be any need for the younger man to have to fight so hard after that. It took the two of them and some well-planned drop-ins from Steve and Natasha to put everything to rest. When things were finally over, Peter slumped over against Tony and howled, the tears just as much from frustration as exhaustion and pain. He didn’t let Tony detach the entire time Dr. Cho took a look at him – he stayed by his side and talked him through what happened – tried to keep him calm when a bone was reset and his body temperature worked off the sedative before it could actually numb anything.

It felt hard to separate Peter from the thoughts of caring, and protection, and on the weakest of days – love. He figured the idea of being a father figure wouldn’t be too bad. Tony wanted to believe that Peter leaned on him the way he would May or Happy. There were signs, though – signs that said the younger man’s feelings were way deeper than either wanted to think about at the moment. For the sake of allowing independence and growth, Tony didn’t pursue the obvious.

That mindset didn’t last very long – Peter had a way of being pretty persuasive. His 49th birthday crept toward them without anyone really noticing. Everyone was trying to figure out what post-Thanos meant – and the simplicity of a birthday didn’t seem to be on the forefront of people’s minds. It didn’t matter, anyway – the older he got, the more meaningless birthdays seemed to be. The world continued to spin and need protecting and want things regardless of birthdays.

When the day came, it surprised him to see candles sticking out of a big pile of Belgian waffles that morning – a smiling Peter and Bruce carrying the plate over to him. He shook his head and blew out the candles, the cheesiness of it just that – cheesy – but also very thoughtful and way more than he wanted or imagined. The waffles tasted just a little bit better that morning, too – which was quite the feat, because Tony loved waffles; absolutely fucking loved them.

The rest of the day past in a haze of bowling in the alley in the SI building, eating disgustingly shitty food, and good company. Bruce begged out after the third game and left Peter and Tony alone to duke out games four and five. Peter’s incredible strength worked against him in the end, Tony grabbed both the games and the overall win count for the day. It wouldn’t have hurt his feelings if Peter let him win, either – it felt good to feel good for once.

Heading back to the penthouse, Tony wasn’t surprised when Peter followed him up. From the beginning, Tony made sure to keep May in the loop – and at this point, as long as Peter was somewhere safe, she didn’t seem to mind. Peter probably took more advantage of that little giving piece of her, but Tony wasn’t one to complain when it benefitted him just as much. He watched the kid go straight to the fridge, the massive quantity of junk food they consumed just hours earlier obviously not enough.

“What do you want to do for dinner, Tony? Your fridge is kind of empty,” Peter said after a couple of minutes of leaning over and looking, then stepping away – like if he looked enough times, things would show up eventually. Grinning, Tony sank into one of the stools tucked into the kitchen island, his fingers knitting together.

“I hadn’t thought about it – I’ve eaten more today than I usually do in a week. Want me to order something? I bet we can get that Vietnamese place you like to deliver out here,” Tony mumbled in reply. He brought a finger to his glasses and tapped into Friday’s interface. “Can you order the usual, doll?”

Peter stood on the other side of the island across from him, his cheeks flushed. “You didn’t have to do that. I found an egg in there,” he remarked, his thumb hiking over his shoulder towards the fridge. “It’s your birthday – we should be doing what you want.” Peter tried for a serious look in his direction but failed at the last second – the soft ‘for Tony’ smile he’d come to be very familiar with over the last few months spreading across his lips. He leaned down onto his forearms, the two of them closer than ever now.

“We’ve done enough, Pete. Let me be an old man for the rest of the night, huh? Besides, we’re almost done with The Sopranos – I’m ready to see how it all ends.” Tony wasn’t lying, either – there wasn’t anything else he’d rather do. The thought of getting dressed to go out or partying the night away made his head spin. After all of the bull shit of the life he led, sitting around with takeout and good company didn’t seem all that bad.

The boy seemed to understand, the softness in his eyes answer enough. He shrugged his shoulders and pushed away from the island – Tony watched as he went over to the bar on the other side of the room and grabbed a small rock glass. Without much effort, he poured two fingers worth of whiskey into it and walked back across the room, the glass being passed to Tony before he could even understand what happened.

“You’re going to need that, then,” Peter finally uttered, his face breaking out into a smile. Tony watched the grin grow and internally documented all of the lines and grooves that played across the boy’s face. Peter must have noticed because his smile grew a little bigger. “Want to go hangout in the lab until the food gets here?” The question was shy, despite what felt like millions of hours they spent there together already.

Slamming back the liquid in the glass, Tony let the burn clear his head – his mind in all sorts of places it probably shouldn’t be. He caught Peter’s eye and nodded, his own grin slipping across reluctant lips. “It’s funny that you even need to ask.” Tony got up then, his neck swiveling to crack the stiff joints. “Shall we?” he asked, his head tilting when Peter didn’t move or even say anything.

He didn’t expect the clumsy hands Peter answered with, the boy grabbing his hips a little too tight, the strength in his arms bringing Tony against his chest. Tony let out a breath, his secret wants and desires coming to life before him – his brain shortcutting with the responsible thoughts that tried to break through the haze. His arms wrapped around Peter’s shoulders on their own accord, Tony losing the fight against himself with every passing second.

“Pete – “ Tony tried, his arms opposing his words, the muscles in his shoulders, chest, and biceps tensing and clenching, every fiber of his being wanting to be that much closer. Peter tilting his head until they were looking eye to eye stopped him in his tracks, though – the boy’s eyes bright with many things unreadable, except for one. Slamming his own shut, Tony pulled in a long breath, the look too much.

Then, lips were on his, and all thoughts ceased to exist for the few seconds that clumsiness turned into the hottest thing he’d ever felt. Peter’s hands moved from his hips to frame his face, the tightness of them bringing their lips closer together – Tony tilting his head at the very last second to stop their noses from colliding painfully. He sunk into it and forgot for a second what he needed to do when they broke apart.

The soft moan leaving Peter’s lips when the kiss broke made him press back in for another couple of chaste pecks – Tony hoping more than anything that it was enough to engrain the taste of Peter onto the surface of his skin. Dipping his head, Tony pressed their foreheads together, his eyes closing.

“You figured out what I really wanted,” Tony whispered, a laugh leaving his lips at the sound of the words in his own ears. Up until that point, he hadn’t allowed himself to even think like that. With Peter in his arms – it was easy, though. Like their embrace on the battlefield, Tony couldn’t help what his lips did this close to Peter’s person.

“You’re just a couple months too early,” he managed to get out, the few seconds of hesitation before doing so just enough to soak this intimacy in a little bit longer. “You know we have to wait.” Peter’s head became a little heavier against his own for a second, then he felt the slightest of nods – the boy way smarter than Tony ever gave him credit for. Pulling back, he put a bit of space between them, the only point of contact now his hand on Peter’s cheek.

While his thumb brushed the sharp bone there, Peter leaned into the touch – his eyes shut, the storm inside them kept under control by the lids covering them. Tony let himself look his fill until Peter was the one pulling away – the saddest little smile on his lips. “I know – I just – I couldn’t wait. I – Tony, you’re everything.” The words were earnest and if this were anyone else, he wouldn’t have even given thought to believing him. Peter constantly showed how much respect he deserved, so Tony gave it to him.

“Save that for later, okay? We’ll make your 18th one to remember.”

“Okay. Happy birthday, Mr. Stark.”

----

And boy did they – even a year later, Tony can still remember the entire day they turned into a week rather vividly.

He told Peter to pack a bag and let May know they were staying in the city for the week. For the first time in almost two months, Tony was finally letting him stay over again. He knew if he gave either of them any opportunity to give into temptation, they would – and this seemed like too important of a thing to screw up before it could officially be a thing. He didn’t want to give anyone – including the person who trusted Tony to be a good part of Peter’s life – the ability to question anything between them.

The second Peter walked through the door; the boy was on him – Tony barely able to get his glasses off his face before they were kissing. It didn’t make it past the necking stage, of course – Tony had too many plans to lose his shit on the couch in his front room – but it was nice to finally let himself touch and feel, to give into the want that so obviously coursed through them both. He let Peter squirm against him until he let out a satisfied huff and finally came up for air. “Happy birthday, Petey,” Tony mumbled against his forehead.

Coney Island took up the rest of the day – Tony laughing and smiling harder than he could remember, especially since Thanos. The ride on the Cyclone threw them into each other and when they got off, Tony wrapped Peter in his arm and steered them back towards the line, the two of them riding the coaster two more times before moving on. Peter insisted they finish the day at the aquarium – the boy totally obsessed with the penguins and otters.

When they got back to the penthouse, Tony led Peter into the bedroom, straight past the bed, and into the attached bathroom. He pushed him down until he was sitting on the edge of the tub and went about putting the necessary stuff for a bath in it. While the water ran, Tony took Peter’s clothes off one article at a time, his lips following behind caressing the newly exposed skin. Getting down to his boxers, Tony had him stand up and pulled them very slowly down Peter’s legs, the tips of his fingers tracing the same path as the fabric.

He stayed on his knees and lavished the skin on the inside of Peter’s left knee, then nosed his way up his right thigh – his lips landing on his hip, eyes looking up. “Get in the tub,” he mumbled, his eyebrows raising in invitation. Peter didn’t waste any time complying with the request – a soft sigh leaving his lips when he sank into the warm water.

Stepping back, Tony started the actual part of the bath that was for Peter. He slipped the buttons out of the slots on the vest he was wearing and let it hit the ground. The shirt came next, his fingers slow in the way they moved from one button to the next. A light shimmy had the button down flowing off his shoulders to join the vest on the floor. Kicking off his shoes, he hobbled about for a second to get the socks off – then straightened back out with sexiness written on his face once again.

Peter’s eyes were glued to his every move, Tony happy to see red trail down his cheeks, neck, and onto his chest with each new piece of clothing that came off. The boy was fisting himself under the water, Tony could tell by the wave and ripple of it. Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Tony made quick work of his belt and the button on his slacks, the pants falling without much effort after that. His black boxer briefs stayed on for a second, Tony taking a couple of steps closer to the tub until he could lean down and press a kiss against Peter’s lips.

While they kissed, Tony pulled his underwear off, a little groan slipping out between them when his erection finally hit the coolness of the air around them. “Shift forward a little, babe,” Tony muttered, his body sinking easily into the water with the newly made space. Peter moved back and settled between his legs without any prompting, Tony’s chest now toasty from the combination of water and the boy’s warm skin. Wrapping his arms around him, Tony pulled him even further back – his cock trapped perfectly between his own stomach and Peter’s back.

Touching his lips to Peter’s neck, Tony let himself relax into the warm water and the sound embrace – the boy in front of him doing the same thing if the sagging weight against his chest was anything to go by. “Did you have a good birthday?” he spoke the words right beside Peter’s ear – the gust of breath having the desired effect as goosebumps launched themselves across his skin.

His head fell back against Tony’s shoulder, Peter’s hands moving until they were gripping the older man’s across his stomach. “It’s been great. This is the best part, though – finally getting to spend this kind of time with you.” It was obvious Peter meant each of those words, too; his voice took on such authentic tone when he was talking to Tony. “I love you, Tony. I have for a while.”

Though he suspected, Tony didn’t think he would hear those words for a long time. He forgot how mature Peter could be when he really put his mind to things. Tony moved his arms until he could cup Peter’s cheek, the boy shifting a little bit to look over his shoulder – their eyes meeting. “I love you too, Pete. I’m the worst possible choice for you, but I’m also incessantly selfish. You can have whatever you want from me.” Tony capped his words off with a soft kiss, his lips lingering just because they could.

“I just want you, Tony. I thought for a long time that I wanted to save the world, be a hero – and yeah, I still want that – but I want this, too. Simplicity. Your arms around me. I’m young, I know – I also know what I want, so don’t try and talk me out of it.” Peter practically huffed out, his last couple of words sounding a bit petulant. They made Tony’s heart jolt, regardless – the weight of them surprisingly heavy.

Who was he to dictate any of that part of Peter’s life? Tony did lots of questionable things in his youth – more than a few of them without thinking about it as thoroughly as Peter seemed to. There were no regrets in the pacing of their relationship and how very natural it occurred, so what was there to really hold him back? There were times Tony was selfish about much lesser things and at this point in his life, why hold now? Smiling to himself, Tony relaxed even further into the porcelain of the tub.

“I’m not going to try and talk you out of anything. It might suck for a little while – telling everyone and explaining ourselves, but I’m with you.”

That was about a year ago and while Tony was right – it was a hassle to constantly answer questions and defend a thing that felt so natural to them – things were also too good to really be that upset about it. They went about telling the team first, these people fought with them on a constant basis and needed to understand the decision they made. It took a bit of talking Steve from the tizzy he spun up and a few well placed “I know exactly how you feels” to get everyone to calm down enough to talk to Peter about it.

The old guy of the group grabbed Peter’s shoulder, Steve’s eyes seemingly trying to stare right into his soul. “He’s old, Pete,” Steve started – the rest of the group breaking out into varying degrees of laughter around them. Tony prickled for a second, his pride a little hurt from the implication – but what could he really do? When compared to Peter, he was old – generations older, in fact.

Peter’s hand grabbed Steve’s and dislodged it, usually soft brown eyes serious, his gaze just as sharp. “So are you.” Tony watched him bite into his bottom lip and unsuccessfully trying to stop laughter from bubbling in his chest. “I don’t care. I’m old enough to understand all of your concerns and appreciate them – but I am politely ignoring everything you guys have to say. I want this. He didn’t talk me into it, he didn’t groom me,” Peter stopped then, his eyes trailing over to Rhodey who spoke the traitorous words earlier. “He’s just my person, you know?”

After hearing that, Tony figured no one could stand between them. Not even May – who surprisingly didn’t seem shocked or upset about the situation. She glared at Tony for a long minute, then pulled him into her arms. “If you hurt him, I’ll do the same – got it?” she whispered, the arms “hugging” him tightening ever so slightly.

“Noted,” Tony replied instantly, his hands patting her back lightly. He caught the look Peter and May shared when they pulled away and had to try very hard not to burst out laughing in her face. They were both stubborn, the older man instantly understanding where Peter got it from. Wrapping his arm around Peter, Tony pressed a kiss to the side of his head, the boy relaxing into him.

“The hardest part is over,” he mumbled into Peter’s hair, the hand on his shoulder bringing him more tightly against his chest.

----

Despite being with one of the most caring humans on the planet, Tony’s 50th birthday loomed over him. For whatever reason, it felt like a big one. The age difference between him and Peter never played a part for either of them – yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about how glaring it actually was. Sometimes when he picked Peter up from HIGH SCHOOL, he felt incredibly old – and the closer his birthday got, the more ridiculous it seemed to be picking someone up from secondary school.

He didn’t give a shit about it – not for him, at least. The older person in the scenario always got the better end of the deal. Peter was loving and kind, young to the point where some of the shit he pulled out of his ass to refer to was adorably offensive. No – he didn’t really get what Peter saw in him. At least – lately. Maybe that mid-life crisis was finally sneaking up on him – the idea of that laughable after some of the crazy stuff that went on his life.

In the last couple of weeks, Tony felt some of his self-worth starting to diminish a little bit. Which was literally silly – Peter touched him, kissed him – practically worshipped him on a nightly basis. Feelings weren’t always rational, though. Every time Peter mentioned the big party he was planning for the occasion, Tony felt himself curl in a little bit – his affinity for not hurting Peter seemingly the only thing keeping him from shouting about how little he wanted to attend a party celebrating his old ass.

Peter flourished, though – so he didn’t stop him, not even when his heart started to race when his young boyfriend talked about all of the Avengers and their travel plans to meet at the complex. It was nice that they all wanted to come back and celebrate – he just hated the fact that they were celebrating such a long milestone on Tony’s account. He told himself to grin and bear it, though – it couldn’t possibly be that bad.

And since Peter was really wrapped up in all of the planning, he didn’t get the subtle hints that Tony tried to make. His “maybe it can be just you and me” wasn’t said early enough and when he thought to bring it up – his mind went to all of the plans Peter made; the way his caring, so very loving boyfriend thought every little thing out.

The night of, Tony went through the motions – he donned the suit (because let’s face it, Tony looked damn good in a custom Gucci suit.) The barber Peter paid to come in and clean them up did a good job on his facial hair and the slight trim of the longer strands on the top of his head made him feel the slightest bit better. Whenever Peter caught his eyes in the mirror, Tony could genuinely smile back.

They walked in together hand-in-hand, which Tony still felt a little giddy about. He milled around and did the right amount of small talk – his chest feeling a little warmer with each hug he got from his Avenger family. Tony did all the right things until he found an out, the anxiety that was building starting to clutch at him, the shininess of the night a little too bright for his tastes.

Walking into the lab, Tony breathed a sigh of relief, his muscles unclenching for the first time all night. He slipped off his jacket and got to work on a couple of modifications to the nanotech he was implementing into the suit – the response time still a little slow for his liking. For the first time the entire night, Tony felt the weight lift off of his chest. He got so zoned into what he was doing, he didn’t see Peter walk into the lab – or really acknowledge his presence until a hand was on his shoulder.

“I thought I might find you here. What happened?” His voice was soft – though, Tony also sensed the slightest bit of tension sitting under the surface of those words.

He bought himself some time by swiping across the holoscreen, his work dropping down into the folder to be pulled out at a later time. “It got a little crowded in there.” He mumbled with a shrug, his eyes nowhere near meeting Peter’s. “I got an idea and kind of had to run with it.” That excuse almost as lame as the first one.

Peter’s hands wrapped around his shoulders, the boy’s strength keeping him against his chest – forcing him to give up some attention. “What’s really wrong, though? You’ve been a little off lately.”

So, he did notice. Clenching his eyes shut, Tony gave in a little, his body leaning into Peter, letting the younger man take a bit of his weight. “I’m just old – I didn’t want to celebrate that. But, I didn’t have the heart to say anything.” He felt deflated as the words left his lips – the strain of it finally climbing its way down and off his heart. “I’ve been having a moment and I love the hell out of you for doing what you did. I’ve been doubting why you’d want me and it’s so obvious, isn’t it?” Tony leaned his head against Peter’s, so much defeat within him.

For a man that saved the world, he didn’t feel very strong in that moment. Being in Peter’s arms made him vulnerable and, in that moment, he couldn’t find a way to stop the avalanche tumbling him down the cliff. A couple tears streamed down his cheeks before Tony could even think to stop them. Peter’s thumb was there in an instant, mopping them up without a second thought.

“It is – but that’s okay. I should have noticed – I mean, I did, but I was excited. You did say you wanted it to be just you and me. Can we start that now? I’ve got a pretty decent idea,” Peter whispered, the leverage of his hands on Tony’s face bringing their eyes level. “I love you, Tony – today is about you, not me.” Peter let the words sit between them for a second, the boy giving him time to say no if he really wanted.

Instead of answering, Tony closed the space between them, Peter’s lips warm against his own. Tony gripped the side of Peter’s suit jacket and simply let himself go – the younger man taking control of the kiss without a single problem. Tipping his head to the side, a soft gasp left his mouth when Peter took advantage of the position and started to press his tongue in deeper. The tangle of heat there absolutely delicious.

He felt himself being pushed back, his feet moving on their own accord until the edge of the lab table hit his lower back, another moan leaving his lips. With the kiss broken, Peter put a little bit of space between them and went right for Tony’s belt – his nimble fingers getting the thing undone and his button open within seconds. The innocent Peter from a year ago did not exist – the younger man had no problems pushing his pants and boxer briefs down enough to get access to his cock. Lips wrapping around him pulled a “fuck” from deep within him, his control ticking down to nothing.

“Pete – “ Tony grumbled, his hand camping out on his boyfriend’s shoulder, fingers digging into the suit jacket there. Peter worked him over effortlessly, the boy’s tongue trailing down his length as the swallowed him whole. The tip of his dick hit the back of Peter’s throat time and time again – his hips pressing in that last little inch when the other’s hands reached back and used his ass cheeks to pull him forward. The tears in Peter’s eyes welled, but he pulled him deeper anyway – his mouth stretching obscenely.

The gulping sensation of Peter’s throat restricting against his already pulsing length brought him to the edge embarrassingly quick. He moved his fingers up Peter’s neck into his hair, his grip tight after a particularly delicious suck from the tip of his cock all the way down to the root – Peter’s cute little nose dirtily pressed into the nest of well-trimmed pubes. “Oh god – Pete. I’m going to cum. You’ve got to stop. Pete!” Tony spoke helplessly, his free hand scabbling at the table behind him.

Tossing his head back, Tony felt the snap of too much arousal in his gut – his hips pressing forward totally out of his control. “Pete, fuck!” He let out a series of groans with every hard suck against the head of his cock, Peter obviously very keen on milking him for all that he was worth. Tony forced himself to loosen the grip in Peter’s hair, a soft wince leaving his lips when a couple strands of hair caught between his fingers. Desperate for the feel of those spit slick lips against his own, Tony pulled Peter up off his knees and slammed their mouths together.

“What about you?” Tony mumbled against his lips a couple of minutes later, the taste of himself on Peter’s tongue almost enough to get him ready to go again. His fingers were desperate to get their hands on Peter’s skin – the older man hoping for just a little bit more.

Peter grabbed Tony’s hand and pressed it against the crotch of his pants – the wetness there apparent, the suits pants totally ruined by the mess he made. “I think we should head upstairs and see where the rest of the night takes us.” He grinned and gave Tony another kiss, his hands greedy in the way they helped him get his pants up – in the way he pulled Tony out of the lab and into the elevator.

Surprisingly, Peter didn’t try anything in the elevator – he kept Tony against his chest, arms slung tightly around him. “I love you,” the boy mumbled against the shell of his ear, the ride long enough for the intense zing to cool off a bit – the softness of his words perfect for the moment.

“I love you, too.”

That was just the calm before the storm.

Tony followed with hungry eyes as Peter started to take off his clothes the second they hit the penthouse – his bow tie hitting Tony’s cheek before the older man could process what was even happening. Eyes wide, Tony didn’t hesitate to stay on Peter’s heals and try to touch the newly revealed skin with hungry fingertips.

Getting into the bedroom, Tony expected to find a naked Peter in his bed – instead, the naked man was standing at the edge, an expectant look on his face. “Come here,” he beckoned, his long fingers hypnotizing enough to draw Tony in right away. His feet carried him over there – skintight with excitement of what was to come. “Get on the bed, Tony.” Peter’s grin was too good to ignore, so he complied immediately.

Lithe hands made quick work of his shoes and socks – Tony moving up a little further on the mattress when his feet were bare. Peter continued his exploration by moving to the button on is pants and pulling them and his underwear down his legs without hesitation. Soft fingertips explored the soles of his feet, nails running over the arches. “I love how strong your legs are. You’re not the tallest guy – but you’ve got these legs that carry so much weight.” Tony slammed his eyes closed, his brain not able to take the words and the sight of Peter all at once.

The younger man peppered kisses up his legs, over the ticklish part of his knees and across the long length of his thighs – his skin pebbling with the physical sign of arousal. Peter moved up after that, his fingers getting Tony’s buttons open without much effort – the boy touching the newly exposed skin with reverence – eyes glued to Tony’s. “Your stomach is my favorite. You’re stacked – there’s so much muscle there. And then you’ve got this slight little swell here,” Peter moved his hands to run over the littlest bit of stomach Tony hadn’t been able to get rid of over the years. “Reminds me that you’re human, you know?” He let his tongue swirl across the skin there.

A soft touch to his face had him blinking his eyes open, Peter’s face wide open – the heat there, totally encompassed by the lightness the other was trying so hard to portray. Tony nodded his head then, a little smile playing on his lips. Peter returned it, his exploring fingers moving once against to his chest – his nipples pebbling with their attention. “It’s hard to forget sometimes, too,” Tony whispered, chest coming up off the bed to press into Peter’s touch.

A couple minutes later, Peter urged him to turn over – his teasing touches starting up the second his flesh was on display. The younger man’s fingers pressed into the muscles of his shoulders and back, the touch just as soothing as it was arousing. He made a trail from the back of Tony’s neck down to the valley of his lower back with tongue, teeth, and lips – each nip and lick taking him apart inch by inch.

Stopping at his ass, Peter grabbed a cheek in each of his hands. “This is my favorite, though. You’ve taken to wearing those tight slacks and it’s a total tease. I want to take you apart, but then, I want to see your ass clench and flex in those pants,too. It’s distracting, Tony. And I think you know that.” Peter emphasized each of his words with sharp bites to each round globe – the stimulation of the skin there causing Tony to groan, his muscles clenching.

“I like the way you look at me,” Tony managed to groan out, his hips pressing back to get more of Peter’s touch, anything and everything the younger man could give him. Peter rewarded him with another stinging bite on the meat of his right ass cheek. “Fuck, Pete – “ his words felt a little slurred, each one dripping out with any consent of his own.

“I know – and that’s what makes it hotter. Your ass is kind of forbidden. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve had it over the last year,” Peter drove his point home with a not so subtle yank of Tony’s cheeks apart – the air hitting him cool, a sudden chill rushing over his already tender skin.

Fingers pressing against his hole brought Tony to mere whimpers – Peter was right, he didn’t usually do a lot of time in this position, the vulnerability usually making him uncomfortable. There was something in the way Peter was handling him that made him want to give in and let Peter take and give and bring them both to their fucking knees, though. The other seemed to take his noises as a good sign and got to work.

Despite being 50 years old, Tony never got used to the feeling of a tongue in, around, or up his asshole. A laugh fell from his lips – the feeling their foreign and overwhelming, his gut filling with shame and heat all at once. Peter wasn’t discouraged by anything and went to town – his tongue tracing Tony’s rim before pressing in, the tip absolutely devastating in the way it plunged and caressed. The looser he started to feel, the more Peter doubled his efforts.

Soon, fingers were joining Peter’s tongue, the rhythmic press of blunt fingers and a warm tongue a complete mixture of sensations and stimulus – the feeling absolutely fucking perfect. He didn’t feel old when he gave his cock a little thought – the length was raging, the hardness there throbbing with needy want. It felt good – Peter made him feel good. Groaning at a spectacularly good press of Peter’s fingers, Tony bit into the pillow below him – Peter made him feel so fucking good.

“Pete – I need you to fuck me, please. Show me. Show me how much you want me. Need it – need you, baby.” He couldn’t explain what he said or how he said it or even if it made sense; his brain was running on want, adrenaline, and the dopamine that made being delirious feel like the warmest hug – like it was the most exquisite thing in the entire world. His breaths were coming in pants, Peter’s last few thrusts glancing his prostate deliciously.

He felt the younger man move behind him, the bed shifting with his weight. Tony heard the drawer open and let out a sigh of relief – Peter’s weight draping over him the best feeling of the night. “I’ll take care of you, Tony,” Peter said, the words skating across his skin – Pete’s fingers already working the lube into him, the fingers there not nearly enough.

The party a few floors below them probably heard the loud groan Tony let slip from within him when Peter bottomed out. The stretch of not being all that used to the fullness inside him made all of his limbs break out in what felt like waves of fire – his brain stuck between the pleasure-pain of the feeling. The fact that Peter didn’t give him any time to think about it before bottoming out completely helped and the leering blaze of pain that tried to stick around went straight out the window – the heat in his core pooling once again.

Kisses against his neck and the hands running down his sides relaxed him enough to let Peter move – the younger man’s cock thick, his length the perfect combination of inches and girth. For such a young person, Peter kept amazing control over himself – his strokes long and lazy, the best part coming from the exquisite roll of his hips when bottoming out; his prostate getting a gentle nudge with each one. Tony didn’t do anything other than squirm below him – his mind was everywhere, filled with nothing but the things Peter was doing to him.

“You feel amazing, Tony. Fucking amazing,” Peter babbled, the boy’s strokes picking up without either of them noticing – the pace natural, the steady climb of their love making slowly getting to the ultimate crescendo. “I don’t know how you can do this for as long as you do – I want to cum already. I’m going to coat your insides so that every time you even think about not being enough – you’ll remember the way it felt to have me pulse everything I have so deep inside of you. Fuck. I’m so close – “

Tony shouted – Peter’s words and the increase of pace getting him from hot to completely bothered in no time at all. The other’s weight pressed him against the mattress, every thrust brushing his cock against the soft sheets below him. His eyes were clenched tightly, Tony determined to let his mind and body wander – Peter’s guiding hands the only thing that mattered in that moment. “I love you, Pete,” Tony choked out, his head turning to catch Peter’s glance over his shoulder. When they caught eyes, the look in Peter’s tossed him over the edge – the younger man’s mouthed ‘I love you, too’ way, way, way too much for him to handle.

Peter miraculously held on for another handful of strokes, the younger man keeping his promise – his overused hole clenching with every pulse he could feel. The repeated Tony played in his head like a mantra – Peter’s voice the only one he wanted to hear say his name for the rest of his life.

----

When the immediate fatigue of orgasming within the inch of his life wore off, Tony coerced Peter into the shower – the younger man still covered in sweat and lube. The stayed wrapped around each other trading kisses back and forth – Peter continuing his trend of taking care of Tony; the young man surprisingly thorough in the way he ran his fingers through long locks and scrubbed the dirt, grim, and cum off his skin.

The last couple of hours were exactly what he was looking for – and Tony told Peter so more than a few times between getting out of bed and finishing up in the shower. His boyfriend simply kissed him, the boy obviously not looking for any sort of praise. After all they did for each other, thank you’s were a little meaningless – both men more than capable of expressing their gratitude in many different ways.

Pulling on a pair of sleep pants, Tony got back into bed on Peter’s instruction. The younger man walked out of the room for a couple of minutes – Tony laying back against the mattress, the feeling of contentment lingering in his mind for the first time in a while. There were many things Peter did for him – but this, the never-ending feeling of comfort, that’s what Tony liked the most. Being the 50-year-old man that he was, having a person that could bring him that was the best birthday present Tony hoped to continue to keep on getting.

The snick of Peter’s bare feet on the floor brought him out of his thoughts – the younger man carrying a box with him when Tony sat up to watch him walk back into the room. “I know you said no presents, but I think you’re going to like this one. I only spent money on one part of it – and it wasn’t that much, so don’t be upset, okay? I’m 99% sure you’re going to really like this.” Watching Peter babble about it made up for the fact that his boyfriend once again ignored his wishes (though, the longer they were together, the longer Tony figured Peter did that on purpose – because it was a fun game between them.)

Tony reached out to Peter, his fingers beckoning the younger man into bed. “I won’t be upset – just come sit with me while I open it.” He didn’t care how needy he seemed – today was his birthday and Peter was hell bent on catering to him. Peter didn’t disagree, anyway, he easily slid into the bed next to Tony, the box still in his hands.

“So, I guess I should explain this a little bit before you open it,” Peter started, his fingers playing with the bow on top of the box. “You’re always talking about how you miss everyone – and how it would be a lot easier if you had tangible memories of things. I know you’ve got all the technology in the world and could make that happen if you really wanted to. I mean – you still use Friday to watch me sometimes, you can’t even deny that.” He chuckled then, his face a little red from nervousness – the emotion easily read on his face.

“Anyway – I wanted you to see that people love and miss you, too. That, despite what you might think, the world would not be the same with you and the 50 years you’ve been kicking around it.” Then and only then did Peter let go of the box – his eyes flitting back and forth between Tony and whatever was in the damn thing.

Taking a deep breath, Tony pulled the top off, his head tilting when he saw what looked like a photo album sitting there. He peeked up, but Peter’s eyes were staring at the album in the box, the expression on his face unreadable. Tony took a deep breath and dug in, his curiosity winning out over any other emotion that was vying for his attention.

Opening it, Tony’s breath caught – the cover page was one of the professional photos they got done a couple months ago. The smile on both of their faces was stunning, the love written there obvious. A few of those photos were in frames around the room. In big letters it said, ‘To Tony Stark’ and under the picture the words ‘from the people who love you’ were written there.

He flipped the first page and almost lost it – the collection of him and Rhodey during college making him want to cringe and rush back up to the party all at once. His hair cut during that time of his life wasn’t the greatest – an instant regret for the party in the back look he tried to pull off for a little while washing over him. On the far side of the page, a note was written.

Happy birthday, old man!

When Peter brought this up, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to embarrass the hell out of you. College is where you changed my life and it’ll always be one of my favorite times in life. Thanks for the memories, Tones – I love you, brother.

Rhodey

Tony glanced up, a few tears streaming down his face freely. Peter shook his head, his eyes moving back to the album in Tony’s hands. “You’re just getting started – keep going.”

He didn’t have anything left in him to argue – so he turned the page, his heart warming up a little further. The shots of him and Bruce in the lab were some he’d never seen before. There were a couple of more recent photos in there, too. The combination of Bruce and the Hulk still something that made Tony laugh to this very day – the symbiosis between the two entities just another thing to add to the long list of things that changed over the years.

Tony,

There’s too much to say and not enough space to say it. Learning and progressing and creating with you over the years is why I am the way that I am. We saved the world together, brother – that’s the ultimate bond. Thankful for you and your arrogantly brilliant ass.

Happy birthday, Tony – enjoy it.

Love you,

Bruce

There were so many pages filled to the brim with photos of him with various people – Happy, Pepper, Natasha, Clint, Thor, even Wanda and Vision. They each wrote individual notes and recalled shared memories and little thoughts and blurbs about his progressive old age and the notedly selfless way Tony could care about people. It was overwhelming – each new page eye opening, his perspective of himself and the relationship he had with these people progressively changing. This was how people saw him? He spent so much of his youth having people slander his name – it almost didn’t make sense that people could feel this kind of way about him.

When he got to the last couple of pages, Tony couldn’t stand it – he reached over and pulled Peter to him, his face settling into the safe confines of the other’s neck. “I can’t believe that you did this, baby. It’s – the best gift I’ve ever gotten.” Tony spoke the words so reverently, his entire being still a little bit in awe of what he’d seen – of the kind words that some of the best people he knew wrote about him, each one way more than he ever could have expected.

Peter wrapped his arms around him and held him close – the younger man pressing kisses against his hair and forehead every few moments. “You’re still not done yet,” the younger man reminded him – Tony pulling back to find a soft look on Peter’s face. “I think you might like these last couple the best.”

Suddenly spurred on by Peter’s words, Tony shifted his attention back to the photo album in his hand, eager fingers turning the page to find pictures of himself. The look on his face in every single one of them radiated love and excitement and pure happiness. He didn’t usually like pictures of just him – no matter how much Peter begged, he didn’t even send the man he loved selfies. Yet, he couldn’t peal his eyes away from these. Lifting them, he looked questioningly at Peter. “What are these from, even?”

Chuckling, Peter reached over and let his fingers brush across the ones within reach, the ‘for Tony only’ smile pulling his lips wide. “I took these, actually. When we first started dating, I got into the habit of snapping a picture of you when you looked happy. Then, it became a thing to catch those looks whenever I could. You’d be surprised by the number of pictures I had to choose from.” Peter spoke the words with pride, the creepiness of them not even registering with the younger man. Tony grabbed his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the knuckles – his eyes alight.

“I’m not surprised by anything that you do, Peter Parker. They’re beautiful – I didn’t know I could look like this,” Tony remarked, his voice carrying all of the awe that he felt. It warmed his heart to know that Peter was the one making him look like that – they were good for each other, but it was nice to get a real example of it.

The thought of what could come next had Tony moving on – the apprehension making his fingers tremble as he turned the page. And man did it completely knock the wind from him. The last page was a collection of pictures of him and Peter – some he’d seen before and a few he hadn’t, the candid nature of them making it seem like they were taken by other people. His chin dropped a little, the evidence that Peter felt the same way right there on the page. Some of these pictures were old – a couple of them obviously before they got together.

Reaching over, Tony grabbed Peter’s hands and tangled their fingers together – he would probably need the added strength to read the long note there. Peter’s words always had a way of bringing him to his knees, he doubted this would be any different. The other’s hand gave his a squeeze, Tony diving in the very next second.

Hey you,

When I first started this, I never thought I’d get to learn so much about you. I especially loved your college hairstyle – totally my favorite.

I know there’s not a lot you can give a person that is both a genius and a millionaire – but I figured memories are priceless and the easiest thing I could give you. Not just memories between you and I, either. We’re just starting our journey.

I guess what I’m trying to say with all of this is – there’s nothing wrong with the years you’ve lived. They have given so many people things that are priceless. Friendship, love, mentorship, knowledge. All of those things are important. You are a manifestation of each one and that is the person I get to love on a daily basis.

Every single one of your years will always matter, Tony. I’m forever grateful that you want to spend the ones you fought so hard to get with me. That’s not something that I take for granted. You teach me things I’ll never be able to learn from anyone else. You care for me in a way that is devoted and careful – like I’m the most precious piece of china you’ve ever been given. And the way you love me, Tony, it’s something that is unexplainable and completely mind-blowing. You give yourself so fiercely – it just takes a little while to truly understand what that means.

You’re my hero, Tony. And I don’t think I’m the only one that feels that way.

I love you.

& I happen to think that’s inevitable.

Happy birthday, Tony

The tears were falling freely now – the day taking a completely different turn than he expected. Between the tenderness, spectacular sex, and this insanely heartfelt gift, Tony was out of his mind with feelings he couldn’t classify. He never liked his birthday. Whether it was a reminder of how lonely he was or a big spectacle for the people that wanted something from him – it never seemed to be the occasion that others could make out of their own special days. Though it didn’t change his opinion about the day in general, Tony wasn’t afraid to admit that the day with Peter by his side was substantially better.

He didn’t hesitate to use both hands to palm Peter’s cheeks and seal their lips together. His wet face made the kiss a little messy – but neither of them seemed to care. Feeling Peter give into it, Tony tilted his head and deepened the kiss, the closeness just right for the situation. “I love you, Pete. This is – I can’t believe you did this for me.”

Leaning their foreheads together, Peter rubbed his nose against Tony’s, his eyes closing as he leaned into the connection between them. “I love you, Tony. I’m going to take care of you for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever then?” Tony asked immediately, the words tumbling out on their own accord.

“Yeah, baby. Forever.” Peter answered, his lips finding Tony’s again.

“Happy birthday, Tony Stark.”

#starker #ironspider #iron man #happy birthday tony stark #peter parker/tony stark #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #endgame fix it #marvel fanfiction #fan fics #ao3 fan fiction #fics #bobbie writes #soft starker #soft tony stark #caring peter parker #happy birthday

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odium-amare · 3 years

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Romance and Redemption for Fëanor

(Disclaimer: This does not and should not apply to real life. No one can change anyone. Only they can change themselves. This is purely for fun and for my own imagination to run rampant.

Also, If you’re a fan of Fëanor x Nerdanel pairing, skip this.)

This little guilty pleasure analysis is a little foreshadowing for something I am going to publish on Silmarillion AO3 and Fanfiction soon.

Fëanor is a character I have not often talked about but often think about when it comes to Tolkien’s work. He’s a fascinating character in that he defies all of the traditional Elven stereotypes in Tolkien’s universe. But everyone knows that. He’s charismatic, magnetic, tumultuous, unpredictable, easily changeable, impatient, possessive, direct, virile and most of all, he’s extremely human.

He’s the most beautiful and greatest elf (according to Tolkien but Finrod can battle this) and yet wed to Nerdanel; someone not considered beautiful by Elven standards because like most elves, he loves beauty but in the unconventional sense. Which again, defies Elven standards.

He sees Nerdanel’s beauty that others cannot and he values her character and talents as an artist and craftswoman.

Fëanor gives me the impression of one who puts so much emphasis and rage into unfairness and justice whether it be rebelling towards the Valar because of power imbalance or feeling that it is his right to take back his Silmarils which he created. But at the same time, he’s unbelievably unfair and cruel to people who do not do anything evil to him with intention (Indis, his half-brothers and it’s safe to assume he neglects his nephews and nieces as well.) That is his paradox. Fëanor is changeable and a hypocrite. Only he can abide by his own double standards and no one else’s. But that is probably one of the reasons why the Tolkien fandom loves him so much. He’s so flawed that it’s part of what makes him fun to write about and makes him utterly fascinating.

He’s sexy to put it straight.

He loves with all his heart (his father, birth mother, Nerdanel and children) and he hates with all his heart. There is no mediocrity or middle ground for Fëanor. You either have all of him or none of him.

And this extremity of his character is what causes so many tragedies, the dreadful oath that leads to all of his sons’ demise. The connections with all of the events that occur throughout Middle Earth’s history.

Having said that, as a huge romantic and idealist whilst also a pragmatist, I will be one of the first to say I am not a huge fan of Fëanor/Nerdanel as a couple. And this is not just because of my bias for not caring about Elf x Elf pairings.

On a purely superficial level, I like the angst of Fëanor x Nerdanel’s conflict and separation towards the events of the Oath and journey to Middle Earth. I like that she grows a spine and rebels Tolkien’s LACE of elves never separating and to willingly separate with Fëanor because he’s beyond saving. I like the fact that it’s a rare case of the “hot” guy wants the “plain/ugly” girl and not the other way around which have been bombarded by media created by mediocre/ugly men living their fantasies of ending up with the hottest women entitlement. I like the fact that Fëanor loves her for her accomplishments as her own individual artisan.

But what we hear about Fëanor x Nerdanel’s personal life before everything from Tolkien is extremely vague. The one that stands out to me is:

“... she was able to influence and restrain her prideful husband.”

Hm, in what way exactly? Fëanor x Nerdanel’s relationship may be vague in its descriptions, but there is much we can assume and deduct. While this line may sound nice to other romanticists that’s a fan of this pairing and like that Nerdanel is the only one “wise” and “kind” enough to calm Fëanor down, this line to me just sounds like another one of those kind/ sweet good girl tames the bad boy.

It’s old and we all know, is a one way ticket towards a toxic and dysfunctional relationship. Nerdanel plays the role of the patient wife restraining her unpredictable husband and even towards the end of her leaving Fëanor, she could only beg him one last time to leave one of her youngest twin sons with her. There’s not much more to the dynamic or at least is written about. While she’s an accomplished artisan in her own right, she lets herself play the role of the patient and motherly figure of 7 sons. She acts as the female homebody to a charismatic but problematic husband and failed to the very end when the two are estranged.

She is lost in the shadow of Fëanor and there is nothing about Nerdanel that stands out to me. Even Haleth, a mortal woman, can stand to be equal to Fëanor to be inspiring.

I like to reread “Another Man’s Cage” by Dawn Felagund which gives us a glimpse into the life of the Fëanorians. While it is a fanfic and should not be read as canon, everything written there is pretty damn close to my own interpretations of each individual Fëanorians. The dynamic of Fëanor/Nerdanel in this fic pretty much confirms all of my beliefs about this couple and exemplifies exactly why I dislike it and why I don’t care for Nerdanel as a female character. If we don’t have canon, we might as well have this so I’m going to play off of this fanfic.

Fëanor x Nerdanel are a tumultuous couple and not in a sexy way. To sum it up short, Fëanor is someone who willfully acts on his own whims, does and says whatever he wants. Nerdanel is always the one to make concessions and appeal to him for the sake of her love for him, harmony and the children. She consistently plays the role of the doormat, matronly figure. Every time they fight, she will be the one to apologize first and accept “make up” sex when she shouldn’t. And it’s definitely not making up. It’s communication avoidance. Other than being a matron role that takes care of the children, blindingly loving Fëanor and his mistreatments with a dash of artisan here and there (to remind us that she’s her own person I suppose,) she does not have much of an inspiring personality. She accepts the fact that Fëanor will always burn bright for all to see and she will be the one languishing in spirit. She’s incredibly muted as a person.

So this, frankly, leaves me wondering. What is it about Nerdanel that Fëanor falls for exactly? Being a talented sculptor is not much of a reason to sustain love and a marriage. It is said that they were friends before they married. But why are they friends? She’s said to be able to stand up to her husband, but her version of “standing up” to him is more about barely scratching personal boundaries and common sense rather than actually talking sense into his extremities. Then he fell for her because she’s the “wise” and patient woman who reigns in her terrible husband?

What a flat and cliche trope of a patriarchal marriage.

Which brings me to my last point and theory. His wife can’t do it. His sons can’t do it. His half brothers most definitely cannot do it. No matter how they show it, no matter the defiance - Most of the most important First Age figures in Tolkien lives on the whims of Fëanor and his pursuit.

So who could redeem Fëanor? By the time of Dagor Dagorath and Arda remade, who could heal him while also being able to put him in his place so that he doesn’t scorch a burn with his fire to the point that it overwhelms?

A human woman.

Thank you. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

#feanor #my post #feanorian #my fics #my fic #tolkien #romance #writing

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years

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A Sleepless Night Under the Lone Moon

Summary: Dimitri has trouble sleeping. His wife has a ritual she does not tire attempting.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2000

Notes: Yes, I know I’ve done this one before, but two cakes, I suppose? This one is longer, too.

It was just another chilly night just before the New Year. The King of Fódlan and the Archbishop have recently arrived for their season in Garreg Mach, certainly exhausted from their long trip across the Ogma Mountains.

Nevertheless, if one were to pass through the gardens between the two halls that evening, a tall and well-built figure could be seen standing silently on the Star Terrace, looking up to the sky, searching for something that might as well not be there. The full moonlight hit his face, and one could see he was a very handsome long-haired man. He had a few scars on his face and a missing eye, which strangely only made him look even better. However, he carried a weary expression on his face.

King Dimitri, once again, could not sleep.

The Archbishop sensed this. She could sense very clear that he was not there, right beside her in the large bed.

Byleth woke up in the middle of the night, and searched for him with her hands patting his side of the bed. The fact that he was not there did not make her too startled, as it was common occurrence in these years of marriage.

It was one of those things you might not appreciate about your partner, but you learn to live with. Somehow, she had grown used to the fact that he would often have trouble sleeping. Sometimes, he did not even sleep at all. Nevertheless, whenever it came to be, it would shatter her still heart into a billion pieces.

The Tragedy of Duscur was only but a dark chapter of history. The towns were rebuilt, the people have returned and the province prospered. Felix and Ingrid made peace with their loss, and he knew Lambert and Patricia certainly were not all he remembered them to be. The war was won, Edelgard is dead and one would be hard-pressed to find someone who misses her. He had undergone many therapies and seances, and he was beyond happy with the life he built for himself from the wreckage it once was. Yet, Dimitri still hears the voices.

The fires of that night had taken many things from him. The taste of his tongue and the feeling of his hands, to name just a couple, but ever since then he was also rarely able to have good nights of sleep, something he had loathed ever since the attack.

It was difficult for him to exactly pinpoint what he hated so much about it. Perhaps, it was the fact that the sleepless nights reminded him of how he had been marked with this wretched curse, this burden, for eternity. It also stood for the symbol that he would never taste the warm buns of his childhood nor feel the voluptuous curves on his wife’s body. Losing sleep was plainly annoying as well, as it carries his headaches along. Or, maybe, there was a connection with how Byleth would always stay up to keep him company.

That night was not any different.

Alongside the cool breeze that hit his shirtless body, he felt her warm arms wrapping him in a back hug and her cheek being pressed against him. The combination of cool and warm touches caused shivers to go down his spine. He smiled to himself, but guilt soon started to run in his veins.

“Go back to sleep, beloved.” He whispered. “There is certainly much to be done in the morning, and Seteth will not grant you any reprieve.”

“Not without you.” She responded, petulantly.

“You know I will not be able to sleep tonight.” His voice manifested both frustration and firmness, especially because he did not want her to face the morning to come feeling tired over him. “There is nothing either of us can do about it.”

“History tells I have many magnificent feats under my name. I can always try. Tonight might be your lucky night.” The religious leader leaned back, breaking the comforting connection between their skins.

He chuckled. “Every night you spend with me is a lucky night, beloved. I will not begrudge you sleep to test my own fortune.”

In response to his declaration, her ethereally smooth hands travelled to the sides of his body, and gave them a light squeeze, silently asking him to turn around and look at her. His icy blue eyes, a perennial inheritance from Blaiddyd himself, found her mint greens in a matter of seconds, and a grin suddenly took over her lips. She absolutely adored his eyes and, if given permission, she would spend hours getting lost in them.

While looking at his eyes, she saw deep and beautiful oceans, summer skies, and balmy waves. Dimitri made her feel like she was back in the Blue Sea Star.

“Let me take care of you.” Byleth whispered against his skin.

He slowly gave in to her request, and accepted to be taken care of. With her hands guiding him to wherever she went, she did her best to distract his mind off his frustration and insanity for a little while. She talked about the inane requests that littered her desk, the gossip Mercedes and the maids let her know, and the cute baby she would baptize next afternoon.

Just like that, before any of them could realize, the marble clawfoot bathtub that occupied a corner on their bathroom at the monastery was filled with hot water and aromatic salts. Taking baths together was a pivotal element of their ritual for sleepless nights. They would usually spend quite a long time in the water, she would talk about unimportant things and he would laugh carelessly at her purposefully obtuse observations.

At that moment, both of their bodies were submerged in the temporary alleviation the water offered. Despite being taller and more muscular than his wife, Dimitri had his back leaned against her chest, being extremely careful not to hurt her under his inhumane strength.

Her nimble fingers ran across his molten gold long locks, untying the knots that formed since she last brushed it back in Fhirdiad. Afterwards, she pressed her lips gently on his temples, as an act of silent kindness for letting her share on his company.

“Damn, Dima, you’re packing.” Byleth joked as she nestled closer against his front body.

The vibration of his laugh resonated in her chest, and she laughed along with him, feeling relieved over his relaxation.

“Your significant other must be very lucky, huh?” She continues the silly joke, just so he would feel better about himself. “I bet that, having such a fat cock like that, you are a love machine.”

The monarch grinned wolfishly. “I’m a fuck machine.”

She laughed loudly and even snored a little bit, bringing fresh warmth to his heart. After murmuring he was, actually, ridiculous, she decided it was time to leave the bathtub, due to the falling temperature of the water. He was the first one to stand up, and he offered her his hand as a support for she to stand up as well.

In no time, they were dry and their bodies were covered with fine, cool silks, perfect for the Spring climate in Garreg Mach.

As Byleth stared at her own reflection in the mirror, she realized how her husband looked a bit better. He still carried the same weary expression from before, but he did not look as dreadful as when he looked wistfully out to the empty courtyard.

“I wonder what those stuck-up, annoying Adrestian nobles would think if they saw their king like this.” The blond said, as he sits on the four-poster bed.

“Like what?” Byleth sits next to him and lets an arm snake around his shoulder.

“Like a kept man.” He shook his head to himself, but it was crystal clear he was not upset over anything that was happening then.

It was amusing to whomever was privy to their home life how Dimitri held a somewhat intimidating image and a grievous past, but still managed to be so soft and pliant towards his wife, doing as she says as if direct commandment from the Goddess herself. Which it was, on a roundabout way.

As bad as his moods could be these days, deep down, Byleth could not be anything other than wholeheartedly thankful for his behaviours, for him not blocking her out anymore. Although there were long, dreadful Moons soon after the Millennium Festival when he dismissed her cares, when they first reunited, this is only memories of a distant past. Even when he fell to his low points amongst their better years since the end of the war, he would never last for too long without her.

“I will be right back. I asked for Cyril to leave a pitcher, so I am going to prepare ourselves some warm milk.” She stood on her tiptoes and pecked his lips before leaving the room.

She left him with a bright and calm smile on his lips, which, however, soon faded away into a grimace. There was a clear pang of guilt in his chest, of disgrace over his petulant behaviour, but he could not lie and say he was not feeling any better after sharing a bath with his beloved. Her touch was always so gentle and caring, and she did not seem to be bothered by his situation by any means, but still he hears the voices, and still he sleeps not.

How on Earth had he gotten to be so favoured, even after so many bad events that took place in his life? Even with so many sins on his hands? Should he not have to pay for his mistakes? Is it only a matter of time until the other shoe drops?

A few minutes passed by, and she returned to his presence with two mugs, one on each hand. Her placid face assured him everything was alright, and that she got his back no matter what, a promise she made due countless times over the years. She would be by his side even in the middle of the night, after having an exhausting day of travelling through a perilous mountain pass, or with her heart overwhelmed by her own problems, frustrations and feelings.

She would always be by his side because she loved him, and it was nothing short of shameful how little he offered in return for such unwavering devotion.

“There you go, love.” One of her hands gave him a plain white mug with a steaming liquid inside of it.

Another part of her ritual was to end the night with a mug of warm milk with some drops of honey. She had read Saint Timoteos writings, and he noted that honey could help with sleeping problems, and that stuck with her for a long time, to the point they now kept an apiary both in Fhirdiad and in Garreg Mach. His wife had always eagerly grasped at things that could help him somehow.

Her own mug was taken to her lips as she sipped the drink, and her chest felt full of a sympathetic warmth. Dimitri, on the other hand, did not sip his drink and this did not pass unnoticed by Byleth.

When she was about to ask him what was wrong, his voice echoed in the room first. “Come here.”

She stepped closer to him with a puzzled look on her face, but he only dismissed it with a charming wink. His fingers ran along her jawline, and his hand cupped her face right after it. He pulled her closer to him, his lips soon connecting to hers.

After dedicating one or two minutes to a kiss in which she had to focus on both her lips moving in sync, and mugs being balanced in her hands, the Archbishop broke away. Their eyes found each other once more, and she nuzzled her nose up against his.

He rested his forehead on hers, his next words being softly whispered. “You taste like honey.”

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Dimitri Blaiddyd

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istheresomebodywhocanimagine · 5 years

Text

Tomorrow Never Came PT. 12

Now that you’ve done what you came to do, what comes next? Where do you go? How do you cope?

TRIGGER WARNING: BIG SAD. also low quality pic of roger hehe

The last of your measly belongings were packed tightly into that folded up box you’d stuffed into the closet a year ago, the clock reading some time around 2 in the morning as you took a deep, shuddering breath. A few tears escaped your eyes, and you reached up to quickly wipe them away. This was it.

Weston had explained everything from the beginning, pausing only to let you cry it out. He was patient – a bit irritable, but not outwardly, and he always waited until you were calmed down a bit to continue. He was understanding, you thought, as you made your way down the hallway to Roger’s room, which was still empty. Roger wouldn’t be back for a good 6 or 7 hours, leaving you plenty of time to process what Weston had said.

Roger was the universe’s punishment for your involvement in Weston’s creation. He had manifested the time portal, through some sort of quantum physics mumbo-jumbo you hadn’t even pretended to understand. He did it for his childhood friend, a redhead that went by the name of Abigail. She was beautiful, and all the boys chased after her, including Weston. But he had the upper hand as her best friend, and he squandered it away by pining after her silently until it was too late – Abigail was gone, victim to an IRA car bomb that detonated yards from where she was standing, outside of a pub. She was killed at the ripe age of 16, before he could even say goodbye.

“So you made a time machine to save a girl you were obsessed with,” you deadpanned in between crying sessions, Weston’s face twisting up in annoyance and agreement as he struggled to form a comeback.

“Well, when you put it that way…. I guess.”

He’d studied for years, running algorithm after algorithm, test after test, until a successful run in 1993 – he found himself thrust back into the 1970s, at the same exact time, in the same exact place. Roger and Freddie became background characters in his quest to fix what he saw as an error in the timeline, people who just happened to be there every time he came back to try and fix it again.

But that was the problem both of you had – you saw the tragedies as erroneous, but as traumatic as they were, they were not errors. It took Weston years to finally realize there was no way to fix it.

“I spent all of my time from 1993 to 2010 trying to figure out what I was doing wrong,” he’d quietly remarked, tugging on a string that was frayed off of the knee of his baggy jeans. “Turns out, it wasn’t my place to try and change history anyways. Abi wasn’t meant to be with me, as much as I wanted it to be true.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, not sure what to say. It was overwhelming, all of it, and an excessive amount of shame and pain washed over you as you realized that you were not the only one chasing something that wasn’t yours, that didn’t belong to you. A small part of you still wanted Roger, but the common sense in you knew it wasn’t in the cards.

Weston was silent as he stared at the floor just past his knees, chewing on the inside of his lip before he stood up and brushed his jeans off absentmindedly. “I spent 2010 and on trying to convince Dan that it wasn’t worth it. He caught me one time, coming out of the closet door. Wouldn’t leave until I explained, shit a brick when I did.”

“But you let him?” you countered, furrowing your eyebrows as you looked up at Weston.

“It’s hard to say no to someone who offers to pay double the rent for an apartment that only offers you pain because of a time portal you can’t get rid of. And I figured he’d get the message eventually. I never imagined….” He trailed off, looking down at you as he tried to find the words to say that wouldn’t offend you. It was clear that he found you incapable of dealing with the consequences, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he cleared his throat and shook his head. “I didn’t think he’d send anyone else.”

“I get it,” you muttered, standing up as well as tears once again threatened to spill out of your eyes. “I’ll just pack up my things.”

And now here you were, standing in the middle of Roger’s room, silently crying as you took one last look. It was a mess, clothes laying across the bed that wasn’t made, an ashtray with an abundance of cigarette butts near the window, and tons of crumpled papers with scrapped songs on them – but it was home to you. You approached the desk, picking one paper up that seemed to be an abandoned love song. Those weren’t typical of Roger, so you folded it up slowly and pushed it into your pocket, sniffling once before grabbing the pen and a discarded paper, writing out a note to your boyfriend. Could you call him a boyfriend now? It was all so confusing.

I did it. I love you forever. Please keep writing music, and don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine – you just keep being the best drummer out there. Queen is going to do numbers, I promise. Gotta go now.

Placing the note on his bed, you walked back out of his room to where Weston was waiting, his arms crossed as he watched you wipe away the last of your tears.

“Ready to go?”

The apartment wasn’t like you remembered it. When you and Weston walked back through, it was an unfamiliar layout, complete with a mirror in front of the door that you nearly broke upon opening the door outward. But Weston shoved through, strolling into the bedroom as if it was his own. Which, you quickly realized, it was. Pictures of him with a strange redhead girl you recognized as Abigail were on the dresser, coupled with some stacks of papers with equations and diagrams that looked like another language to you.

“Wow. Guess you really did do it. Wonder where Dan is,” he remarked, mostly unfazed by the fact that it had returned to his own apartment. He looked around for a moment, then turned to you and nodded. “Uh, sorry about your boyfriend. I know what it’s like, so if you ever need anyone to, uh, talk to-“

“It’s okay,” you cut him off, a bit more sharply than you intended, but the rim of red around your eyes was enough to keep him from being offended. “I’m just going to go.”

He was quiet, just nodding in response and heading for the door so he could open it for you. “Okay. Hope everything works out.”

“Okay.” You took a deep breath, then hurried out of the door with your box of belongings. It felt heavy in your arms, heavier now that you had the weight of the world on your shoulders, but you managed to make your way down to the street, the church’s shadow looming over you like a death sentence as you hailed a cab that took you all the way to your mom’s house. It wasn’t home. Not anymore.

When you arrived at the small house on the other side of the city, you saw the driveway had your car in it, plus an unfamiliar junker that looked like it might fall apart if you shook it a little bit. Furrowing your eyebrows, you eyed the car suspiciously as you paid the cabbie with the pocket money you had left. It wasn’t yours, and it sure as hell wasn’t your father or mother’s, so whose was it?

Stepping out of the car, you shifted the box to your hip and stared up at the house. It seemed dirtier than you remembered, but maybe it was a year without seeing it that stained your eyesight, so you walked up to the door without another thought. Your feet dragged just a bit as you ascended the stairs, the reality of finally seeing your mom again after a whole year hitting you like a freight train. What if she was still an invalid? What if nothing had changed?

“Y/N?”

The front door swung open before you could even get to it, the familiar voice of your mom flooding your ears. But there was something off about it, a slowness to the way she spoke your name that made your ears ring as you looked up to find her standing in the doorway, leaned up against the frame.

Jesus, she was a mess. She looked at least 20 years older than she should have been, her collarbones jutting out of what used to be a healthy, toned body. In fact, all of her bones were sticking out, a sickly pallor discoloring her face and making her seem as if she was a ghost as she smiled lazily at you, her eyes a bit bleary and unfocused as she searched your face.

“Mum?” you asked unsurely, still standing at the top of the stairs as you stared at the woman who had taken care of you for the last 20-something years, a shell of what she’d been when you saw her literally hours ago, young and relatively unscathed.

“Can you go get me some Guinness? I’ll give you the cash.”

Staring blankly at her, you sat the box down on the porch and nodded slowly. She wasn’t drunk. This wasn’t the body of an alcoholic. This was something else you couldn’t put your finger on, something worse. Registering your nod slowly, she shut the door again and left you out on the porch, reeling from the interaction that had just taken place. Seconds later, she came back with a wad of cash, your phone, and your keys. Walking out to you, or rather, wobbling, she gave the handful to you with a shaking hand, then picked up your box and carried it inside without another word.

“What the fuck?” you whispered once she’d shut the door, still shocked from what had just happened. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?” you continued anxiously, slowly turning on your heels to walk out to your car that was waiting in the drive. What in the fuck had just happened?

Opening the car door, the familiar peony and cherry car freshener assaulted your nostrils as you dropped in, closing the door behind you and shakily unlocking your phone. It was still March, maybe 30 minutes after you’d went in to the portal, and yet, you felt like it had been forever since you’d been here. There weren’t any notifications, just the time and the date staring you back in the face from your iPhone.

Dan. He would know what’s going on. Opening your phone, you quickly pulled up his contact, calling him and pressing it to your ear as you listened to it ring, ring, ring. But he never answered, eliciting a string of curses out of you as you called him again, refusing to quit. And he finally answered on the third ring, sounding thoroughly annoyed.

“What d’you want?”

The words tumbled out of you before you could even think, pouring out of your mouth like a torrential waterfall of stupidity. You would regret it in a moment. “I did it, I went back and stopped William and Ted, and I thought mum would be alright, but now I’m here again in 2018 and I just-“

“Jesus, what are you on about? Did your mum let you shoot up with her, finally? She let you in on her stash of smack? Fuck, no wonder your dad took off, you’re both so cracked out. You both still owe me.”

“Wha- I-“ You were floored, so many truths attacking you at once you could barely comprehend the situation. “Smack? Owe you?”

“You’re high,” he accused, sounding even more annoyed than before, if that was possible at all. “And you owe me 700 fucking pounds. Remember that? Don’t fucking call back until you got it, you and your fucking thief of a mum. Fuck you.”

The line went dead. Stunned, you stared at your phone as it returned to the home screen, still devoid of notifications, and for some reason, you didn’t cry. You just breathed slowly, almost heavily, a hundred needles poking into your heart while you watched the screen go black after your inactivity. Smack? Your mom was a heroin addict? That explained the sluggishness, the harrowed appearance, but didn’t explain why? What had you done wrong? This wasn’t supposed to be how it happened. You were supposed to come back to a normal family, a normal life, not an addict mother and an uncle that despised you, plus a still-absent father.

No tears came, still. All that overtook you was a need, a desperate one at that. You needed his name to pop up on that phone, to call you and ask you if you were okay, because you weren’t, not anymore.

You needed Roger.

Roger. Roger, fuck, where is he? Scrambling to open up your phone, you opened Chrome and typed in his name faster than you’d ever typed in your life, hitting search even though you misspelled his last name in your haste, and feeling a flood of relief when you saw his Wikipedia page pull up. For a moment, you felt like at least something went right. But, as your luck would have it, you were wrong.

Roger Meddows Taylor was an English musician, singer, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist, best known as the drummer for the rock band Queen.

Was?

Clicking on the Wikipedia link, you waited a few seconds for the page to load before you were met with a picture of Roger, one that was slightly unfamiliar due to the shorter length of his hair. He looked middle-aged in the photo, the caption indicating it was taken around the mid-90’s, but you didn’t pay attention to it for too long before the death date caught your eye.

August 3, 2000

“No, no, no, no,” you whined, a tear immediately springing forth out of your eye as you scrolled down to the Personal Life section of his Wikipedia. What awaited you there was crushing, and you continually swept tears out of your eyes as you read it, so distraught you couldn’t even make a sound.

Following the 1997 release of No-One but You (Only the Good Die Young) and Deacon’s departure from Queen, Taylor unexpectedly committed himself to an unnamed institute, allegedly in the countryside near London unexpectedly. Remaining Queen member Brian May, speaking about the situation on a talk show later in 2000, cited ‘personal issues related to grieving,’ mentioning Freddie by name. He also briefly mentioned an old girlfriend from the early days of Queen, although this story is unconfirmed and no evidence of this relationship was brought forth upon public doubt. Taylor passed in 2000, leaving behind five children with two ex-wives.

“Oh, fuck me,” you sobbed as the tears finally began to fall in full force, your phone dropping to your lap as you pressed your hands to your face. Roger was dead. Your mom was just as fucked. Dan wanted nothing to do with you. Your dad? Might as well not exist. Everything was somehow worse than before.

Forgetting completely about the Guinness, you curled up in your car and sobbed for a good hour, the sky darkening to the point where you could barely see your hands in front of your face when you finally pulled yourself together, sniffling and wiping your nose on the back of your hand. Locating your phone, you grabbed it and shoved it into your pocket, neglecting to grab the keys out of the ignition before you wobbled back inside, overwhelmed with grief for both of the lives you had lost – one here, and one with Roger.

When the door on the porch opened again and you saw the outline of your mom lit by a single dim hallway light, you cursed yourself silently for completely forgetting what she’d sent you to do.

“Did you get it? Took you long enough.”

Her selfish, stinging words hit you like a slap to the face as you fully stopped in your ascension of the stairs. In her hand, she held the dress from Biba, the one Roger had bought you. “Give me my dress,” you immediately demanded, hopping the rest of the steps in one leap and coming to stand in front of her. She stared at you like an alien, eyes still bleary, probably from shooting up while you were busy mourning all of your mistakes in the car. This was not her fault, but as you stared at her offended expression that was chastising you for what you did, you couldn’t help but feel like it was.

“Where’s the fucking beer?”

“Fuck you!” you spat, snatching the dress from her hands and taking off for your car again as she yelled after you, berating you for being ungrateful and a thief and every nasty name under the moon. But you ignored her, climbing back into your car and starting it before ripping out of the driveway and peeling off down the street. Fuck her.

The dress laid in a pretty pink heap on the passenger seat, tossed over there hastily and taunting you as you drove aimlessly through the London night, not sure where to go. You didn’t even know where your dad was, so that was out of the question. And you were as good as dead to Dan. Maybe your friends? But how would you explain that? Hey, so I went back to 1971 to save my mom, but then I came back and she’s just a fucking druggie now, and my boyfriend from the 70’s is dead, and my uncle hates me, so can I crash on your couch? No. You were officially homeless.

So you went back to Weston’s. Parking on the street outside the building, you stared up at that church, the same one that had been so lofty and imposing in the 70’s now seeming small and pathetic as you examined the cracked brick, the crumbling stairs leading up to it surely being a safety violation. Your hand found the dress blindly, resting on the soft, velvety fabric and giving it a small pet. God, how desperately you could use a hug from Roger right now.

You weren’t sure was propelled you up to Weston’s door, or how you even made it up there, but a few minutes later, you were knocking on his door rapidly, your free hand clutching onto the dress desperately. When he opened the door, he didn’t even look remotely surprised to see you, though his words were polite enough.

“Hey. Back so soon?”

You groaned softly at the greeting, not sure whether to smack him or run away or both, but you shook your head and pressed your palm to your forehead. “I have to undo it. Everything. You were….. you were right.”

“Could have listened to me half a year ago, but okay,” he sighed, opening the door fully and letting you in. You beelined for the bedroom, not even stopping for a moment to explain the situation to him. It had to be done. You had to erase this reality, to start over. Your mom was too important. Roger was too important. Everything was too different. You should have listened.

And so, in you went again, plunging in to the darkness of the closet with only a few pounds and a dress on you, plus an all-too-familiar idea of what came next. As you opened the door to the 70’s décor in the hallway of the building you’d come to adore over the past year, you sighed.

Here we go again.

PT. 1 PT. 2 PT. 3 PT. 4 PT. 5 PT. 6 PT. 7 PT. 8 PT. 9 PT. 10 PT. 10.5 PT. 11

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marginalgloss · 5 years

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toybox mentality

The thing about Milkman by Anna Burns, if it was described in the abstract, is that it might sound a bit dour. A bit unsettling. A bit difficult. This is a book about the Troubles, sometime in the late 1970s; it's written from the perspective of a woman who is being stalked by a man who may or may not be an intelligence agent; and the prose unfolds in long paragraphs dense with clauses. It is lucid, and sometimes exacting. Is it difficult? Kind of.

Certainly it was a surprising choice for winning the Booker Prize last year. 'Experimental' novels are sometimes nominated for that prize but frequently don't win. A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James is perhaps the closest recent comparison – both are historical novels, both have a decidedly post-imperial slant, and both have a playful approach to their own textuality. But that's about where the similarities end. James’s novel was a comprehensive take on a very specific set of real events, shaped a great deal of the creative licence that we expect from historical fiction. It was a big, engrossing novel as they might have recognised it in the nineteenth century. Milkman is a very different beast. A more apt comparison might be with James Kelman's How Late it Was How Late, which won the Booker back in 1994. That, perhaps, was one of the last truly controversial prizewinners, with one of the judging committee threatening to resign if it won.

Bizarrely, wikipedia currently describes Kelman's book as belonging to the 'stream of consciousness' genre, which seems like a peculiar sort of inverse elitism. If we accept that description (though it is more or less meaningless) one might well file Milkman alongside Kelman’s book even though they are written in very different styles. What they do have in common is a certain way of thinking about life as it exists under a state of imperial power and near-constant conflict. The causes of said conflict are so far removed from the lives of ordinary people so as to be rendered incomprehensible to the reader. Clearly there is an occupation of some sorts but how it came about might as well be the stuff of legends. But for both authors, language becomes a refuge for the spirit of the individual, and a means of passive resistance.

There are a couple of mistakes it is easy to make with books of this nature. The first is the 'stream of consciousness' misconception – the idea that in scanning each line we are somehow plugged straight in to the narrator's thinking, talking, acting, being. Joyce has a good deal to answer for in this regard, but the blame oughtn't to be laid at his feet; the problem is more to do with what is done to Joyce than what he actually did, since there is a great deal more to Ulysses than Molly Bloom's chapter. Describing a thing as a 'stream of consciousness' is invariably reductive. It assumes that what we're reading is the sum total of an individual, more so perhaps than if they were telling us a story in a sort of campside voice. And it's a convenient way of treating language that might appear disorderly or unconventional as if it were a kind of aberration.

This leads us on to the second mistake one can make with a book like Milkman – mistaking the music of the text for a written recording of speech. Rather than looking at the words as words, if one takes this approach there's a tendency to become mired in concerns about historical and cultural accuracy. We start to make judgments line-by-line about accents, class, and status. Questions of meaning become sublimated to thoughts of whether or not what we read is accurate. And in most cases the only guide we have for this kind of accuracy is our own prejudice. Language is thus reduced to a signifier of authenticity.

Questions of authenticity sound throughout every page of Milkman. It begins with the title: the 'Milkman' himself is the aforementioned spy-stalker, and not really a milk-delivering-person at all; the narrator is careful to differentiate him from the 'real milkman', a totally different man who actually delivers the milk and maintains an active belligerence towards local partisan groups and, in fact, pretty much everyone in the community. Most of the other characters in the book aren't properly named, and are referred to only in relative terms – from 'maybe-boyfriend' to 'third brother-in-law' and all varieties of familial relations in between. The point is that in this community, naming names puts a person beyond the pale, or worse – but since gossip forms the metabolism of the community, talking about things without using their true names becomes an essential part of everyday life.

This creates a sort of puzzle for the reader. Part of the work necessary is in unpicking the narrator's oblique references to what has come before, and what will come after; we have to work a bit to decipher, to cross-reference. A family tree would have been helpful for the reader, if dangerous for the narrator: we get the impression that all this obscuring with name-confusion is part of the point. The impression is of a text that has been coded for safety. Yet it isn't coded in such a way as to truly anonymise everything. Ireland itself is never explicitly mentioned here, but it would be impossible to mistake this for a book about anywhere else.

This raises a question which I feel entirely unequipped to answer: does this process of un-naming render the book more equivocal than it would be otherwise? I found it hard to find much in the way of politics in Milkman. There's little here of the outright anti-imperialism we can find in James Kelman. Instead, the narrator maintains a sort of light contempt for both sides in the conflict. Their motivations are always obscure. History is expressed mainly in a record of tragedies, most of which seem more or less gruesome and inexplicable. The present conflict is a heap of local dogs with their throats cut by the state forces; it is the scurrilous rumours about a car part from a Bentley, which may or may not bear the British flag; it is the local agents threatening a group of second-wave feminists, before the local women calm them with a show of practical contempt for the ‘toybox mentality’ of the renouncers.

All of this seems horrible and absurd, all the more stark because it is stripped of much of the context that would enable an understanding of how the world came to be like it is. Everyone is about as bad as everyone else, except for the few who aren't. It is all only boys playing with their toys. Another unanswerable question: is the pursuit of this literary effect only a way of side-stepping awkward questions about cause and effect, or is it a sincere representation of how it felt to grow up in such a society? Milkman isn't exactly apolitical, but it doesn't seem especially invested, or interested, in any kind of ideology outside the survival of an individual consciousness.

Black comedy is very much the dominant tone here. At first something will happen that seems as though it's going to lead to disaster until (in most cases) the author slowly deflates the issue. There's a sort of tension between the constant aura of threat and the linguistic thicket thrown up by the narrator's incessant thinking and talking. Language becomes her only means of defense, and sometimes her means of attack. Absurdity is part of the comedy at play, but it's a very specific sort of absurdity. Flann O'Brien feels like a fair stylistic comparison: we have here the same relish in verbosity, that same arch, dilated, expansive use of language.

And yet for all the tension there is no quietude. The narrator is not actually threatened into silence. The overwhelming presence of the text is proof of that. There is no anxiety here – quite the opposite. In life we're given to understand the narrator is bookish and somewhat solitary but in her own story she is in absolute control. This is not a surreal novel in the way of O'Brien. The narrator here is always specific. Words are used to say precisely what they mean, but the narrative could be called a literal interpretation rather than a transcription. To put it another way: we are told exactly what the characters say, think and do, but we aren't told it in their own words. The question of reliability never seems to come up. We trust her, I suppose, because we must trust her. In a meaningful sense there isn't really anyone else in this novel.

Sometimes this feels suffocating. This is a long book: a tad under 350 close-set pages in paperback. It feels its length. I have sympathy for criticisms I've read that take aim at the narrator's tendency to repeat the same adjectives under slightly different names. This kind of repetition, recollection, raking-over (for that is what she does) isn’t the literary maximalism it could be mistaken for; I think it has more in common with a certain kind of minimalism, given the focus on a relatively small, specific quadrant of human experience.

It is exhausting to read because it attempts to be exhaustive. What we're left with is a book which tries obsessively to re-word, re-frame, re-cast a certain very specific sort of strange experience in a strange place in a strange time – a young powerless woman being followed obsessively by a powerful older man. Until eventually the sheer weight of the thing itself – the book – wrenches the situation around until this dynamic of power is neatly, effectively inverted. Would it work if the book weren't so weighty? I'm not sure.

#anna burns #milkman #booker prize #james kelman #marlon james

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yoolee · 6 years

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Yukimura Act 2 Thoughts

SPOILERS, spoilers EVERYWHERE and yes this is under a read more but ugh, mobile tumblr, so, be careful. Not edited from when I wrote it June 22 XD

OH MY GOD FEELS EVERYWHERE AAAAAAH

Okay

What I loved about Yukimura’s Act 2, more than anything, is that it wasn’t just a story of two people in love – it was a story about an era, and how it ended, and the heroes and villains and ultimately humans who brought it about, and how even when it arrives it isn’t some magical, cure-all divine moment it’s just work and more of it to be done, and real, and horrible, and sad, and uncertain, and hopeful. It was a story about family, found and carried over generations, by choice and blood, and just, ungh. It was a story about love. Romantic love, familial love, the love of a country, the love between brothers and comrades and mentors and just, people. Contrast that with Nobunaga’s route – which I also enjoyed, but was ultimately more the story of a single man’s tragedy. A great man, with echoing impact on an entire country’s history, but it was his story. A GOOD STORY but a different kind. An epic tragedy, very Shakespearean, but like, different

Yukimura’s story isn’t just his. It’s the end of Nobunaga and Mitsuhide and Shingen and Hideyoshiu and Mitsunari’s stories. It’s also MC’s, and Ieyasu’s (oh gosh IEYASU. In this route. WOW feels) and the Sanada’s, etc and so forth. So many supporting characters have to make choices for Yukimura’s story to be told. Nobuyuki, Masamune, Saizo, Masayuki, Ieyasu, Sakai, Kanetsugu, Shingen, Toramatsu, and the MC they all had these beautiful, critical moments where they made a choice that sent Yukimura barreling down the path he ended on. This story wrenched every, EVERY single POSSIBLE scrap of emotion and meaning from every appearance of supporting characters that it possibly could. It all mattered, it all landed. (KUDOS WRITERS)

Nobunaga’s story felt like a cresting wave of his own making that finally broke. Yukimura’s has a similar sense of overwhelming push towards something, but there are countless hands causing it, placing just a moment of faith in this one man who has earned that faith through his own merit, and carries it through the only conclusion that can give them all hope for what they sacrificed for. He wasn’t born or destined to play that role – to fight, yes, but not to be the last lynchpin, the final puzzle piece that had to fall – he was never fighting to have what everyone else was fighting for, for himself. He became the person that had to play that role, by virtue of his strength, by virtue of his pride, by virtue of his, well, virtue, by being someone people built up and put stock into because he could, and he accepted it, and it wasn’t for himself, not in a falsely righteous way, just this deeply grand, quiet, very Yukimura way of feeling compelled to do what he could to help the people who needed it of him. Of doing what, in the end, he believed was right - not Shingen, not his brother or his father, or Saizo, or his wife, but what he felt, with all he was, was right.

By virtue of how much and how deeply and how strongly he was loved, and loved in return, by so, so many.

Now, obviously there’s the whole, born to be a sacrifice thing, but I think his understanding and belief in that changed in a really powerful way. He always believed he would die to bring glory to the Sanada name, and he set that aside out of love for his family. In the end, he didn’t die for the glory of a name. He died so that with his death, with his defeat, no one else would seek him out because of the past glory, hoping to go to war. There is a really, really interesting line I wish I had screenshot where, towards the end, there’s mention specifically of death counting because it is going towards a victory, which is so very odd considering it’s an obviously losing battle, but (and UGH aside – Yukimura is smart. He is. Yes he’s a dumbass in some of the early chapters but in the end we finally get to see that beautiful brain that comes out when he is calm and certain and I was SO HAPPY TO SEE IT) the victory his death is going towards is outside of a single battle. The glory of his name is going to a cause that he has to see through, that he has to do his best for, one way or another. Ultimately, he really, truly dies for love. And glory comes with it, because that is the one cause his death is worth giving for.

And after all that you wonder, you wonder, maybe it really was his fate all along maybe he really was born for that, maybe that’s how it was always, always going to be, just like he said, just like his family built him for, maybe it had to be that way, despite his choices. Or, in fact, BECAUSE of his choices, because he had to be defeated, because he had to choose life, and going home, and family, and hope, and love, to be able to make the sacrifice of his life on the battlefield this one. The last one. For that reason.

There is a sense they ALL had to fall. Nobunaga and Shingen, before the story starts. Hideyoshi, we can assume too, once Mitsunari is on his own his own (assuming, per history, the Toyotomi Yukkins rallies to is the son), the Uesugi are mentioned but not Kenshin. The Maeda too. Yukimura really is the last of his era, he has to go for the new one to have a chance, and he pins all that hope on it being a good one.

The supporting character feels just killed me. Watching Ieyasu barely hold it together as he went on his own arc from mustache twirling villain to broken child to uncertain victor to uneasy ally to source of hope for the future and holder of a dream worth sacrificing for , watching him react to Momo and the MC and Yukimura – that one line ‘Bring him alive’ was so perfect, because Nobunaga wouldn’t have hesitated (we saw that in Shingen’s route, right? In his own Act 2, Nobunaga would get what he would have to do) but Ieyasu couldn’t get there yet and that was beautiful to me – AS was the fact it was all moot anyway, and ultimately, Yukimura’s headband was in his hands at the end of it, as it had to be for the crashed wave to recede, and Ieyasu is left standing there, and there’s no triumph. He’s done this thing that everyone, EVERYONE has died for. He has it. It’s over. REALLY OVER. And there’s no joy in him at all, and that’s just a footnote, that’s a whole nother story just going on alongside and intertwined with Yukimura’s. But he’s human at the end of it. He feels. He wants. He maybe even hopes. He’s trying.

And there is an UNDENIABLE impact there - of MC and Momo and Yukkin on him, on the guy who finally does it. On the monster who is has been cracking into human chapter after chapter and has it all, has the entire country, and has to live with it now, after glimpsing something that made something in him respond with a peach ribbon and a desire to see a man live. Seeing this family stand up, steadfast, time and again and again and again, and love, and trust, and hope, and believe and fight and never, ever feel foolish for it because they know what they have and how precious it is and he just maybe, maybe is starting to believe them that it’s precious, just because nothing seems to convince them otherwise.

Masamune’s respect, Kojuro’s little ‘oh you again’, Kanetsugu as ESTEEMED SENSEI IN PARENTING, Saizo’s soft head tilt smiles all over the dang place and then immediately taking Momo all those times, Big Brother Sasuke, Nobuyuki, Masayuki oh my gosh Masayuki. So much love in all of his scenes. That generational sense of family was so powerful too.

And Saizo SAIZO I was about ready to SCREAM when he missed the wedding and then all of a sudden, there he is, with Yukimura’s spear and I was like darn you writers the emotional whiplash is just, unbearable. And he was with Yukimura in the end (and do you think he couldn’t have stopped that poor kid? But he understood it all too. He had to save Yukimura from Ieyasu because Ieyasu was going to let him live, but this kid, this scared, shaking kid with a sword doesn’t know that) and he carries out his last mission, and his flippant farewell – there are so, so dang many Saizo-loves-them-so-much moments, I’d have to screenshot the entire route to capture them all

AND HE SHOWS UP IN THE PRESENT DAY, BLESS.

AND MY SMOLSUKE FEELS. T.T finally got to hear MC say she loved him, and Nobuyuki call him a Big Bro, and Yukkin ALMOST say he loved Saizo RIP my heart, and Yahiko and Smolsuke in the same scene (SMOL SQUAD) hg;g;sdg;gesdghjtre

OVERALL I thought the pacing of the story was really, reaaaaally good (esp compared to Mitsuhide) with regularly placed emotional beats and surprises that made sense, and enough humor and love to make all the hurt bearable.

I have. Exactly two gripes. Two.

1. Their wedding night, Yukimura is CLEARLY sloshed and yet they have all kinds of passionate love going on, like. Alcohol, folks. It interferes with ability to perform JUST SAYING.

2. I wanted more of MC remembering than one single line about a promise T.T don’t give me sobbing Yukkins DON’T and then not make it all better HORRIBLE PEOPLE

Ugh I just

There is just so, so so much love in this route. LOVE. Not just romantic love, though it’s there and beautiful, but LOVE. Pure, freely given love. Between Masayuki and his sons, Masayuki and MC and Masayuki and Momo, Nobuyuki and MC/Momo/Yukkins, Saizo and Yukimura, Sasuke and Momo, Sasuke and MC/Yukimura/Saizo, Saizo and MC and Momo, Ieyasu and Momo and Sakai and Ieyasu and Yukimura and Shingen it is everywhere. It is absolutely hard coded into every sentence, every choice, every moment in this story just filling it up and bursting at the seams, and it’s unstoppable. It transcends an era. It transcends not just one man’s death but several - Masayuki, Shingen, Yukimura.

I have a lot of feels

This is probably exactly 11.6% of them.

#slbp spoiler #slbp spoilers #spoiler #spoilers #slbp yukimura #lee thoughts #long post

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misssophiachase · 6 years

Text

You and Me

25 Days of Klaroline + Favourite Song

I have MANY favourite songs that scream Klaroline, here is just one. The tempo suits a waltz perfectly, hence the theme. All lyrics by Lifehouse.

Ahead of his coronation, Prince Klaus has to polish his waltzing skills, enter dance teacher extraordinaire Caroline Forbes to whip him into shape.

What day is it. And in what month? This clock never seemed so alive. I can't keep up, and I can't back down. I've been losing so much time.

His eyes flickered to the corner of the palace ballroom consulting the impressive, grandfather clock. It was at that point, Klaus decided that his childhood, superhero dream of flying had suddenly been overtaken by an intense desire to stop time. If only just to breathe and take everything in for a few extra minutes.

“Ouch,” she muttered, bringing him well and truly back to the present, rubbing her big toe as she did it.

“Your Highness,” it was thinly veiled judgment, more than a polite address. Klaus knew that particular tone all too well since their lessons had begun. “It’s left foot then right.”

“That’s what I was doing.”

“Trust me, you weren’t,” she offered, looking briefly over at his heavyset bodyguard standing in the doorway ominously, a slight smile tugging at his lips although the rest of his face remained impressively stoic. “My left toe can testify to that very fact.”

“Fine,” he huffed, moving to the nearest table and grabbing a water bottle then taking a long swig. “I suppose I was…”

“Distracted?”

His beautiful but opinionated, dance teacher knew him too well. It should have scared him after such a short time together but it didn’t. When his mother had insisted he take classes ahead of his coronation next month he’d tried everything to avoid it but to no avail. Esther Mikaelson was a stickler for tradition, even if other members of the family didn’t always follow suit.

Klaus never wanted to be King, he always thought it impossible anyway. He liked the title but he was always the fun loving Prince. It was Elijah that was the perfect epitome of a future King, until tragedy had struck and he’d passed away unexpectedly from a rare form of cancer. His ascension to the throne was then a forgone conclusion but his grief had kept that fact at bay, for a few months at least.

It was something he’d begrudgingly and slowly accepted over time but this circus of a coronation, including dance classes, wasn’t what he signed up for.

“Yes, distracted.”

“I can only imagine given the upcoming coronation. Dancing is probably the last thing on your mind.” That was true but it was after the coronation part that scared him most. “Well and the whole becoming King part.” It was as if she had jumped into his head and rifled through his inner most insecurities. “I mean when you include the Commonwealth countries as well as Great Britain, that’s a lot of people to...”

“Do you always talk a lot?” He interrupted, choosing not to let her finish that frightening sentence.

“Not when I’m dancing,” she shot back cheekily. “But someone in this room is being a little difficult, and I’m not talking about Ahmed.” She looked over noticing his smile had slightly grown in the last few minutes. Caroline had every intention of making him laugh aloud one day.

“You know, people don’t usually talk to me like this…”

“I tend to get bossier when I’m overwhelmed by castles, corgis and royalty,” she admitted, somewhat sheepishly. “Your Highness if…”

“I like it,” he soothed, leaning over to place a hand over hers comfortingly. His heartbeat quickened slightly, Klaus usually blamed it on the cardio workout but didn’t have that excuse this time. “But there’s nothing to be overwhelmed about, Caroline.”

“Nothing to be overwhelmed about? Are you kidding me?”

“You are a highly, accomplished woman. You’re well travelled and…”

“How exactly do you know that?” She asked curiously, her left eyebrow cocked. “Have you been checking up on me?”

“You are working in our employ which makes a security check compulsory. The file MI5 and your CIA gave my personal secretary was a lot more dense than you thought, I guess you could say.”

“I only stole that candy bar because Katherine dared me,” Caroline rambled. The way she scrunched up her nose defensively was the the most adorable thing he’d seen. “And that whole sorority incident was totally blown out of proportion.”

“You broke into a dorm room to steal someone’s knickers,” he smiled knowingly, actually enjoying their dance practice for the very first time.

“I was pledging,” she scoffed. “It’s not my fault the guy happened to be the Dean’s son.”

“I’m extremely interested in this former life as a underwear thief, please tell me more,” he smirked. She didn’t respond immediately just rolled her eyes.

“Looks like the future King of England is just another guy,” she alluded. Before Elijah’s death, Klaus would have worn that reputation like a badge of honour but her words hurt. He wasn’t quite sure if it was the words or the woman saying them that affected him the most.

“How about we get back to practice?” He asked, not bothering to look at her before resuming his place mid dance floor. She seemed a little taken aback, her blue eyes searching his curiously. He didn’t mean to be so harsh but it was all becoming too familiar and being a future King, Klaus knew that emotion was something he couldn’t afford to betray. “I promise I won’t step on your toes again.”

“Famous last words,” she murmured, stepping into his frame, that delicious, vaniall scent wafting into his nostirls. Klaus closed his eyes momentarily, telling himself that it would all be over soon.

Why are the things that I want to say, just aren't coming out right? I'm tripping on words. You got my head spinning. I don't know where to go from here.

Caroline Forbes was usually calm and collected. She paid her bills on time, her dentist appointments were scheduled like clockwork and every single day was planned out from start to finish.

The day that her perfectly planned life came undone was an unexpected call to her dance studio in Chelsea. Caroline had moved to London five years earlier from New York, ready for the next challenge in her life. She’d studied diligently at university, earning her Masters in Art History but dancing would prove to be her true passion.

She’d befriended her cocky, best friend at the Camden Markets one dreary Sunday not long after her move. They’d fought over an antique figurine at one of the smaller stalls. Caroline’s grandmother collected them and he’d been insistent about having it until the end when he’d admitted he was just playing her. She would have killed him but he paid for it himself and shouted her a coffee. The rest, as they say, was history.

“How’s Prince Hottie?” Enzo had decided to bestow his own nickname. She was fairly certain that he was still hoping the soon-to-be King would decide he would fall in love with him.

“Shhhh,” she chided, looking around at their fellow patrons anxiously.

“I could be referring to anyone, darling,” he chuckled, taking a sip from his vodka martini. “And we’re in Brixton. I’m pretty sure the Royals don’t frequent this part of town or even know it exists to be honest.”

Caroline had to admit he was right as they enjoyed a drink at Three Eight Four Bar but for some reason every time he mentioned her latest and high profile dance student she became extremely defensive. Maybe it had something to do with the dense CIA file Klaus had alluded to and what might happen if she revealed too much information about said Prince.

They’d been training together for eleven weeks now. Yes, he was still stubborn and offered his opinion all too freely but over their time together she’d sensed some vulnerability in the man the media dubbed the ‘fun loving Prince.’

“Earth to Blondie?” Enzo interrupted, throwing a potato crisp in her direction for extra effect. “I was only telling you about my latest date with Josh.”

“And? Are we in love yet, Lorenzo?”

“I’ll keep you posted, but it’s looking promising,” he grinned. “But let’s get back to you and your issues.”

“My issues?” Caroline hissed. If there was anything Caroline didn’t have, it was issues. Her life was perfectly structured, no dangerous icebergs in sight.

“You like him.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d name him but I know how protective you are about His Royal Hotness,” he whispered, leaning over his glass and pretending to be discreet as only Enzo could. “It’s okay gorgeous, we’ve all had our celebrity crushes and I can understand being in such close proximity.”

“I don’t have a crush,” she growled, feeling the heat creep across her cheeks. Damn that royal idiot for messing with her. Caroline’s emotions were always well and truly intact. Her cell buzzed, she consulted the screen, her heart momentarily stopping at the text displayed.

They’d been mucking around during break about nicknames and he’d momentarily stolen her cell. She’d assumed he had taken an unsolicited photo during rehearsal but he’d been messing in her contacts. “Who is this Fraser? Looks like a complete idiot to me.”

“Give that back!” She demanded, noticing that Ahmed seemed silently amused by their exchange. Caroline made a mental note that he was going to crack sooner rather than later.

“Oooh, I’m sensing you like said idiot.”

“That’s none of your business,” she hissed, snatching it back hoping he hadn’t read any of their texts. Fraser was an idiot but she didn’t want to prove his point given her recent rejection. He was cocky enough as it was. Caroline knew she needed to change the subject and fast.

“The last thing I would ever want to do is inflate that annoying ego but between you and me, girls love a guy that can dance.”

“Oh do they?” He smirked curiously. “So, you’re saying I can dance?”

“Woah, hold up Fred Astaire, not yet,” she teased, gathering her golden waves into a ponytail to help ward off the Summer heat. “You get this right; all high society women are going to be lining up to dance with you.”

“Maybe so but it’s not my thing, Caroline.”

“Not your thing? Oh I get it, you’re more into crumping than waltz?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about but I’m game to try that at the coronation. I have a feeling that it might actually spice things up.”

“I may be taking my life into my hands but how about we try that step again? Then I’ll teach you how to crump.”

“Whatever you say but I think it’s best we keep this arrangement from Fraser, wouldn’t want him getting too jealous.”

Enzo yanked at her stray blonde wave, the constant ringing of her cell not only annoying her obviously. “I’m cutting you off after this drink, dreamy.”

“If it isn’t the best dancer on earth,” she drawled after connecting. Trust his arrogant ass to make that his name in her contacts. “Not sure what you need me for then.”

“We all have our talents, love,” he chuckled, his deep voice causing a few unwelcome flutters down below. “I need an urgent lesson though.”

“What? Now? Tonight?”

“Apparently my frame leaves a lot to be desired,” he said repeating her earlier critique. “And I can’t sleep until it’s rectified.”

“Well, it’s going to have to wait,” she hissed, her anger rising with each word. How dare he try and pull royal rank? “I’m actually busy.”

“You must be Fraser?” A voice enquired, interrupting their drink. Caroline’s head whipped around, not immediately recognizing the Prince in a baseball cap and dark jeans.

“Well, that’s just all levels of offensive,” Enzo growled. “I may be gay but know how to treat a woman right.”

“Ah, the best friend?” He asked, shaking his hand heartily. “Great to meet you mate, and couldn’t agree more about that idiot. He was never good enough for our Caroline.”

“Our Caroline?” She hissed, wanting to yell every insult in his direction for his sudden appearance and subsequent behavior. Enzo didn’t seem so upset, his long, brown eyelashes fluttering a little faster than usual.

“I told you, my frame isn’t what it should be,” he offered, sending Enzo another smile.

“And I told you I am busy,” she growled, through gritted teeth.

“She’s not busy,” Enzo shared, looking between the two. “I was just leaving, HRH.” Before she could argue, her best friend with his cute ass wiggling from side to side was gone. Traitor.

“Nice of him to be so formal,” Klaus offered, taking a seat at their table and gesturing towards the waitress. “Next round is on me.”

“But apparently your dance tuition was of the upmost urgency, brooding, bad dancer,” she huffed.

“Brooding, bad dancer?”

“Oh didn’t you know? That’s your name in my contacts,” she argued. “I don’t really appreciate your interfering.”

“I had a dance emergency,” he insisted.

“And what exactly was that?” Klaus looked at her sincerely before explaining.

“You’re going to be leaving me soon,” he explained, his blue eyes staring into hers earnestly. “And someone promised me some crumping lessons.”

“What? Tonight?”

“No time like the present,” he smiled, taking the drink from the waitress gratefully.

“Do they know you’re here? The coronation is in two weeks,” she whispered looking around the room. “Where is Ahmed?”

“You always liked him more than me, didn’t you?”

“Have you been drinking?” She hissed. Klaus didn’t respond just sent her a pair of his disarming dimples. There was no doubting the future King of England was drunk and in her presence. He’d been struggling since his brother’s death and sudden ascension to the throne that much was obvious, not that she blamed him. She needed to act fast.

“How about salsa instead? I know this great class.” She lied. In his current state it didn’t take much for her to convince him and they left the bar without anyone recognising him.

Ahmed appeared from the shadows as they walked down the abandoned street at the back of the establishment. Caroline was relieved, no doubt he’d insisted he keep his distance. “Take him home.”

Ahmed’s eyes were telling her he wanted that but the future King had other plans. “You promised.” Caroline wanted to refuse but she had to get him home before his family or the press noticed.

“Let’s go back to the Palace,” Ahmed nodded and led them to the waiting car. Klaus seemed pleased that she was sitting by his side and that was all that mattered.

“Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do. Nothing to lose. And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you.”

“Why do we always have to waltz? You promised me crumping then salsa and god knows what else,” Klaus accused his lips barely moving, holding her close while they waltzed around the Kensington Palace ballroom with all eyes on them.

“I’m saving you from a public relations disaster, you’ll thank me afterwards,” she grinned, her eyes settling on his. Once the formalities were through they both knew what they’d be doing.

It had been five years earlier when she’d been his dance tutor and now they were husband and wife. Her Royal Highness, Princess Niklaus of Wales in fact. Klaus had been equal parts adorable and insistent. She’d usually tell someone that indignant to get lost but unfortunately he had stolen her heart long before even if his dance moves still left a lot to be desired.

#you and me #misssophiachase #klaroline drabbles #25daysofklaroline #howeverlongittakes

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sound-tracker-flac · 7 years

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Bloodborne Soundtrack Review

Bloodborne’s soundtrack is not for everyone. The eerie sensation that perpetuates it often produces uncomfortable sounds, and for that reason it may put you off, at least before you gain the necessary...insight. Like the game itself, things are seldom as they seem. Underneath the screeching, disjointed notes is a majestic, diverse soundtrack unlike any other. Bloodborne’s soundtrack is another shining example of classical composition in videogame music. For those seeing a completely unspoiled experience, look away, because some of the boss themes may give away certain things. Otherwise, plunge yourself into the darkness.

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You know you’re not in for a good time when the track listing begins with a piece called “Omen.” The track begins with the boom of a concert bass drum, reminiscent of the beginning of the Demon’s Souls main theme. Unlike its predecessor, however, the piece follows with a slow, brooding cello, setting the overall dark background that permeates the soundtrack; in contrast to Motoi Sakuraba’s (桜庭統) grandiose use of brass in Dark Souls, lead composer Ryan Amon only uses brass to accentuate certain notes and to reach low ranges of the audio spectrum where strings could not.

That said, strings do take the forefront of Bloodborne, an appropriate choice considering the game’s pseudo-Victorian England setting. The bass strings advance to a steady march, and when the lone vocalist begins her somber note, you know you are once again subject to From Software’s twisted sense of beauty. “Omen” is very much a, ah...microcos, or some say microcosm of the entire soundtrack, demonstrating Ryan Amon’s emphasis on strings and vocals, with recurring disjointed escalating notes reminiscent of horror movies.

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Amon also sets himself apart from Sakuraba and Shunsuke Kida (木田俊介 ) of Demon’s Souls fame by introducing tempo shifts in several tracks. “The Night Unfurls” in particular is one of my favorite tracks. The vocalist starts slow and soft, but strings escalate the piece to a higher octave, leading the vocalist to a shrill note. “The Night Unfurls” has a clear intro, rise, apex, denouement, and end, unlike most looping tracks in the Souls series. Many of Bloodborne’s tracks are similar in this regard, making each piece a self-contained movement. The theme brightening at 1:10, the minor key at 1:27, and my favorite bit, the lead violinist’s chilling performance of the single F# con affetto (with emotion) at the 1:37 mark. That last one never fails to send chills down my spine.

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Bloodborne is yet another FROM SOFTWARE game chock-full of action-packed sequences, and its composers have continued the lineage of epic classical compositions that began with Demon’s Souls. “The Hunter” is a prime example, making great use of tempo shifts that match the boss’ transformations. This piece really stands out from the rest of Amon’s compositions for its use of brass. The heavy-handed brass combines with the strings’ and bass drum’s relentless pacing, making the encounter truly intimidating. The effect is further amplified around 1:45 when the tempo speeds up affrettando (in a rushing manner) and strings take center stage. At 1:55, the song shifts into a higher key and introduces even more levels into the piece; almost overwhelming, but in truth a beautifully controlled chaos. At 2:19 the chorus’ 5-note motif brings the song to a terrifying crescendo. “The Hunter” is undoubtedly one of the best tracks in recent videogame history, as its composition wonderfully complements the boss. The theme is a prime example of the soundtrack being an integral part of game design, showcasing the incredible attention to detail from both FROM SOFTWARE and Ryan Amon.

Art by Yoshioka (Haco) http://haco11.tumblr.com/

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The action tracks in Bloodborne weren’t simply filled with unending terror, thankfully, as it has its fair share of grandiosity as well. “Ebrietas, Daughter of the Cosmos” from Souls veteran Yuka Kitamura (北村友香) was perhaps the grandest of all. The slow tempo of the solemn Latin hymn and the steady pace of the drums feels very much like a procession march. As soon as it escalates at 0:32, however, the strings bring about a feeling of vastness, and the brass accompanies with a sensation of grandness. That strings, escalating ever higher, paint an image of a immense, galaxial place without bounds, whereas the brass depicts the awe of communing with something on a higher level. By 1:28, the tempo picks up again but contains a hint of sorrow; the minor key makes the theme sound like it came straight out of a tragic opera. The main chorus proceeds almost angelically near the beginning, but by 1:45 the theme grows increasingly desperate; the song becomes a holy song of praise and also a dirge at the same time. Tuplet notes at 2:23 and minor keys at 2:58 and 3:01 respectively deepen this sensation. At 3:12, the track reaches an apex on a major key, but soon falls and slows. The fermata (grand pause) for a full beat at 3:33 and half beat at 3:39 gives incredible strength to the emphatic final crescendo. “Ebrietas” is sublime because, despite being a boss theme, awe and tragedy have replaced terror. “Ebrietas” is awesome in the literal sense of the word.

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The final track that really elevated the soundtrack for me was Tsukasa Saitoh’s (斎藤司) “The First Hunter.” The slow strings performed a sad melody that reminds me of the classic “Adagio For Strings” by the late Samuel Barber. This piece was really strange to me because of its emotional depth; the boss itself has a whole backstory I completely missed (due to the dreaded chance-based encounters), so I initially did not understand the reason for the track’s dramatic performance. Upon seeing the encounter and one of the endings, however, I slowly saw why. “The First Hunter” is very much the “Gwyn, Lord of Cinder” of Bloodborne, depicting a similar idea of being reduced to a shadow of your former self while watching your world die slowly. I am ashamed that I don’t have more words for this beautiful piece, only to say that, if you can appreciate classical music in the very slightest, then you should listen to this theme.

By alcd on Pixiv https://www.pixiv.net/member.php?id=2334059

On the softer side of things, “Hunter’s Dream” and “Moonlit Melody” are more similar to Souls songs of old, and for good reason. FROM SOFTWARE has often put emphasis on a “home” location: The Nexus from Demon’s Souls, Firelink Shrine to a degree in Dark Souls, Majula in Dark Souls II, and now Hunter’s Dream in Bloodborne. Each of these locales is a rare, safe haven for the player character, a bulwark against the rest of the terrible worlds out to end you. Both “Hunter’s Dream” and “Moonlit Melody” only feature strings and a solo vocalist playing a simple, beautiful, memorable melody. These two tracks are very much in tune with the previous Souls home themes in that players will not tire of their soft, calming effects; they do not utilize the tempo shifts like other pieces in lieu of stability and familiarity, both essential traits of home themes. By including both stable and variable-tempo songs, Ryan Amon and co. introduce flexibility not only to the individual tracks, but also to the entire soundtrack itself.

This review only covered some of my favorite tracks, but some others deserve a listen as well. The timpani performance at last third of “Amygdala.” The Eerie strings opening of “Celestial Emissary.” And, of course, the titular “Bloodborne” in its full glory, completing the twisted journey that “Omen” began. I still stand by what I said in the beginning in that Bloodborne’s soundtrack is not for everyone, but if you have an interest in dark, grand orchestral compositions---something you’d listen to while reading Lovecraft---or simply that you have played Bloodborne, then I highly, highly recommend it.

The Old Hunters DLC Soundtrack Review will arrive soon.

#Bloodborne #Dark Souls #Soulsborne #SCEJ #Sony #Playstation #Soundtrack #VGM #OST #VGOST #horror #Lovecraft #review #soundtrackreview #music review #from software #video games

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rubykgrant · 7 years

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...I’m going to try and make myself feel better...

(Samurai Jack spoiler related stuff below)

first of all, this is just nonsense, don’t take it seriously

Jack still isn’t aging. He isn’t the “same” Jack that left, he has lived through decades in the future, and because of everything he did, everyone he met, he was able to come back to the past and change things. He’s almost like an anchor that keeps time from turning into a paradixical whirlpool that twists around on itself; if the future never happened, Jack could not have come back, but if Jack never came back Aku would not be defeated in the past and Jack would still be in the future, trying to come back to defeat Aku, which stops the future from happening... rather than let itself spiral out of control, the universe created the closest thing to balance it could; Jack as he is, with all his memories, must continue to exist. What he remembers of his life is all that keeps things together. He does not age. He could still be killed... and if that happened, perhaps everything would unravel. Perhaps not.

Jack lives his life as best he can, he’s used to feeling out of step with time and place. What he isn’t used to is how calming it is to be home. That is the strangest, most difficult thing to get used to; the simple comfort and happiness. He has spent such a long time missing his home, his family, his teachers... and now he misses all his friends who no longer exist. What helps him cope is talking about them. He tells their stories, his own story, as best he can. Sometimes he gets complaints, usually from the children in the village, that his stories are too sad, and he agrees, but he can’t change that. He is happy, however, that the children really took to calling him “Jack”. Sometimes others call him by a different name, and he doesn’t mind a bit because that is still him, but Jack feels the real. The name Jack reminds him; it happened, you aren’t crazy. His parents still use the same word they have always used for him; son. Despite his long life, being called that makes him feel younger, smaller. He loves it, and he loves them. He hasn’t been their son for such a long time.

Years pass. He watches the children grow up. He watches his loved ones grow old. It is not so terrible. He is just happy he can say good bye when they leave, because he didn’t get to say it when he left... when Aku flung into the future. Some people ask Jack how can he stand watching everybody he cares about leave... but he explains because he cared for them so much, he is content to remember them and hold them in his heart. Besides, the world is full of new friends to make and new people to care about. Some people ask if he is ever tired of living so long... but he explains he has all the time in the world to do anything he could possibly dream of. For a long time, Jack just stayed in his home. He had been torn from it during his childhood, and again when he had briefly returned. He wanted to just stay in one place as long as possible. Maybe 170 years is enough... he decides to at least travel through the rest of his country.

Jack sees so many things happen. Inventions, discoveries, art, and war... he sees that more often than he’d like. Jack can’t help but still want to rescue people, it is in his nature to be a hero, but he also knows what it would mean if he interferes too much. He also knows that “The Samurai Who Never Died” is just a fable now; anyone who actually knew who he was is long dead, and he is an obscurity to the world. To know who he was, and what he was, a person who didn’t age, would perhaps be too much for anyone to understand. He helps anyone he sees in danger, and sometimes he goes a little further to prevent a tragedy. He wouldn’t be Jack if he didn’t try to do what was right.

He explores the world, every cave, every forest, every ocean, every desert, everything. Not just once, but many times. Things always change if you give them enough time, and Jack has plenty of that. He sees so much beauty in the natural world, and also in the man-made one. Jack goes to the top of every skyscraper, crosses every bridge, travels through every tunnel, visits every library to read every book, gone to every musical concert, and has seen every play, every movie, every episode of every TV show and cartoon. He has loved it all.

There are also people, individuals, he has loved. He didn’t think he would, but he does. It is never the same, because they are always different, but it is always love. He always tells them he can’t stay with them forever, and some simply accept that. Others want to know why. He tells them, as best he can. Often, they don’t care he will out-live them; they still want to share some of their lives with him. He doesn’t know why or how, but they all seem to understand... Jack doesn’t think he deserves so much kindness, he feels like he is stealing something from them, time they could be spending with somebody else; somebody who won’t outlast them. They don’t feel the same. They know they have to “share him” with history, with time, that they can’t hold onto him forever, and although they hold him tightly, they eventually let him go. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. Jack expected he would hate himself, hate life, hate death, hate the world, hate EVERYTHING... but eventually he feels a sort of tenderness return when he thinks of who he has loved. He made them happy, and he can be happy knowing that.

Eventually, Jack does make himself known. It just seemed easier than trying to hide it. At first nobody believes him and thinks he’s crazy. He tells them to just watch and wait. After a few decades it is obvious he isn’t crazy and everyone believes him. They run tests, experiments. Jack is patient being a patient. After enough time passes, people settle down. He is famous again, like he was in the future, like he was in his home, and thankfully, nobody calls him a freak of nature or tries to kill him. There was a lot of that at first; people were afraid of him, and some wanted to become famous themselves for being the one to kill Samurai Jack. They have settled down though, mostly. Jack takes a few trips to secluded locations every few years, and when he returns the hype is renewed. Sometimes while he is gone, a lot of things happen. Changes occur without his noticing.

One day, Jack notices something; he recognizes the street he’s on. He hasn’t been to this country in years, and it has changed very much since his last visit, and yet it is... very familiar. It takes him a moment to realize he is back. He has survived all the way to the same day when he first came to the future. It isn’t exactly the same, but how could it be; Aku has never touched this place. He excitedly looks around and sees places he once new, as well as faces he once new. The feeling building in his heart, his chest, it is overwhelming. Joy seems too simple a word for what he feels, but that is just it; joy. The same Joy when he returned home. He is home again.

Jack finds them all. They are not the same as he knew them before, but as he gets to know each of them, the new versions of them that live in this Aku-free world, one thing is still the same; they are his friends. A few of them know who Jack is, they have heard the stories of the Samurai Who Never Died, but some have no idea. None know that he already knows them, and are often surprised that Jack just seems to know or understand certain things about them. Jack goes everywhere he had been again, and although he misses the nostalgia the future he knew once held, he knows it is better this way.

He wonders if he will find her, but he knows he won’t. If he did, it wouldn’t really be her at all. For her to be who she was, the Ashi he knew, Aku would have to exist. At least he did get to know her, even briefly. He knew she had been happy, at least a little. Ashi only exists in Jack’s memory, his heart and his mind, and he can somehow sense that as long as he lives and enjoys life, she will too. She is not a ghost haunting him, but a soul sharing his experiences. He misses her, but like with everyone he has lost, it is sort of a pleasant kind of missing...

He didn’t know that the woman he rescued was pregnant. In fact, her husband didn’t know either. Jack became friends with them both, and she told them a week after the rescue incident while they were all having lunch together. Jack also had no idea she was pregnant with septuplets. Some time later, invited by his friends to come visit their new children; seven daughters. Jack had no idea before, but once he sees them all together, he knows. The children look different, but that is because they have a different father, one that is not made of pure evil. This father loves them. They have different names too. Jack sees them grow up for a few years, he sends them gifts for their birthday; little necklaces and bracelets with ladybugs made of jewels, and books full of history and art. Jack is never sure which girl would have been the one he got to know so well, or which was the one he had killed first... he doesn’t want to know. This is a new world, a new time, a new life for all of them.

One day he wakes up and he feels it; he now lives in a future that he has never been to. The clock has ticked passed the point when Ashi took him back. Jack sees a gray hair in the mirror for the first time. He leaves because something finally happens that needs his direct interference, a war so terrible it needs to be stopped by a legendary warrior. Jack has let most of history go by without trying to alter things, but now he feels like he is no longer living as a guest in the world. He won’t be changing time, he will just be living in it. During this war, Jack meets new people he never knew before. Some are friends who become enemies, some are foes who become friends. He also meets someone who becomes something else to him. He wasn’t expecting it, but it happened so slowly, so easily, so simply. This time, he won’t outlast them for a century or more.

Jack is gone for a very long time, and when he returns the seven girls are mothers; some of them had twins, or triplets, or more. It seems it ran in the family. Jack says hello to each of their children, and eventually he says goodbye to the seven daughters. Somewhere inside him, somewhere similar to a place where he once made some terrible tea, Jack feels something like gratitude... now it isn’t just Ashi, but all of her sisters. They all got to be happy. Jack isn’t sure, but he thinks perhaps that when you die, your whole life really does flash before your eyes, and those who existed in two different futures had two different lives. He hopes that everyone who had to endure Aku’s wickedness, the cruelty, the sadness... he hopes that they also see this new life flash before them. The two becoming one.

Jack is old now at last. In his time since he finally started aging again, Jack has made himself a new family. He gives them the names of his friends and his teachers, he teaches them what he was taught, he watches them grow. He almost can’t believe how often he gets to say “I love you” and hears “I love you, too”. He has gotten to be the one to say “son”, and also “daughter”. His children have their own children, who are amazed to hear that Grandpa Jack was the Samurai Who Never Died. They tell him there are comic books and movies inspired by him. They like his version of the stories best though, even if they are a little sad. When Jack leaves for the last time, he sees his life, his very long life, pass before his eyes... not in a flash, but not slowly either. He sees it all begin when he was a little boy, he sees himself grown up and return home, he sees himself being thrown into a new time, and he sees himself surviving all the way through that time again. His life is finally over, and maybe it wasn’t perfect, but that is OK. Many things happened that he wished had gone differently, but nothing is perfect. Parts of his story were very sad, but he can’t change that. It is alright. He got a second chance, he got to come back after being gone for a very long time, and this time he got to make it all the way to the end. It wasn’t what he expected, but it was alright. He’s happy it all happened, and not it is over.

The samurai finally dies.

#samurai jack #spoilers #writing #stories #this turned into fan fiction #oops #fan fiction

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funnythingshere0-blog · 6 years

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Films by Women: Seven Movies to Watch in May

New Post has been published on http://funnythingshere.xyz/films-by-women-seven-movies-to-watch-in-may/

Films by Women: Seven Movies to Watch in May

The “52FilmsByWomen” hashtag isn’t a new invention, but in the last few years, and especially 2017, it’s gained increasingly urgent relevance. Created and disseminated by Women in Film, a nonprofit outlet established to “achieve parity and transform culture,” the tag translates into a simple pledge: Watch one movie directed by a woman each week for an entire year. Most years, completing that pledge would be a show of respect. Today, it’s a means of pushing back against rampant gender bias in the film industry.

To help those interested in putting their viewing habits to good use, Paste is highlighting some of May’s best new movies in theaters, as well as on home video, directed by women.

In Theaters:

The Gospel According to André Release Date: May 25, 2018 Director: Kate Novack Oh, to spend a day with legendary, luminously sincere fashion editor André Leon Talley. For most of us poor unfortunates, that day will never come. For Kate Novack, that day came in 2016, lasted the entire year, and provided the structure of her new film, The Gospel According to André, a portrait of Talley and his irresistible grandeur. Partway through, an acquaintance describes him as “a towering pine tree of a guy,” which doesn’t quite do justice to his folkloric image. The Gospel According to André is very much about Talley’s experiences, being his life, times and philosophies, and less about his experience, being his accomplishments as a journalist and fashion icon. Novack never shies away from opportunities to bask in his warm presence and the obvious joy he takes in his profession. He’s a man full of stories. At 68 years old, he’s practically made of them. And Novack could have focused the film on fashion alone. But late in the film she throws a gut punch in there, a hushed sequence from November 9th, as Talley watches the morning news in silence, then goes for a shave and a haircut. His eyes are liquid with words unspoken. He is cleaned up in keeping with his code, its own form of stoic defiance. We cut to him live-blogging the inauguration with Maureen Dowd, back to work but in somber context. Beauty and style retain meaning, and yet the film’s lingering message cares for neither. Talley rose above Jim Crow as a young man. Novack’s documentary leaves us with the sobering thought that decades later, still he must rise. —Andy Crump / Full Review

Summer 1993 Release Date: May 25, 2018 Director: Carla Simón It’s against this backdrop of knee-jerk ignorance that Carla Simón has set her feature debut, the autobiographical drama Summer 1993, a movie about childhood marinated in confusion born from death. Her surrogate is Frida (Laia Artigas), six years old and, as the film opens, in the process of being whisked from her home in Barcelona to live in the countryside with her uncle, Esteve (David Verdaguer), and her aunt, Marga (Bruna Cusí, Spain’s Sally Hawkins doppelgänger), after her mother passes away from AIDS. It’s a chaotic scene shot from Artigas’s perspective, the camera latched to her alone, other characters appearing only when they happen to wander into the frame. Simón’s focal point is Frida, and remains such throughout the movie. The adult experience is tangential to her own. Simón’s cinematographer, Santiago Racaj, treats his lens as a member of the cast, too, impartial to the action without ever feeling removed from it. That dynamic has a way of subtly enhancing the film’s realism: Because Racaj and Simón are so involved, and so invisible, in their work, we inevitably feel more present in the story. Frida’s uncertainties become our own. Summer 1993 does what movies do so well (and yet so rarely do), which is to let viewers see the world through the eyes of another. Sometimes, Simón pulls this off literally, by angling Racaj’s camera upward, capturing the world from Frida’s vantage point. Most times she pulls it off figuratively by hanging the film on Artigas’ wonderful performance. But throughout she completely absorbs the viewer in this portrait drawn from her memories, painting a picture of Spain caught up in AIDS era disinformation that’s also an evocation of childhood doubts. —Andy Crump / Full Review

The Rider Release Date: May 11, 2018 Director: Chloé Zhao A dream dissipating. The Rider begins with flashes of a horse, in close-up, so intimately observed we immediately abandon all assumptions of symbolism or pretention of deeper meaning. Chloé Zhao’s second film invites social commentary and political dissection—it’s about the obsolescence of a certain way of life; about the death of toxic masculinity as exigency of a frontiersman’s spirit of adventure; about the failure of rural America to embrace an obvious socioeconomic future—but there’s nothing clearer, or more devastating, in The Rider than the bond between cowboy and horse. Said cowboy, and aforementioned dreamer, is Brady Blackburn (Brady Jandreau), a young, lithe South Dakotan rodeo rider still recovering from a head injury during one of his eight-second stints, a blurry accident we re-watch with Brady via YouTube video on his phone. With a cast of non-professionals basically playing themselves, Zhao rarely pushes her actors to too riskily delve into melodrama, or anything, for that matter, that might make them uncomfortable. Instead, in Jandreau and his family, Zhao discovers a beautiful, intuitive sense of calm, which she reflects in long, mournful shots of Dakotan vistas, so unhurried and unhindered by the boundaries of the screen that each interstitial segment—often of Brady contemplating the world before him as he stands, his hip cocked, before a magnificent sunset—feels overwhelming. What cinematographer Joshua James Richards can do with a camera bears the weight of countless filmmakers in thrall to the pregnant possibility of this marvelous continent. Every frame of this film speaks of innumerable lives—passions and failures and tragedies and triumphs—unfolding unfathomably. —Dom Sinacola / Full Review

Revenge Release Date: May 11, 2018 Director: Coralie Fargeat In Coralie Fargeat’s Revenge, patience is a virtue of both storytelling and of vengeance. The film may have places to be, people to meet and blood to spill, but Fargeat takes her time all the same. She can afford the build up, in no small part because the build up is as pleasing as the payoff. “Pleasing” may seem at best an ignorant qualifier for a rape-revenge movie, but denying the pleasure of Revenge’s deliberate, exquisite filmmaking would mean denying Fargeat’s strength of vision, of that rare rape-revenge movie directed by a woman rather than a man. The innate ugliness of Revenge is crystallized by the shift in perspective. Not to knock I Spit on Your Grave, I Saw the Devil or The Virgin Spring, but seeing this particular niche through the eyes of Fargeat and her star, Matilda Lutz, gives the material a unique resonance without abandoning the genre’s underpinnings. Fargeat has more or less built Revenge to function as a feature-length chase sequence. This, along with the desert sands and sweltered aesthetic, will likely call to mind Mad Max: Fury Road for many. For others, the firmly French love of excessive gore places the story in the territory of movies like Inside, Haute Tension and Irreversible. Revenge could take place anywhere: Arizona, California—possibly Morocco, where the bulk of shooting took place. The elasticity of the film’s geography feels fitting. What happens to Lutz’s character can happen to any woman anywhere. —Andy Crump / Full Review

Let the Sunshine In Release Date: May 18, 2018 Director: Claire Denis Making love is better when you’re in love. For Isabelle (Juliette Binoche), a painter living in Paris, the former comes easily and the latter vexes her. She has no trouble meeting men, falling for them, sleeping with them. They practically stumble into her orbit, then into her embrace, and she into theirs. When your sex life is rich but your love life poor, life itself tends gradually to lose overarching meaning, and the search for meaning is the engine driving Claire Denis’ new film, Let the Sunshine In, an ostensible romantic comedy that’s light on both but rich with soulful ennui. Not to say that Denis and Binoche don’t make us laugh, mind you, but what they’re really after is considerably more complicated than the simple pleasures the genre has to offer. Let the Sunshine In is a sexy film, a free, loose, yet rigorously made film, and yes, it’s occasionally a funny film, but primarily it’s a painful film, that pain deriving from primal amorous cravings that unfailingly slip through Isabelle’s fingers like so much sand. The film strikes us as straightforward when boiled down to its synopsis, but Denis layers conflicting human longing upon its rom-com framework. The blend of artistry and genre is breezy and dense at the same time, a film worth enjoying for its surface charms and studied for its deeply personal reflections on intimacy. You may delight in its lively, buoyant filmmaking, but you’ll be awed by the breadth of its insight. —Andy Crump / Full Review

At Home:

Vazante Release Date: May 8, 2018 (Blu-ray) Director: Daniela Thomas Set in the mountains of Diamantina in the early 1800s, in a hamlet nestled in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais, Daniela Thomas’s Vazante hones in on history with an unfolding triptych that portrays the collective evils of colonization, slavery and patriarchal dominance. It’s a fundamentally ugly piece of art, which means craft is key to lending it palatability. Credit to Thomas, then, who renders man’s worst transgressions against man with stunning beauty. She shot Vazante in black and white, providing a monochrome account of the European rape of both Brazil’s natural splendor and the people for whom that splendor is a birthright. Antonio (Adriano Carvalho) is the reluctant overseer of a sizeable farm settled in Diamantina, a quiet, remote area characterized by hushed mountainside vistas, tranquil streams and rock-walled enclaves that represent their own ecosystems within the greater ecosystem of the surrounding bluffs. He has come home from journeys far and wide to find that his wife has died in childbirth, and their child with her, which sets him back to wandering through the mountains, as well as his own spiritual desolation. His farm is failing. His family is crippled. The land has promised him nothing and kept its promise. Then along comes Beatriz (Luana Nastas), his late wife’s niece, and he makes her his child bride. The land, under the guidance of a planter, begins to bear fruit, but the price of his isolation may yet prove too high, and besides that, no movie about slavery can ever really have a happy ending. Still, Vazante is a gorgeous, assured work, deliberately unhurried to such extent that a simple synopsis captures the whole circumference of the movie. Merely reading about it means knowing where it goes—but knowing isn’t the same as experiencing, and for all of its grimmer qualities, Vazante remains a movie worth the experience. —Andy Crump

Cargo Release Date: May 18, 2018 (Netflix) Directors: Yolanda Ramke, Ben Howling We’ve had enough takes on worldwide zombie apocalypses to last undead enthusiasts long through, well, a worldwide zombie apocalypse, and of those takes, few are inspired, a few more are watchable though workmanlike and most are dreck, whether in TV or movie form. Cargo, a collaborative directing effort between Yolanda Ramke and Ben Howling, falls somewhere in between “inspired” and “workmanlike,” which is to say it’s well worth seeking out on Netflix if you’ve a powerful need to watch twitching, walking corpses menace a family trying to survive while isolated in Australia’s Outback. Martin Freeman plays Andy, stubborn husband to his wife, Kay (Susie Porter), and loving dad to their daughter, Rosie; he’s piloting a houseboat to safer shores, or that’s the hope. Then Kay takes a zombie bite, forcing a change of plans and setting them down the path to ruin and tragedy.

For a certain kind of horror purist, Cargo denies the expectations of the genre. It’s not an especially scary movie. It is, however, a moody, atmospheric movie, replacing scares with a nearly overwhelming sense of sadness. If that’s not enough for you, then at least be sated by the excellent FX work. Here, zombies present as victims of debilitating illness: A waxen, carious fluid seeps from their eyes and mouths, which is suitably nauseating in the stead of workaday splatter. All the same, Cargo is never half as stomach-churning as it is simply devastating. —Andy Crump

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