#after half a lifetime of criticism for ridiculous things

[jakeperalta]

every day we inch closer to the inevitable release of taylor's "all the haters are throwing shade at my relationship but I don't care" music about matty and for that reason I live in fear

#i think she has a pretty warped sense of what is valid criticism and what is just senseless haters #after half a lifetime of criticism for ridiculous things #and i really think that's exactly what she's viewing all this as #like they all want to intrude with their opinions!! but it's just me and you baby!!! our love is stronger than the hate!!!!!! #and the fuck of it all is that because she is my favourite artist i will no doubt love the song on a surface level #whilst also feeling sick to my stomach on a genuine level #talking #taylor swift #ts discourse

[shewhotellsstories]

It’s crazy ironic how you go on and on about how “Penelope stans call Eloise a white feminist/criticise her/etc to bring up their fav (Penelope)” when literally all u do is criticise Penelope as a half baked attempt at defending Eloise.

Let me be clear - I am not a Penelope fan. I do not like her, and I fully agree with your criticisms of her. That said, it’s ridiculous how pretty much ur only method of responding to Eloise crit is by bringing up things Penelope has done. Like, they are two different people. Penelope’s bad behaviour does not in fact have any bearing on how Eloise should be examined.

And all this while constantly complaining about the same damn thing u urself are doing ??? Insane levels of hypocrisy honestly

You know, I went a good chunk of the summer without getting any obnoxious anon messages. But all good things must come to an end, and of course, the peace would end over Regency Era Perez Hilton. So let's get into this anon.

If you've read my blog you'll see that my issues with Penelope Featherington pre-date her falling out with Eloise. I've said I think she punches down quite a lot. I've said I find it wildly unethical that her stans call what she does "reporting" because reporters have ethics, editors, a responsibility to fact-check, and ways of being held accountable if/when we get something wrong. When you're hiding behind a pseudonym and printing whispers and rumors as fact, with no way of verifying if it's truth that's just not happening. Additionally, at the end of season one after the reveal I posted that I didn't think Penelope's hurt feelings over an unrequited crush were as serious as the threat facing Marina as an unmarried pregnant girl (google fallen women, they tend not to live long). I don't think that Colin deserved to be tricked, but given the alternatives of a lifetime of poverty or being married off to a creep twice your age who approaches an engagement the same way a person purchases a horse, I understand why the desperate 17-year-old pursued the boy her own age who she knew would at least treat her well. Not only that, but I said I found it gross that she was smiling in Marina's face while having exposed her secret in the cruelest way possible.

Here's another Eloise-free critique of Penelope, she's the worst kind of mean girl, the kind with a victim complex who wants to do nasty things while still being seen as an angel who can do no wrong. Do you want another criticism of Penelope that has nothing to do with Eloise? I think it's icky that she mocked Kate for being a spinster and called one of the few Indian women on this show a beast. I heard that was in the books too, but fun fact, Black and brown people being compared to or flat-out called animals has a racist history and present. Despite the "Penelope woman of the working class people" song and dance, I pointed out that she's trying to stay in Madame Delacroix’s good graces because she can blow the whistle on her.

I've said, it annoys me that people behave as if Penelope's crush being unrequited is a terrible hardship that justifies all her misdeeds, when Colin has never been cruel to her about romantic feelings he doesn't know are there. Contrary to Penelope stans version of history he hasn't tried to lead her on or hurt her, he treats her like a friend and nothing more. In Queen Charlotte, I said it was a dick move to needle the Queen about her lack of heirs during her granddaughter's funeral.

Now, you're saying that I only use Eloise to criticize Penelope, but not only is that untrue it's devoid of context. I only started comparing Eloise and Penelope because after their falling out Penelope's stans started saying that Eloise was a privileged white feminist as a reason that Penelope's actions weren't wrong and why she had no right to feel betrayed. Eloise's feminism is flawed, there's a lot she hasn't considered because she's been sheltered. ICYMI, I pointed out that she failed to understand that due to their class differences, Theo was in more danger than she was because he didn't have a rich family nor the protection that comes with her surname. I even agreed with Theo getting frustrated with her because due to class he is vulnerable in a way she is not. Furthermore, when Penelope stans say Eloise is an entitled white feminist it's not really about what Eloise has done, it's said in service of absolving Penelope of any wrongdoing. I've pointed out that it's said as if in comparison Penelope is Audre Lorde and hasn't been almost as privileged as Eloise up until her father died.

I've said it before and I'll say it again. Who acts like more of an entitled white feminist. The girl who is ignorant or the girl slut shaming other women and notably hurting women of color for her own selfish gain? Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony would be proud. Sure, it's despicable that they used racism to gain support for women's suffrage and threw Fredrick Douglas under the bus, still wanting voting rights is less selfish than wanting the high and financial gain that comes with running an anonymous burn book.

Call me a hypocrite if you want but I've got the receipts to show I started criticizing Penelope way before she fell out with Eloise. And frankly, it's hypocritical of you not to realize that my Eloise and Penelope comparisons are a response to the "Eloise crit" that are just thinly layered Penelope apologism and revisionist history.

Have the day you deserve anon.

#asked and answered #anonymous #anti penelope featherington #bridgerton #eloise bridgerton #white feminism

[idkjustletmescroll]

My thoughts on the Eternals SPOILERS

Two years late, I finally got around to watching Marvels “Eternals.” And I obviously have to write a ridiculously long tumblr post on what I thought about it.

I think something that made me appreciate it a lot more on a rewatch was realizing that this was never supposed to be a standard Marvel movie. My first watch had me complaining that more than half the film was spent getting the gang back together, instead of on cool action scenes. But “Eternals” isn’t an action movie at all, though its actions scenes are great. It’s a film about family.

Second: let’s discuss the characters, who are at the heart of this story.

I don’t agree that every character was completely underdeveloped. They all have very distinct personalities, for starters: Ajak, the mom of the group; Ikaris, the little bitch--sorry, I mean PERFECT SOLDIER--Sersi, the goody-two-shoes; Phastos, the smart one; Druig, the hangry one; Makkari, our fave speedster/hoarder; Sprite, the sarcastic one; Gilgamesh, the lovable giant; Thena, the badass-who-still-struggles-with-mental-health, the quiet but strong type; and Kingo, the funny one who loves his family and is SUPER extra, as befits a Bollywood star. HOWEVER, they definitely needed more than a 3-hour movie to develop them.

For example: Why was Ajak the Prime Eternal? Her power is healing, not fighting. While I liked that deviation from traditional superhero roles, why did Arishem choose HER instead of, say, Ikaris to remember their past lifetimes and lead the team? I love Ajak a lot more than Ikaris and she seemed to actually be a great leader. I just want to figure out Arishem’s motivation.

And speaking of Ikaris, WHY was he so devoted? The others got the whole “duty, no interfering with humans” spiel from Ajak, but they still have critical thinking skills. Why was Ikaris so ready to turn against the people he considered family and kill a leader he seemed to genuinely respect and love as a mother figure? Why did he leave Sersi? Why was everyone so happy to fight him at the end? Like, Ikaris is annoying as shit (this post is not Ikaris-stan-friendly, I’m sorry), but the movie’s whole thing is family??? But...they all wanted to kill the one guy who turns out to be a villain at the end? Thena already seemed a little annoyed with him in Babylon at the beginning of the movie, but how about a few glimpses of the others getting annoyed with his know-it-all-ism?

Sersi. Sersi, Sersi, Sersi. I wanted to love you so bad. My main problem with Sersi, after careful consideration of why i found her character annoying, really isn’t that she’s softer than say, Thena, or cries more than Makkari; it’s that it feels like she doesn’t really have...more than three emotions? Happy, confused, and sad. For example, when Ikarkis reveals that he’s killed Ajak, she kind of just cries until he goes away. She looks at him kind of sadly when he’s defeated and flies into the sun. How about some anger through those tears? Let her cry and stuff for her ex-husband of 500 years. But show me that she can have “uglier” moments, too. I did love that they showed her moving on with Dane, though. We love a gal who knows her worth. I also would’ve loved to see her standoffish from Ikaris when he comes back. The guy abandoned her with seemingly no explanation 500 years ago. Keep him several arms’ lengths away, girl.

No notes on Druig. I love him so much. I’ve been converted into a Barry Keoghan stan and I have no regrets.

Makkari I felt like was also pretty cool. We know she’s a speedster, a hoarder, the only person Druig can tolerate for more than thirty seconds at a time, is generally the cheery one, but also has her dark side, like (rightfully) trying AND ALMOST SUCCEEDING to kill Ikaris after he almost kills Druig. My only criticism is that the deleted scene of her talking to Sprite was cut! Like, that was so good! More on that in the Sprite section, but we get a bit of Makkari’s motivations for wanting to stop the Emergence.

Phastos was also cool. I feel like we got what we needed to know about him--the dangers of technology and how it’s used, how he regained his faith in humanity, etc.--but not really his relationship with the other Eternals. That’s actually something that could’ve been improved on in general. They all really feel like a family, but there’s not much in the way of their individual relationships (Makkari and Sprite, Phastos and Druig, Ikaris and Gilgamesh...)

Sprite’s thing about being in love with Ikaris was stupid and cringey. Her conflict about not being able to grow up and experience what she wants is a lot more interesting, but for some reason, they decided not to explore that! It should’ve been her ultimate motivation and set up from the start of the movie. Her deleted scene with Makkari has her talking about how Babylon was their only real home on this planet, again setting up how Sprite’s never really fit in here.

Gilgamesh didn’t last long (*Sob*), but we get a pretty good feel for who he is. But why didn’t they mention his death again apart from Thena? Like...Makkari and Phastos never reunited with him! Why didn’t we also get their reactions to his death as well as Ajak’s?

I LOVE THENA. No notes.

I also love Kingo. I love how they kind of went in a grey area with him, with him being devoted to Arishem and not agreeing with stopping the Emergence, but refusing to hurt his family the way Ikaris did. I thought that was an unusual and much-appreciated angle to take.

Ikaris and Sersi, obviously, had no chemistry, and while I agree that in present-day, they’re probably SUPPOSED to feel like an awkward, divorced couple, even in their Babylon love story they feel like...two actors who are being forced to pretend to be in love for a paycheck. Like, I’m sure Gemma and Richard are great actors individually but together it doesn’t work. Was I supposed to feel sad that they broke up and wonder why the hell Ikaris left? Nah. I cringed. I skipped over their dry sex scene. I looked for Druig eating fruit during their wedding.

Druig and Makkari though? THEY HAVE MY FUCKING HEART AND SOUL AND MIND AND BODY. I love them, I love them, I love them. I will always love them till the day I die.

I also loved how Thena and Gilgamesh’s relationship can be interpreted as ride-or-die besties or old-married-couple or a mix of both, rather than a romance being forced down your throat. Refreshing angle to take, once again.

This movie was refreshing for phase 4 because, unlike CERTAIN FILMS (*cough* thorloveandthunder *cough*), there’s dialogue outside of cheap comedy. A visually stunning movie. I didn’t think it was as bad as a lot of people said, but I also think it would’ve been soooo much better as a miniseries, with more time to explore each eternal.

#marvel #the eternals #ajak eternals #ikaris #sersi #thena #gilgamesh eternals #kingo #sprite #druig #makkari

[tnmeem]

The Legend Of Korra Was Better Than Avatar The Last Airbender

***Spoilers for the Legend of Korra … duh***

Regardless of whatever criticism anyone may have about The Legend Of Korra, it is one of my favourite shows. Sure, I will admit that this show has its flaws. But that’s more to do with the limitations placed on the creators rather than the creators themselves. We have seen, through Avatar The Last Airbender, that the writers of this show: Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko are incredibly talented. But even great talent struggles when it is only promised one season at a time to carry out their work.

Regardless, this show truly pulled at my heartstrings. I’m not going to lie, watching Korra interact with original Team Avatar made me cry. There is no love story in this world that makes me as emotional as the friendships in Team Avatar. Truly, this is a connection that transcends lifetimes and I wish I had more of it. Every time I watch Avatar: The Last Airbender and Legend of Korra, I am disappointed when it is finally over. I loved this world so much that I cannot bear to see the stories within it end. In fact, I’d be more than down for extending the series.

And now I’m about to say a very unpopular opinion … I preferred Legend of Korra to Avatar The Last Airbender. Yes, yes, I know! It’s practically sacrilegious for me to say something so ridiculous. But I think it’s important to note that I started this series as an adult. And while I love Avatar The Last Airbender, it was targeted to a demographic much younger than me. It had a tendency to censor the true horror of the world. But I think the biggest thing in Legend of Korra’s favour is that its main character is my favourite character. Aang was not my favourite character in Avatar: The Last Airbender. Zuko was my favourite character.

And I find that I am always inclined to prefer stories that make me feel most strongly for the protagonist. But honestly, during much of Avatar The Last Airbender, I was rooting for Zuko. No, I didn’t want him to capture the avatar but I wanted him to be happy. I never cried as much for any character as I did for Zuko. He held my heart and soul. And I didn’t get to see enough of him to be honest.

Character Development

Disclaimer: contrary to what the title may suggest, I’m not comparing the two shows. They are both phenomenal and while I can happily note my preference for one, I will not do them the disservice of promoting one by shitting on the other. That being said, Zuko’s character arc in Avatar The Last Airbender is one of the best story arcs in television history.

Originally, I watched half of the first episode and then ignored it for months. It was only after I watched a Trope Talks video that discussed Zuko’s character arc that I watched the entirety of the show. I never would have been interested in Avatar The Last Airbender if it had not been for Zuko.

Asami’s Relationship With Her Father

Asami Sato was originally set up to be the perfect villain. She was supposed to be a spy for her father. And her backstory and introduction to the story all but suggested that she was the villain. But this show is too queer to make Asami Sato, the queen herself, the bad guy. She proved herself to be a loyal friend and at her core, a good person. Asami gave up the only family she had left and her immense wealth and privilege to do the right thing. She chose to risk everything rather than help her own father commit atrocities. And regardless of how much she struggled, she persevered and set out to redeem her family name.

And this, to no one’s surprise, made her her father’s enemy. The man proved himself to be a self-serving coward, only loving his daughter so far as she agreed with him. And at the end of the first season, when he’s defeated and thrown in prison, that should be the end of their relationship right? No.

Legend of Korra proves itself to be grounded in reality. The truth is, no matter how horrible our parents are, the bonds created between parent and child can never be severed. As much as Asami tried to move on from his evil, she was still pulled back to him. This is something that anyone with toxic or abusive family members can relate to. Family is hard to let go of. And the sad truth is, as twisted as the relationship is, there is still love there.

As evil as Asami’s father was, he LOVED her and she loved him. And while he chose to be selfish when they first became enemies, he was unable to forsake his daughter completely. That’s the sad reality of a toxic parent. As horrible and evil as they can be, they love their children. And this love comes out in small moments that make it impossible for an abused child to let go. This small glimmer of love is the reason why so many abused children can never completely cut off their parents.

In fact, only someone as cold and cutthroat as me has the ability to go full no contact. And even in my coldness, I still dream of my family. I still recollect the good moments. I know the truth. There are no monsters in this world, only humans. And even when humans do evil things, they themselves are rarely evil. And it is when we see that glimmer of goodness in our abusers that it is crucial we cut them off.

Yes, you read that right. An abuser’s love is true but it is dangerous. They do not have the conscience needed to love without pain. I am convinced that Asami’s father would have hurt her again had she let him back. His death was his only chance at redemption. He was able to leave with one last testament of his love for his daughter before his own selfish desires sabotaged the relationship. This is a truth I know better than most as an abused child myself.

So while you may hate this arc, I think it’s one of the best ones in the show. It is a glimpse into our grey world. There is no true evil as there is always good hidden beneath that. And it is our responsibility as people to still protect ourselves despite the sympathy we feel for that glimmer of good.

Korra’s Journey Of Healing

While the Avatar universe has never held back on its exploration of trauma, I think this is the first time it’s truly been centre stage. And while there have been disabled characters before, this is the first time a main character has had a debilitating injury (shown on screen) which caused them to relearn how to walk.

With the Avatar’s deity level powers, it’s easy to forget they’re also human. It’s easy to think they’ll bounce back no matter what happens.

Season 4 disproves this notion. Korra being poisoned lands her in a wheelchair and it takes her six months to even walk with the help of bars. This is the point where her humanity is on display the most. She may be the Avatar but she is also fallible. And there are devastating consequences when her mortality is revealed. Not only does Korra lose her connection to the past avatars (the only people who understand what she is going through) but she also almost ends the avatar cycle (multiple times).

And this is the point. The way I see it, the Avatar cycle needs to be reset. The Avatar is not an invulnerable being as that would defeat the very purpose of there being an Avatar. Korra’s journey illustrates the humanity required to act as a bridge between spirits and humans. Korra shows that in order to resolve conflicts more effectively, one needs to fall.

What happens to Korra is horrifying but she is strong enough to face it. Even if she cannot walk, she is surrounded by people who love her and would die for her without question. Who understand that she is also a person who deserves a good life. This is an essential lesson for Korra, who has spent her whole life believing that being the Avatar is her only purpose. She is a product of Aang’s failures. She is stubborn and rash because when she was Aang, her peaceful temperament was a detriment to her defeating the Firelord. Aang’s non-violent inclinations almost cost him the war and it created a host of problems.

Aang choosing to take away bending rather than directly removing the dangers to his society created the villains Korra fought. Korra is the opposite of Aang because she is what was needed during the 100 year war. But unfortunately, Aang created the world he wanted to be a part of. He created a world that needed non-violence and calm.

Korra only learns this after falling multiple times. Her recklessness almost costs her whole world and so she is forced to tone it down. She has to learn how to take a step back and not enter every conflict, ready to beat the crap out of anyone who opposes her. Season 4 Korra is a vastly different person to season 1 Korra who was constantly issuing challenges and begging for a fight.

Now that’s good character development.

Read more

#the legend of korra #avatar the last airbender #korra #asami #michael dante dimartino #bryan konietzko #character development #character analysis #entertainment #review #tv show recommendations

[pamplemousseparadox]

Established Kyalin #5: Visiting Gaoling

Ooh lovely! Thank you for the request!

The estate stood tall before them, imposing yet familiar, stern, yet welcoming. Lin got out of the car, stretching her arms over her head. "Well, we're here," she said, casting a glance out over the grounds with a critical eye.

"Wow," Kya said, slamming the car door. "What a place."

"I spent summers here as a kid. Su and I both did. They tried their best to turn us both into little debutantes." Lin smirked. "It only really took with Su."

"Your sister does love her superfluous pageantry."

"It's all I can do to keep her from throwing a gala every time I'm in town. I barely escaped with my life, last time."

"I'll have to come with you next time."

Lin raised an eyebrow. "You can, if you want. It's very Su." She took their bags from the back seat, heading up towards the front door. The lock was platinum, and had been much longer than they'd been commercially available. Her mother's metalbending had been a trial for Poppy and Lao, even after she returned from the war.

"I didn't think you'd want me to go with you."

"It's been a year, I doubt we can keep it quiet much longer. Especially now that your family knows. And Korra. Frankly, I'd be surprised if Su didn't know already."

"She would have been on the first flight to Republic City."

Lin snorted. "You greatly overestimate Su's concern for my life. It more or less ends at Zaofu's city limits." The door opened into a grand hall, and it still smelled like cedar and earth. She inhaled it, setting the bags on the floor. "In fact, Su knows I'm using this place for a few weeks, she's bound to suspect something."

"Why would she suspect something? It's half yours."

"I don't take many vacations."

"Not yet, maybe," Kya said, locking the door behind them, wrapping her arms around Lin's neck. "I have my designs on you, Lin Beifong."

"Oh yeah? And what are those?"

"Taking time off more often, for one thing. Retirement, eventually."

Lin grimaced, twisting out of her grasp. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, I'm hardly old enough to be put out to pasture."

"Alright, alright," Kya relented. "Take me on a tour, then." She looked up at the rafters, and her eyes followed the sparkling dust particles as they drifted past the stained glass window. "It's a far cry from the Air Temples, that's for sure."

"The Beifongs weren't exactly known for their air nomadic ideologies," Lin replied with a smirk. "The first room up the stairs on the right was mine in the summers. It's been refurbished now, the whole place has. Su's doing, of course."

"Of course," Kya said, rolling her eyes. "I wouldn't expect anything less." She climbed the stairs, running her hands over the polished wood bannister.

At the landing, Lin bent the door open, revealing a beautifully redone room, with classy green paint and stained glass accents in the windows, sending beams of verdant light cresting across the bedspread. "I have to admit, sometimes Su has good taste, when she's not too busy being ostentatious."

Kya sat on the single bed, running her fingertips over the wrought iron headboard. "It's strange to imagine you here as a child."

"Why strange?"

"We were always intertwined as kids, all of us, but this was so separate from the rest of us."

"No different than Izumi," Lin replied. "Or when you'd go down to the Southern Water Tribe with your mother for festivals."

"I guess not."

"Anyway, it doesn't matter, does it? That was a lifetime ago. We're here now, together." Lin stepped back from the doorway, nodding across the corridor that looked out over the ground floor. "The one on the other end was Su's room."

"This place is enormous, I can barely wrap my head around it."

Lin shifted uncomfortably. "We don't have to stay, if you--"

"What? Don't be ridiculous, of course we're staying." Kya draped herself across the bed dramatically, lifting an eyebrow. "I want to see how the other half lives."

"What do you want to see?"

"The gardens."

"Alright." Lin led the way down into the spacious kitchen and out the back door, leading out into impeccably landscaped gardens, only gently overgrown. "Su left the gardens intact, mostly. They were my grandfather's favorite part of this place."

Kya sat at the edge of the fountain, bending water in and out of the stream. "Have you ever thought about living here?"

"I have. It's a lot of house for two people, though."

"Are you automatically including me in hypotheticals about your future?" Kya asked, shooting a jet of water at Lin.

"Yes," Lin replied, sidestepping the water. "You're just going to have to get over that."

"I'm over it."

A gentle breeze rustled through the willows, and Lin breathed deep. "It's good to be back here. It feels right. Being here with you feels right."

Kya shaded her eyes from the bright overhead sun, leaning back on the marble of the fountain. "Took us long enough, you know."

"Better late than never, isn't that what your mother said?"

"Something like that."

"You look like a lizard, sunning yourself like that." Lin crossed the granite paving stones, sitting next to Kya on the fountain. She lifted her chin, letting the sun drench her skin.

"Lizards don't wear clothes, Lin."

"I know what you're goading me into, and the answer is no."

Kya rested her chin on Lin's shoulder, her lips brushing against her neck. "You said no one else would be here the entire time, not even the gardeners."

"It's just us."

"Have some fun, Beifong."

Lin turned her head, kissing Kya. "You're a bad influence."

"Good. you need a bad influence."

Send me KyaLin requests from this post!

#lin beifong #kya ii #kyalin

[tim-hoe-wan]

Balenciaga definitely crossed the line. I think that these advertisements are inappropriate, and even disgusting. I hope that this backlash prevents the fashion houses from using children in their ads ever again. I feel like all of parties involved were fully aware of these documents. Thought I highly doubt that they predicted that it will reach the general public, and more importantly that the right-wings conspiracy theorists “journalists” will accuse them of being part of a paedophile gang and that they will be taken seriously by the Twitter / Instagram / Fashion folks. I think that they wanted to be that name of everyone’s lips as they always do tho they haven’t thought it through this time. Since they’re so out of touch they also had no idea that most people feel sensitive and want to protect kids.

Also It looks so ridiculous when their representatives claim that it wasn’t the idea of Demma and that all of these highers up at Balenciaga/Kering didn’t know about it so they’re suing the set designer of this ad, only to put a blame on someone (who isn’t even decisive or important). As if Balenciaga isn’t know for their provocations. Cowards. If they want to be soooo edgy they should bear the consequences. Especially after they’ve been showing in our throats for years how edgy, transgressive and provocative they’re. Which proves me once again that Demma and his collaborators lost a touch with reality a while ago. I’ve always thought that he’s just a desperate man who is selling hoodies, bags and jackets while making models look sick and drugged cause he wants to present some ass weird apocalyptic visions at his fashion shows to convince everyone that he’s that visionary artist. I feel like many influential celebs/people etc. put him on a pedestal without any criticism so they’re partially guilty in some sense in my eyes.

As for Lotta I knew that they will come for her one day. She’s too successful. Agree some of her Instagram posts are weird however half of shit which is posted on that thread about her which gained around 60k likes on Twitter is made up. Ex. the girl in a red dress with two babies is not her and Lotta actually doesn’t work for Balenciaga since 2019 as far as I know.

Also I think that Kering should have a better pr team. I think that it’s a bad sign that people are associating his name with a cruel head of a big devil corporation. I don’t claim that he isn’t one and I don’t feel sorry for him. However he fumbled a bag big time from a business point of view since people now who he’s.

That’s my thoughts :)

Fashion labels doing this shit always make me feel conflicted cause sometimes I want to react, but my friends who work in the industry have all talked about how labels and their creative directors totally love pulling the shock value card to give them attention. So reacting and giving the brand clout is definitely what they want you to do. The rationale is half a classic pr move, and half of it being their argument that artist is all about provocation and how much they can push it to the limit. With Demma, I feel he’s definitely at his wits end in how to get Balenciaga to keep up with other high fashion labels but at the same time doubles down when things become negative.

I know Balenciaga is considered within the world’s hottest brand right now, but I think what Demma is doing and what Alessandro did for Gucci in terms of overall impact will be pretty short lived. I can’t remember the last time these two brands put out something that I feel will become a classic and stay beyond the short lifetime of fashion in the influencer era. They’re no Tom Ford Gucci and John Galliano Dior for sure so the constant either shock value or teaming up with hypebeast brands always feel shallow and a last ditch attempt to do something iconic.

[akiiyamashun]

headcanon: Sky Finance clients and associated tests

The way Sky Finance operates is rather unique for a company in the financing segment; the fact that Akiyama charges no interest or asks for no collateral (as well as working with flexible repayment terms) is as famous as the tests that he frequently comes up with and assigns to his potential clients.

The tests are varied and applied on a person by person basis - for an outsider, they may all seem ridiculous or frivolous, and there are those who claim that the Sky Finance’s tests are just really ways for Akiyama to humiliate or provoke those who are already in a vulnerable situation (after all, those who show up to his door are generally the people who have been turned away from regular bank institutions and cannot get credit elsewhere).

These are, of course, baseless accusations - Akiyama is always seeking to see for himself what are the true motivations and dreams behind the requests he frequently gets at the office. Despite the fact of having a fortune to last for a few lifetimes and being able to fund his business without needing to profit from his regular loan transactions, he also separates his work life from charity - he donates to NGOs and organizations that may provide better lives for the population, but that is not the purpose of Sky Finance.

His company aims to make dreams come true - and for him, two things must be proved if one hopes to be financed by him: to have the power to make that dream a reality and to have the will to make it true as well. This is further elaborated on this substory from Y5, where Akiyama explains that these two are critical components that can always be verified when people come to him out of a genuine, sincere dream (rather than spite, revenge or other half-hearted reasons).

It is true, however, that Akiyama wishes to see his clients succeed - this is why he opened Sky Finance, and he genuinely roots for them. And this is also the reason that, for most tests, he tries not to be involved - he should not have a role in addition to a mere reviewer of the results, which is a non-written mandate of his tests that was breached in relation to Yasuko. 

With her, giving additional training was not the worst offense of his own code - but to have taken her on a date. No one visiting him for a loan should ever feel that the answer lies in abdicating of consent or feeling like they owe Akiyama any sort of affection or company - kissing a prospective client was wrong and extremely unprofessional, and he blames it all on the uncanny resemblance to someone from his past life and the fact her personality very much checked the right boxes in terms of his preferences.

It was not something that happened again - and while everything pointed towards a mutual attraction at the time things happened with Yasuko, it still did not make it right. It served to make Akiyama extra attentive and conscious of his position - he holds significant power, as the founder and president of Sky Finance, and he should never abuse it.

#iv. headcanon #I personally think Akiyama's tests are very entertaining #a few of them perhaps too harsh #but I like the way his mind works #the entire thing with Yasuko however #doesn't sit right with me #she was in a vulnerable position #and the way he acted with her #kind of contrasts with how he acts towards women at all other times

[euphoriic-dysphoria]

Blue hair - Bucky Barnes

Firs time posting something like this on Tumblr, I welcome constructive criticism, anything to make my writing better and easier to read. As long as you're not an ass about it.

Summary: you've wanted to dye your hair for sometime now, but you're too scared to do it all by yourself and it seems like a whole big thing now that you keep kinda wanna do with a friend. Yes I'm projecting😅😅

THERE MIGHT BE A PART TWO, NOT REALLY SURE YET.

Warnings ⚠️ : none, just extreme flustered bucky, whipped bucky, fluff ig yeah. Without further ado,

Bucky was falling for you. Hard. He fell more each and everyday, but somehow, you were either not into him at all, or painfully oblivious.

He said painfully, because everytime you expressed even the slightest discomfort, even if on the Quinjet you just couldn't fall asleep, bucky just had this inexplicable urge to suddenly bring you all the pillows in the world to make you happy and laugh and smile your beautiful smile.

Bucky wasn't stupid. He'd seen how smart you were on missions, and how fast you'd solved riddles to annoy Tony. You would never be oblivious to things like this. He'd long ago accepted that he was just gonna be a friend to you, of course that didn't stop him from daydreaming about you, or freezing up everytime you brushed your arm with his.

After all, some might assume what with bucky falling head over heels for you (literally, but that's a story for another time, including Sam and being at the beach) that you guys were probably best friends or at least pretty close. Nope. Bucky was embarrassed to say that you stole away all his old fashioned Brooklyn charm the minute you were in a 2 meter radius. He was so nervous he stumbled over his words and opted to just stay quiet and enjoy your presence.

Of course, you thought that bucky was just naturally shy, and well- akward. It never occurred to you that you were the cause of that shyness, but you didn't mind. You found it endearing and utterly adorable the way a pale pink would wash over his features, and brush across his nose.

Today, he was utterly relaxed, pink free, in his room in the Avengers tower, reading and trying to get the thought of you out of his mind. That was hard when abruptly a hard knock sounded at his door, and he was just about to turn around and ignore it, when he heard you mumbling and thinking outside. Supersoldierhearing

Closing his book, he straightened up and furrowed his brow, thinking as to why you'd be outside his room. He hoped everything was alright.

"buckkyyyyyyyy! Woa-hiya, how are YOU on this verrrry fine morning?" You stumbled into his room, bucky was so deep into his thoughts he wasn't aware he opened the door so suddenly, you almost fell in.

A whirlwind of chaotic energy, you recovered quickly and jumped about, before turning back to where bucky was frozen at his door.

You were only wearing a T shirt.

Now, it was 7 in the morning, and most of the avengers were well aware that you walked around in a t-shirt in the mornings, well, only Steve and Nat cause they were the only ones that woke up then. Normally, bucky wakes up earlier to do his run, and so by the time you wake up, he's showered and reading in his room.

Shaking his head a bit to uh, clear up his thoughts, he quietly trudged back to his bed, where you were sitting and excitedly bouncing up and down on.

You gave him a good morning half hug, as you were practically buzzing with energy.

Oh. That alone was more that enough to make Bucky's cheeks start to glow a dusty pink.

However, you were already setting up the boxes of hair dye on his night stand.

"ok. Alright buck, are you ready for maybe the most important decision of your lifetime?? Ahem-" Buckys eyes widened as you did a little drumroll, jiggling your thighs and bringing up your shirt a bit, but you were too absorbed in the boxes you didn't even notice.

In your best announcer voice, you looked at him and grinned. "Blue, or red?" Holding up each colour respectively.

Huh? Bucky was so focused on your smile he practically missed what you said, which would've been hella embarrassing.

"uh- I'm not- where is this coming from?" Bucky almost winced at his voice, coming out hoarse and deep.

With an angelic smile on your face a devil would fall for, you patiently explained the hair dye situation. You wanted to dye your hair. Check. You already bought the hair dye. Check. And last but not least, now you were waiting on one of your friends to reply to you about dying their hair too. This wasn't a demanding act, for you only hit up the people you knew also had wanted to dye their hair too.

"i-i uh whyreyaaskingme?" Oh god. Before Bucky had anytime to mentally smAcK himself for mumbling like that, you were already replying.

With a soft smile you said, "well of course I'm asking you buck, I don't think it's very nice to knock on people's doors at 7 in the morning unless they're awake, and Nat and Steve left together to get coffee. Plus, I trust your opinion, I'm sure you have an excellent sense of style." You teased, reminding him of the time he refused to wear a ridiculous suit that Tony had jokingly, not really, designed.

Buck sighed quietly, as you made your way to the bathroom to compare the colours. Ouch. It was never a nice feeling to know you had come to him out of necessity. Little did he know, you had earlier rushed Nat and Steve straight outta here, in attempts to build a closer bond with bucky. Those two just shared a smug little knowing look, before hightailing it right out of the tower.

Lost in his thoughts, bucky didn't realize you had stopped muttering to yourself about the hair colours.

It was quiet. Too quiet. In the bathroom, there was absolutely no sound.

Bucky frowned, making his way over, and knocked on the door.

"can-uh do you mind if I come in?" Bucky knocked.

The door creaked open, and Bucky peeked inside to find your dejected expression and little pouty lips as you sat on the edge of the sink counter, scrolling through your phone.

"hey- wh-whats wrong doll?" Aw jeez. Cut it out, he said firmly in his head. Stop stuttering, just talk to her like a normal person.

"you- wanna tell me why you're looking like a sad puppy down over here?" Bucky's breath hitches as he's in the middle of berating himself for comparing you to a puppy, when you finally look up and meet his eyes, droplets threatening to leak and break past your waterline.

Bucky's heart just about cracks at the sadness radiating off of you. As far as he knows, you of all people should never have to feel this sad. All nervousness forgotten, he quickly bends down and tilts your chin up, tenderly wiping away the tears that have now started their journey down your cheeks.

It's been 5 minutes of you and him, leaning against each other as he wipes away the quiet tears that keep replacing each other.

Finally, in a quiet voice, you explain. At first it was just the dissapointment of no one wanting to really dye their hair with you. But you understood. Really, it was early in the morning, and it was easy to see why people didn't wanna dye their hair right away, or at all even. You completely and totally respected them and their choices. But then, you thought, maybe they're annoyed at me. Maybe, they don't like me anymore. Maybe they wish I'd leave them alone. Maybe they'd be better off without me.

You were well aware you were spiralling, but after the negative thoughts started, it was hard to stop. You had anxiety of these types of things.

Countless times, Nat and Wanda had had to reassure your wanted presence and that the team did love you.

While you were explaining, Buckys arms slowly snaked around to embrace you, and put his chin on top of you head. He was sad, simply because you were.

But listening to your thought process made him realize that you were human too, and it opened his eyes to listen to your anxiousness, no matter how much it still hurt.

Uh oh. The feeling was coming back, tugging at bucky, eating him away, making him want to do anything to make you happier.

Tightening his arms around you one last time before releasing you, he blurted, "uh- I'll dye m-my hair."

Your eyes widened. A small smile slowly creeped onto your tear streaked face. "Yo-you'd do that f-for me?" You hiccuped.

Holy shit. Oh man. Bucky would've tattooed his face if it gave you that little glowing smile and hopeful face you were giving to him now.

"Oh doll. You wouldn't believe what I'd do for you."

PART TWO IS NOW UP

#bucky imagine #bucky fic #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes #the avengers #natasha romanov #steve rogers #james barnes #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky fluff #bucky angst #sweet #james buchanan bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #tony stark #tony stank #loki laufeyson

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt - Nie Mingjue's temper is already not great at the Phoenix hunt, so when they haul out men and women, some who look a great deal more like frightened peasants than cultivators he snaps, this is not how you treat POWs, it turns into a riot/battle and Jiang Cheng has had enough of kowtowing to the Jin and he and the new Jiang sect members and Wei Wuxian all rally to Nie Mingjue, does anyone else? Where to the Lan fall? Was nie mingjue's snap directly at jgy or more in general?

ao3

Nie Mingjue was, probably for the first time in his life, tired of fighting.

He’d fought in secret against the Wen sect for years, thanklessly defending the other sects that had refused to even acknowledge Wen Ruohan’s actions for years on end, and yet it had not prepared him for the brutality that was open warfare, for the difficulty of being the general of the entire Sunshot Campaign, for the burden of knowing that so many lives depended on him and him alone. He’d fought battle after battle, won tremendous victories, and yet the last hope had seemed out of reach – he’d eventually resorted to a desperate stratagem that had gone wrong – he had been tortured, mocked, his men killed – and at the moment of when all seemed lost, he was saved.

Saved…only to realize that it was Meng Yao being credited with it, with being their spy, and Lan Xichen had not told him.

He’d limped back to his camp, but they’d chased after him, and the news of what Meng Yao had done got out – not really a surprise; given the man’s ambitions, if someone else hadn’t spread it he would have done it himself – and in the end, politics had meant that there really hadn’t been much of a choice about swearing sworn brotherhood with the two of them, binding them together in life and death, not unless he wanted to risk another war.

Nie Mingjue very, very much did not want another war.

He had still not fully recovered from his injuries by the time the Jin sect had set up a celebration in the Nightless City, with Jin Guangshan using Nie Mingjue’s refusal to take on any of Wen Ruohan’s ridiculous trappings as an excuse to all but name himself Chief Cultivator in the man’s place. Nie Mingjue knew he should have protested then, but he was tired, his sect in need of rebuilding – they had been the ones bearing the brunt of the war, as they always had, and the only reason they were not the worst off of the Great Sects was because of what the Wens had done to the Cloud Recesses and the Lotus Pier – and he’d never really wanted personal advancement, anyway.

After what had happened with his father, he’d had a lifetime’s worth of being promoted.

Besides, as part and parcel of their self-granted promotion, the Jin sect had promised to take care of the worst of the clean-up, including dealing with the prisoners of war, and that had seemed fine, even a good result. After spending half his life doing things for other people, Nie Mingjue would return home to focus on that which matter most to him, and for once someone else would take the lead in caring for the rest of the world.

It wasn’t like the Jin sect couldn’t afford a few more mouths to feed. 

It wasn’t like their coffers were anywhere near empty, or that they needed to rebuild; it wasn’t as though they’d ever stopped trade with Qishan or actually led in a major battle or - he should stop thinking about it before he became angry. 

He’d been angry for so long. It would be nice to stop for a while.

Of course, it felt as though he’d barely settled in back at home before he was being summoned for yet another celebration hosted by the Jin sect, this time at Phoenix Mountain. A hunt, no less, and it was so pointedly designed as the sort of thing that the Nie sect favored that it would have been impossible to turn down the invitation. Not to mention, the invitation had oh-so-casually mentioned that Jin Guangyao, his sworn brother, would be the one in charge of setting up the hunt, meaning that any disruption or failure cause damage not only to his own reputation but to Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen’s, for having sworn with him.

Jin Guangshan would either have his day in the sun or a reason to tear everyone else down - a win-win situation for him, lose-lose for everyone else.

Fucking politics.

Still, there wasn’t anything for it. They had to go, so they went.

Nie Mingjue felt himself drifting back into that disconnected state that had allowed him to survive years of discussion conferences hosted by his father’s murderer. It was a strange sort of state, that allowed him to do the things he had to do to support his sect while feeling as though the world was separated from him by a window through which he watched everything happen. Anything that occurred beyond that window – all sounds and sights and even emotional reactions – was dulled or even muted; he could look Wen Ruohan right in the eye and think to himself of how much he longed to slaughter the man where he stood for his crimes, look at Jiang Fengmian smiling quite sincerely at Wen Ruohan and Lan Qiren bowing to him as if he was a man worthy of respect, as if they weren’t hypocrites that took Wen Ruohan’s money in trade and said apologetically that there wasn’t anything anyone could prove about Nie Mingjue’s father’s death, and yet, no matter how much he hated them all, his body would do nothing. 

He would drink tea, and nod, and he would not breach etiquette, he would not bring war down on his sect’s head, he would do nothing.

Sitting in a place of honor at Phoenix Mountain felt much the same: yet another burden to bear, a torment that he could only hope passed quickly.

(It wasn’t healthy, but then again, what was? His entire life was grist for the mill that was his sect’s well-being, shortened by excessive cultivation and stress and endless rage, and knowing it didn’t change anything.)

He saw in the corner of his eye the way his little brother’s eyes flickered to him and then frown – he’d never liked it when Nie Mingjue went quiet and passive, knowing how alien the feeling was to him, knowing through fellow-feeling what it felt like, though perhaps he was wondering why the state had come upon him now again when Wen Ruohan was already dead and gone, even though it had never really just been about Wen Ruohan. 

Perhaps because of that fellow-feeling, Nie Huaisang found a conversational interlude hat allowed him to slide over a little closer than politeness dictated, casually putting a hand on Nie Mingjue’s arm as if to beg for something. He knew that Nie Mingjue took comfort in the touch, in the reminder that with his saber at his side and his brother within arms’ reach, Nie Mingjue felt as thought he had everything he valued most in this rotten world close enough that he could try to protect it.

And then the Jin sect – using Jin Guangyao as their mouthpiece, though whether it was because of his skillful silver tongue or simply because they didn’t think he was worth anything more than that, only he would know – announced that they would kick off the hunt with some entertainment.

Nie Mingjue lifted his cup of tea to his lips, feeling pained, and his eyes briefly met with Lan Qiren’s across the hall, no longer in the place of the sect leader but slightly behind, his expression making clear that the same thought was on both their minds – anything but the prostitutes again.

(Surely Jin Guangyao had a bit more self-respect than that…?)

When a bunch of people in chains were marched out, Nie Mingjue had only enough presence of mind to be briefly relieved that the presence of mixed genders meant that they were probably not prostitutes – Lanling Jin abided by rules relating to birth gender and sexuality that seemed nearly as strict as the rules they were always criticizing Gusu Lan over, and according to them no one ever switched or was misaligned or deviated at all, which frankly seemed more than a little bizarre and unbelievable – and then uncomfortable because, well, they were in chains. Weren’t they supposed to be done with war?

And then Jin Guangyao started announcing the rules of some sort of ridiculous archery contest that the younger generation would engage in, and for a moment that seemed almost a relief as well – as a sect leader, Nie Mingjue was excluded from the younger generation despite being only a few years older than the rest of them, and of course there was no point in expecting his brother to participate in any competition of martial skill, and so for a moment it seemed as though this could be another part of this torturous endless experience that he could just tune out.

Indeed, that he was obligated to tune out. No matter how idiotic it was, whatever it was, whatever he thought about it (and he wouldn’t like it, he knew he wouldn’t like it, he’d never liked anything Wen Ruohan – no, that Jin Guangshan, insofar as there was that much of a difference – he’d never liked anything Jin Guangshan had set up in nearly ten years of working together, and odds were good that he wouldn’t like this), Nie Mingjue still had to think first of his sect and the consequences of making a fuss, and that meant he didn’t. He didn’t want a war, and so he had to be polite, restrained, quiet, no matter what he thought.

It wasn’t that hard to simply pull back even further. Nie Mingjue had been suppressing righteousness in favor of etiquette at these horrible conferences for such a long time that it came naturally to him, the way all bad habits did.

Only this time he’d brought Nie Huaisang with him, which he’d always resisted before, and his brother’s hand tightened on his arm to the point of pain.

Nie Mingjue’s first thought, stupidly enough, was to be pleased by the discovery that Nie Huaisang actually had some arm muscle underneath all those prissy frills he favored. His second was concern that Nie Huaisang had suddenly taken ill – with admittedly a bit of hopefulness that perhaps it would be something they could use as an excuse to leave early, as long as it wasn’t that serious – but when he turned to look at him his brother didn’t seem sick.

He seemed – angry?

Not Huaisang, Nie Mingjue thought, heart abruptly seized with an ancient fear. He knew perfectly well what he’d gotten himself into when it came to the saber spirits, had accepted years ago that he would die young, die early, die horribly and alone with nothing but his rage, but that was not going to be Nie Huaisang’s fate, not if he had anything to say about it. 

The fear curdled in his chest, and it felt as though a crack appeared on the window that shielded him from all sensation, all pain and desperation forced far away.

No one was talking, other than Jin Guangyao droning on and on about whatever the new entertainment was – Nie Mingjue had stopped paying attention long ago – and so he couldn’t ask Nie Huaisang what was wrong, but he looked at him and furrowed his brow, trying to convey the question silence.

Nie Huaisang caught the glance and understood, and his mouth moved, shaping silent sounds – it’s an execution, they’re going to kill them –

What?

Baxia, lying by his side as she always did during these meetings, shifted a little, her rage nudging against Nie Mingjue’s mind as it always did – sometimes he thought she hated these meetings as much as he did, other times he was sure of it – and the crack in the window got a little wider, let in a little more light and color and sound, and Nie Mingjue found a thread of willpower to force himself to listen to what the entertainment Jin Guangyao was proposing actually was.

He replayed the words in his mind, turned to look at the people in chains – Wen sect, apparently, and though he couldn’t tell on sight whether they were civilians or cultivators, that didn’t matter. Not even criminals were executed like this, by standing at a distance and waiting to die, not even able to hope for an expert aiming to kill quickly and cleanly, but through a misplaced arrow that could strike them anywhere, cause them a lingering and painful death…this was supposed to be a game?

This was meant to be their entertainment?

The window between Nie Mingjue and the world shattered.

And suddenly all he felt was rage.

“What,” Nie Mingjue said, even as Jin Zixuan got up with a set expression on his face to accept a bow from his servant, “are you doing?”

Jin Zixuan paused, looking puzzled – and no surprise, since Nie Mingjue hadn’t said anything beyond the most mundane greetings when he first arrived. “Sect Leader Nie..?”

Nie Mingjue rose to his feet, his brother’s hand falling off of his arm as if he’d shaken him off like a dog. “What are you doing?” he demanded, louder this time. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Da-ge –” Jin Guangyao said, an obvious hint, a reminder of their relationship – Nie Mingjue was the one bound by it, the older brother responsible for setting a good example, and for all that Jin Guangyao was supposed to listen to him and follow his lead Nie Mingjue had never seen a hint that he’d ever planned to do so – but Nie Mingjue didn’t listen to him.

He was angry.

It felt good to be angry – a clean anger, a righteous anger, anger at injustice being perpetrated right before his eyes.

(Something so poisonous as rage shouldn’t feel this good.)

“This is an abomination,” he said, a touch of the battlefield in his voice so that it would be audible throughout the hall, would spread far and wide for all to hear. “Those are people you’re putting on the line.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Jin Zixun, Jin Guangshan’s nephew, broke it with an abrupt laugh. “Sect Leader Nie,” he said, pretending to smile, “surely you don’t think so little of us to suggest that my cousin would miss –”

“I don’t care even if he does strike true,” Nie Mingjue snapped. “You do not play with the lives of men.”

“Hardly men,” a minor sect leader, closely affiliated with the Jin sect, said. Sect Leader Qin, if Nie Mingjue placed him right. “Perhaps you did not hear, Chifeng-zun –” It was always his title they used when they wanted to avoid calling him sect leader, when they were trying to make a point about how young and angry and foolish they thought he was. “– but those are Wen-dogs.”

“I don’t care who or what they are,” Nie Mingjue shouted, and now he had fallen back into his body, back into the battlefield, because this was a battlefield; it was only that he had allowed himself – through tiredness or shock or a desire for peace – to forget it for a moment. “Is this not a celebration of peace, the end of war? If they are criminals, sentence them; if they are condemned, execute them with a sword. Even a rabid beast deserves to be put down cleanly, not to be used as target practice by children for the entertainment of others!”

There was movement in the crowd, multiple people shifting from one side to the other, the audience abruptly uncomfortable when faced not only with a gory spectacle but their own complicity in it.

“Sect Leader Nie, calm yourself,” Jin Guangshan said. His voice was stern, irritatingly condescending – as if he thought that styling himself as Chief Cultivator gave him the right to act as if he were Nie Mingjue’s father. “You go too far for proper etiquette; will you not give any face to me, as your host? Naturally, if you have a complaint, I will hear it –”

“I don’t recall the moment I yielded to your authority in matters of ethics, Sect Leader Jin,” Nie Mingjue snapped. “Please, feel free to remind me – the last I recall it, you were the one begging me for assistance.”

“Sect Leader Nie!” Jin Guangshan shouted, rising to his feet with his face starting to purple.

Nie Mingjue saw the furious glance he sent at a frantic Jin Guangyao – control him already! – and it makes his own rage surge even higher. It was not that he didn’t know that his sworn brother was being used as leverage against him, but to have it shoved right into his face like that, to think that they thought that etiquette and brotherhood would be sufficient to make him complaisant – to allow Jin Guangyao to run roughshod over his morality – to think that it had nearly worked –

“Sect Leaders, please.” That was Lan Xichen, standing up as well, his hands outstretched. “Is this not meant to be a celebration of peace?”

For a moment, Nie Mingjue thought he was standing up for his sake, supporting him in decrying what was happening in front of them – something he despised as much as Nie Mingjue did, that much was obvious from his stance – but then his eyes flicked from Nie Mingjue to Jin Guangyao as well, silently beseeching Nie Mingjue to remember how his actions could hurt Jin Guangyao’s standing, and Nie Mingjue felt cold.

So much for brotherhood, it seemed. How much was he supposed to bear on behalf of Jin Guangyao without receiving anything in return?

He turned his face away.

If the Nie sect had to make this stand alone, so be it. Even if it meant war, war against the rest of the cultivation world, war that would be ruinous to his sect...

There was no choice. The Nie sect stood for refusing to tolerate evil; to do any less would be to throw off the traditions of his ancestors more wholly than Nie Huaisang’s refusal to train the saber had ever been. Even on a personal level, he had long criticized others who stood quiet when evil was happening, and he  would not let himself become the hypocrite that so many others had been. 

Nie Mingjue had never before willingly backed away from doing the right thing, the righteous thing, simply because it was hard to do – he would not start now.

“It seems strange that a celebration of peace would begin with death.” That was Jiang Cheng standing up as well, the fourth of the Great Sects. His sister had once been engaged to Jin Zixuan, and she had been invited to the hunt as Madame Jin’s special guest – popular thought had it that the Jin sect would snap her up soon enough, allying with the last remaining sect, and leaving anyone who opposed them to stand alone. But even if that was the plan, it hadn’t happened yet, and Jiang Cheng was putting his voice on Nie Mingjue’s side – Nie Mingjue would have to find a way to repay him for his support later. “Weren’t the Wen sect supposed to be resettled somewhere peaceful? Or was the news I received incorrect?”

“The innocent branch members and civilians were of course resettled,” Jin Guangyao said, and his smile was strained – or was it? Was it actual concern, or some sort of show? Nie Mingjue could never tell with him, not now that he knew how easily the snake changed its skin. “These however are war criminals, sentenced to execution in the manner of our choosing. I hope you all understand: their deaths are in no way comparable to their crimes –”

You would know, having participated in so many of them, Nie Mingjue thought, and levelled a glare at his youngest sworn brother to remind him of that fact. It briefly interrupted the smooth flow of words, making them catch in Jin Guangyao’s throat; at least he had that much shame.

“Can I see?” Nie Huaisang asked in the brief interval, his high voice just as carrying as Nie Mingjue’s shouting – all those music and singing lessons had clearly been worth something.

“See what?” Jin Zixun sneered, stepping forward – and interesting that it was him that did so, while Jin Zixuan, the heir, remained still and silent. His expression was frosty, but he hadn’t yet spoken up in his own father’s defense; hardly filial, but given such a father it was difficult to see what else he could do. “See their crimes? Do you want a list, or for us to drag out their victims to testify? Is this how little your Nie sect thinks of our Jin sect?”

A strong effort on Jin Zixun’s part – it put the burden on them to prove that these were not evildoers and criminals who deserved what was coming to them, made the issue their rudeness and lack of etiquette, made it seem as if they were the ones looking down on everyone.

But for all that Nie Mingjue despaired of Nie Huaisang’s skill at arms, he had never doubted his skill with words.

“You misunderstand me,” Nie Huaisang laughed nervously, hiding his face behind his fan in a gesture of shyness – he made it look as though he were being bullied by Jin Zixun, rather than debating him. “I just meant, well, they’re criminals, right? They must be truly impressive cultivators to fight against the brave soldiers of our Sunshot Campaign…could we see their strength?”

Nie Mingjue knew a cue when he heard one. “Such strength must be considerable to deserve such a fate,” he said scornfully. “Even Wen Ruohan, who killed hundreds, was merely cut down, rather than tormented in the same manner he tortured so many of our cultivators…Or do you think to emulate him in this manner as well?”

“How dare you?!” Jin Guangshan was florid with rage – as if rage would ever stop a Nie. “You come to my home and accuse me with no basis –”

“I do accuse you!” Nie Mingjue shouted, letting his voice trample down Jin Guangshan’s. “But by your own acts you are condemned, by your own callousness and indifference. So much Nie blood was shed to stop Wen Ruohan from running rampant over us all – I would die rather than have spent that blood to buy us nothing more than the same dominion in a different color!”

And then everyone was talking at once, shouting, yelling, and Nie Mingjue took the opportunity to turn on his heel and stride over to Lan Xichen, standing there looking lost. Lan Wangji was beside him, only a step behind, and he caught Nie Mingjue’s eyes as he came over and nodded – he, at least, was with Nie Mingjue in this, and his support gave Nie Mingjue more confidence in what he was about to do. What he had to do.

“Will you abide by your Lan sect’s values and stand with me in this?” he asked Lan Xichen in a low, clipped tone. “Or was my oath of brotherhood only worth the benefits it could get for Meng Yao?”

“Da-ge!” Lan Xichen exclaimed, looking horrified. “Don’t think that, please. Of course I stand with you in this – what they were planning for the Wen sect members goes beyond bad taste and into the horrific.”

He hadn’t meant it the way Nie Mingjue had taken it, then. It must have only been Jin Guangyao’s pleading looks that had led him to take a stand the wrong way, seeking peace and friendship over justice.

“One should not look away from righteousness simply because it would be easier,” Lan Wangji added smoothly, sounding almost as though he were agreeing with his brother and not subtly scolding him. He saluted Nie Mingjue. “You have our full support, regardless of who is on the other side.”

Nie Mingjue continued to look at Lan Xichen who hesitated – no doubt thinking of the tough position they’d just put Jin Guangyao into – but in the end he nodded.

That was fine. Okay, no, it wasn’t fine, but right now he needed Lan Xichen’s support, regardless of his level of enthusiasm; the rest could be dealt with later.

He turned again and went to Jiang Cheng – Wei Wuxian was there as well, having appeared at some point, and he was vociferously yelling at some minor sect leaders. In Nie Mingjue’s favor, at least.

“Sect Leader Nie,” Wei Wuxian said, turning to him before Nie Mingjue could say anything to Jiang Cheng – not that he really need to confirm his support, given the public display from earlier, but it was only polite to come convey his thanks. “There’s something else you should know. I’ve heard some things about the innocent members Wen sect that were supposedly ‘resettled’ – and what’s been happening to them…”

Nie Mingjue glanced at Jin Guangshan, still shouting, and did a quick calculation. “Take Lan Wangji and go check it out at once,” he ordered. “They were supposed to be resettled by the Qiongqi Path. If Sect Leader Jin has been treating these ones so cruelly as this…I’m willing to believe anything right now. But whatever it is, make sure it’s both of you that see it with your own eyes, to make it harder to doubt your words.”

Wei Wuxian saluted him and headed towards Lan Wangji without even seeking approval from his sect leader. Nie Mingjue abruptly felt awkward and looked at Jiang Cheng, but the other man nodded his agreement before he could apologize for commandeering Wei Wuxian as if the other man was still his subordinate.

“At least he listens to you,” Jiang Cheng said, a rueful smile on this face. “Can I convince you to talk some sense into him when all this is done..? I must admit I wasn’t expecting another war so soon.”

“I had hoped we wouldn’t see one for another generation,” Nie Mingjue admitted. “I still hope we can avoid it – it depends on how the smaller sects fall out, and how determined the Jin sect is to dominate the rest, rather than willing to accept equality. But no matter how it goes, we can’t turn our faces away from injustice.”

“Agreed,” Jiang Cheng said with a sigh. “I think we have the better of the argument, and hopefully it sways the rest of them. But have you considered what happens if we win?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sect Leader Jin has been setting himself up as Chief Cultivator. After something like this, even if there’s no actual fighting, that’ll be impossible. You need respect to lead. So who will it be?”

Nie Mingjue experienced a brief moment of horror at the thought of having to take it himself – but no. It was a reasonable solution, of course, but it would also taint the whole thing. It would make his decision to stand up into a tawdry political play, designed to increase his power, rather than a genuine outburst of offended principle.

He might have proposed Lan Xichen as a compromise – he would have, even a shichen earlier. But after that display of weakness from earlier, however brief, he feared that it would somehow end up with Jin Guangyao (and Jin Guangshan behind him) pulling the strings from behind the scenes, using Lan virtue as a cover for their iniquity…no, that wouldn’t do at all.

The only other option was –

Well.

Nie Mingjue had thought to himself that he needed to do something to pay Jiang Cheng back for his support earlier, hadn’t he?

(And at worst, he’d owe him yet another favor.)

Nie Mingjue put his hand on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “You have my full support,” he said solemnly, and ignored the sudden look of panic on Jiang Cheng’s face. “Think it over before you say no.”

Being Chief Cultivator would do more to restore the Jiang sect to prosperity than anything else Jiang Cheng might do, and he’d put that together himself sooner or later even if the idea of that much responsibility had to be fairly terrible. But before they could decide things like that, they needed to win.

One more fight.

He could do that much.

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #lan xichen #jin guangshan #lan wangji #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #my fic #my fics #roseunspindle #spectacle

[tuber-culosis]

I've been reading through a lot of radfem blogs and posts lately. and gotta say, i'm leaning a lot towards radical feminism. And im definitely gender critical.

but one topic I want to talk about in particular is the criticism of Islam.

Which I feel is totally valid considering the current state of mainstream islam and Muslims.

Mainstream Islam (is what you see on all social media, seemingly practised by a lot of Muslims) IS sexist. And homophobic. There's no use denying it, neither do I think I'm a bad Muslim for not supposedly defending my own religion. You have to recognise the flaws in your own system to improve and progress.

Then arises the question why am I still Muslim then/ why do I still practise Islam? If I recognise the way it is practised is sexist and homophobic, which are things I'm against?

The difference lies in my belief that "mainstream Islam" is much different from the root of Islam.

Many (read: a LOT, not all) modern Muslims have been influenced by ultra conservative movements that want to return Islam to the way they believe was practised during the time of the Prophet (pbuh), ie; some centuries back. This is propagated by the ideas of Salafism and Wahhabism that frankly, prevent progress, reform or any sort of growth in Muslim communities.

I personally have witnessed this in my own country, India, where women are increasingly wearing the hijab and even full body covering purdahs, not talking to the opposite gender, men not looking a woman other than their wives in the eye, etc compared to when my mother was a child, when almost all Muslim women dressed in normal comfortable clothes and there were no much gender segregations. (Gender segregation still existed to a certain degree due to conservative Indian culture ofc)

This radicalisation led to the development of ultra conservative Muslims who enforce sexist, homophobic and separatist policies in the name of God.

They claim to want to return to "true Islam" but they add so many unnecessary rules and regulations you have to follow in order to be a "true Muslim" that are almost so impossible to follow I can vouch I have unconciously broken like 50 of them in one day maybe. These "laws" are derived from:

1. The hadith

2. Arab culture

3. Poor translation of the Quran to fit these radical ideals.

Explaining each of these in a little more detail,

1. A lot of practising Muslims might come at me for this one, but I feel that considering the hadith to be a holy source of guidance and believing everything in the Hadith when there are so many contradictions and logical fallacies, is foolish.

For those who have no clue what the hadith is, Islam basically has the Qur'an, which is, as we believe, a holy book revealed by God to the Prophet (pbuh), which acts as divine guidance on how to live life as a good person. It has rules, suggestions, and guidance to take desicions on a lot of everyday matters we face. It was a godsend (hehe pun fully intended) to women, who weren't even allowed to own property back then. Muslims believe that the Quran is guaranteed againt corruption by God, as revealed in one of the verses. Therefore, to a believer, it is THE book to consult, and the verses will never change, no matter how many years pass. There's actually a really interesting way the Quran is coded, so people can know if it has been tampered with or not, if anyone is interested. But the bottom line is, for a Muslim, the verses of Quran cannot be challenged. There are various INTERPRETATIONS of said verses, but the core Arabic text is the same.

Now there is a secondary source of guidance in the form of Hadith, which is literature that claims to record things the Prophet (pbuh) has said in his lifetime. The problem I find, along with other hadith critics, is that it was compiled much later after the death of the Prophet. Muslims argue that these hadiths were passed down in a proper recorded chain of transmitters that can assure the message hasn't been altered or tampered with. The problem is, that the standard used then was just how reliable was a person's memory and how trustworthy they were, and they did not actually judge the actual content of the hadith. So even if a hadith hypothetically said "Kill all the disbelievers", (which, fyi, it does NOT) and it had a reliable chain of recorders, it would be accepted as "sahih" (trustworthy) hadith, even though it clearly goes against the guidelines of the Quran, where it says there shall be no compulsion in religion (which implies you cannot just murder anyone who refuses to believe/ believes another religion). If one actually examined the content of this imaginary hadith, it would be easy to see it's tampered with by people with or without malicious intent (for eg, it might've actually been "You can kill the disbelievers ONLY if they attack you and will not leave you and your family alone") or some may not even remotely be the words of the Prophet, as he only followed the Quran.

Also, the integrity of the Hadith isn't guaranteed by God anywhere in the Quran. To know more about this, I suggest you read this link , and this one.

So yeah, I take hadith with a (large) grain of salt. So I will not be including them in my discussion obviously.

Now a lot of these hadith have been fabricated, as established, or reflect something that was applicable specifically in that time and setting, seeing that the Prophet was an ordinary man who couldn't predict the future or know about all the different cultures of the world.

So even if the headscarf was a part of Arabian attire, that doesn't mean it has to be assimilated into our cultures now. Just because prostitutes used to pluck all their eyebrows out to signify that they are prostitutes (sex work is forbidden in Islam, because of the negative impact on women and society), doesn't mean that women are not allowed to pluck their eyebrows now.

Following these hadith blindly without considering for a moment that hey, these might be outdated, seeing it isn't meant for all time periods like the Quran, and half of these contradict themselves, maybe we shouldn't consider this as an authority on rules in Islam. Personally, I don't believe anything is forbidden that is mentioned as such solely in the Hadith, and not in the Quran.

But the staunch belief in all of these Hadith leads to micromanaging of women, and literally everyone else. Few ridiculous examples include:

women can't pluck their eyebrows

men can't wear silk or gold, and they need to grow beards

music and dance is forbidden (seriously???)

the Prophet married a literal child of nine years (no do not try to justify it as "it was acceptable back then". According to the Qur'an it wasn't. Girls had to be mature enough to reject or agree to marriages and literal children can't do that. There is plenty of research to prove that Aisha (ra), his wife, was at the very least 19 or 20. Again a case of unreliable and maybe purposefully manipulated Hadith. Scholars and people who uphold the theory that Aisha was 9, and hence, child marriage is legal are pedophiles through and through)

I feel that if anything, hadith should be considered with the authority of historical commentary, giving us more context to the times, and should never be blindly trusted just because a lot of scholars say it is a "sahih" (trusted) hadith.

Also a main feature of Islam is that you don't need an extra priest (no offence to religions who have priests) or a scholar to tell you things and intervene with God for you. You have a holy book, your own common sense and humanity, and you pray to establish a connection with God. Scholars are secondary OPINIONS who can provide insight from their knowledge and research to people who want it, but by no means any authority on things, just like hadith.

2. Arab culture and society, especially back the times that radicals want to emulate, was heavily patriarchal. Islam gave women rights and protection, but they were still limited by the cultural norms of that era.

What these people actually want is to return society to Arabic culture in that time period. (Exhibit A: the abaya/purdah for women and khandoorah for men. exhibit B: sex-segregated spaces)

Back then, women were expected to be caretakers and mothers, and men were expected to be the strong masculine protector.

Enforcing said cultural norms into modern day Islam is ridiculous. Saying that women rarely left the house back then, hence women shouldn't leave their houses now is the same as saying there weren't phones back then, so I shouldn't use one now. Would you ever give up your phones? So how about we do the same to women's autonomy and freedom? Adapt to modern times like regular humans?

If women were meant to stay at home, and meant to just rear children, and never meant to be seen in public, and never meant to be seen by the opposite sex, as extremists say "is God's will", then why is none of this found in the Quran? Do you seriously believe that God, describe multiple times as All-forgiving and generous and kind, would ever persecute women to such a fate? If you do believe that, then maybe you need to re-examine in the nature of God that you believe in. Also if you tell me the "it's for their safety" gimmick, I will flip out. It has been proved multiple times that a woman's dressing has nothing whatsoever to do with why men rape.

Sure, Islam advocates for modesty in dressing, for both sexes. Both are called to not stare rudely (many Muslim men seem to forget that part of the verse, strangely), both are advised to dress in modest, comfortable, clean and practical attire. Never once is anything remotely like "YOU'LL GO TO HELL IF YOU EXPOSE YOUR ELBOW, WOMAN". But the way modern Muslims enforce the dress code (some even going to the lengths of saying women shouldn't wear BRIGHT COLOURED CLOTHES, so as to not attract attention!!! I'm looking at you, Mufti Menk), you'd think that God says something much worse than that. Infact God pulls out Uno reverse, and encourages us to dress as beautifully as we want, especially when visiting the mosque.

3. A lot of English translations of the Quran come from Saudi Arabia. A country famous for its conservative practise of Islam. While the original Arabic text cannot be changed, a lot of these translations include information in parantheses that add "rules" based on the above mentioned factors, that a casual reader or a new Muslim who doesn't know Arabic will consider to be authentic rules of the Quran, extrapolated from the verse, and not extra additions that are often derived from hadith. A very good example of this is the headcover verse, which you can see in this link.

Even all the hostility surrounding homosexual people has been derived from cultural influences and one set of verses. From around 6000 verses, just a single set passingly mention homosexuality. Don't you think that if it truly were such a great sin, God would have explicitly forbidden it? Also why would he create such a natural variation in sexuality and then forbid it? Why isn't it forbidden for animals then? Is all-loving God that cruel to create this natural and healthy attraction in them and then explicitly forbid it when straight people get to marry and live life in bliss? (Please don't say that "God also created pedophilia, and that's natural, so by this logic shouldn't we allow that too?" because pedophilia IS NOT HEALTHY, AT ALL. IT'S IS A DISORDER. Unlike homosexuality) I'm also not picking and choosing things to fit my lifestyle, as some might say, as I am straight, and the only reason I support the LGBT community because I have basic humanity?? And they're humans who deserve rights and joy and freedom and acceptance just like the rest of us.

There have been reformed translations of Quran which examine the verse without prior bias against LGBT people, and they have presented an alternate translation, that the verse condemns sexual assault, which happened to be homosexual in the particular story. Check out this link too, which explains how closely examining the words used could change the meaning from one thing to another.

What I attempted to prove in this extremely long post is that the practise of a religion isn't necessarily the reflection of its true nature.

There are progressive open-minded people who believe in Islam because it gives them hope and solace. People who believe because core beliefs of Islam aligned with their own views and simple logic.

NOT to say there aren't religious bigots who will totally use religion to manipulate people into oppressing themselves or other people. There are, there are a LOT of people like that who call themselves "scholars". And there are a lot of people who follow these extremely harmful regressive version of Islam without critically thinking about what they are following.

I've seen a post discussing the meaning of the word Islam, which means submission to God. It said that it implies total submission, without questioning what we believe.

That is an argument used by both religious extremists to further their beliefs, and by the opposite side, who say the religion is oppressive.

I wish to present a view that Islam itself tells us to think critically, to use our brains to question everything and anything we believe. And then to arrive at our own conclusions. And if you're a decent, kind human, those beliefs maybe align with Islam (not saying that if you're not Muslim, you're horrible, that is not what I meant at all). And if the opinion between people differs, there's always logic and reasoning behind every rule that is presented in the Quran. Don't believe me? Here's the verse that tells people not to blindly follow their parents' religion. And here's a list of verses about critical thinking.

The reason we (atleast reformist Muslims) submit to God is because we questioned it, we came to the conclusion that Hey! This is right. I can submit to my Creator by, who is basically the consciousness that created everything and is the source of all goodness, love and strength, because the rules mentioned here make sense and they privde a moral framework for me to base important desicions on. They feel right. And there is logic behind everything written in this.

I don't mean to present Islam as an all-perfect amazing religion everyone should believe and that I'm right, everyone else, especially those liberal atheists who criticise my religion are wrong and WILL BURN IN HELL. I consider Islam a perfect moral framework, and that's my business only. Anyone can follow what they want and it's none of my business. In fact there is no compulsion in religion at all, and people who say Muslim or go to hell are wrong imo.

What I intended was to paint a picture of reformist Muslims who are still out there, who follow the religion because they questioned it. And not the religion as this stringent rule book we all have to follow down to a t, micromanaging every aspect of our lives and living in perpetual fear of hell, but rather this basic moral guide that teaches us tact, compassion and justice, to bring us closer to God spiritually. I wanted to show that the majority isn't always reflective of what I think is the true core of Islam.

I feel that many practises in the name of Islam are highly questionable and should be criticized, but I also want people to know that the people who seemingly represent the religion, are not representative of the entire mass of believers. That sometimes the practises you might criticize might have nothing to do with the actual religion, atleast according to some of us. It was also for fellow Muslims who might be in the same place I was a few years ago, questioning everything I had learnt was part of my religion.

This is also NOT to undermine struggles of people forced to follow Islam and its seeming requirements like hijab. This is not to claim that nope, every Muslim is fine and ok, and we're all peaceful progressive people. In fact I wish to do the exact opposite, to show that people who enforce oppressive policies in the name of Islam aren't actually backed by the religion and neither should they be backed by other Muslims. I'm also not trying to say no one should criticize Islam. Criticism helps us grow. Criticism is necessary to uncover oppression and eradicate it. So by all means, criticize.

I'm so glad I found the subreddit r/progressive_Islam when I did because it helped me a lot, and opened me to other like-minded progressive Muslims, who actively hope to counter the negative effects of Salafism and conservatism that is overtaking Islam.

So yeah, I think I covered almost everything I wanted to talk about and here's a final link that pretty much just states my position on things.

PS idk why this thingy is in different colours it just seemed cooler and less boring to read

#religion #islamicpost #radfem #gender critical #muslim #progressive #change #critical thinking #sexism #feminism #feminist #allies #humanity #extremism #womenempowerment #freewomen #headcovering #mine

[agentrouka-blog]

Tyrion and Tysha murder mystery hints - first mention in the text

This thing just keeps tugging at me, and this recent thread made me ambitious to examine it in more detail. So I’ll look at hints for an even darker edge to the story of Tyrion and Tysha in the parts of the text that actually mention her.

Since I have limited time, I’ll do several posts. This one is about how we learn about Tysha in A Game of Thrones.

We head into AGOT, Tyrion VI via a chapter transition from AGOT, Jon V, where Jon talks Maester Aemon into choosing Samwell as his assistant. In the presence of his current assistant Chett, who - it is revealed later in the ASOS Prologue - murdered a girl he liked for rejecting him.

Chett gave a nasty laugh. “I’ve seen what happens to soft lordlings when they’re put to work. Set them to churning butter and their hands blister and bleed. Give them an axe to split logs, and they cut off their own foot.”

“I know one thing Sam could do better than anyone.”

“Yes?” Maester Aemon prompted.

Jon glanced warily at Chett, standing beside the door, his boils red and angry. “He could help you,” he said quickly. “He can do sums, and he knows how to read and write. I know Chett can’t read, and Clydas has weak eyes. Sam read every book in his father’s library. He’d be good with the ravens too. Animals seem to like him. Ghost took to him straight off. There’s a lot he could do, besides fighting. The Night’s Watch needs every man. Why kill one, to no end? Make use of him instead.”

Maester Aemon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment Jon was afraid that he had gone to sleep. Finally he said, “Maester Luwin taught you well, Jon Snow. Your mind is as deft as your blade, it would seem.”

“Does that mean …?”

“It means I shall think on what you have said,” the maester told him firmly. “And now, I believe I am ready to sleep. Chett, show our young brother to the door.”

(AGOT, Jon V)

The chapter is followed by AGOT, Tyrion VI, where Tyrion and Bronn rest on the high road after being kicked out of the Gates of the Moon, after he won his trial by combat:

They had taken shelter beneath a copse of aspens just off the high road. Tyrion was gathering dead-wood while their horses took water from a mountain stream. He stooped to pick up a splintered branch and examined it critically. “Will this do? I am not practiced at starting fires. Morrec did that for me.” 

The entire conversation between Jon, Aemon and Chett sets up Tyrion. A lordling, bad with manual labor, but smart and a reader. Yet we know he is no Samwell Tarly in his sensibilities, and the last sentence is dedicated to Chett.

Chett...

The only women Chett had ever known were the whores he’d bought in Mole’s Town. When he’d been younger, the village girls took one look at his face, with its boils and its wen, and turned away sickened. The worst was that slattern Bessa. She’d spread her legs for every boy in Hag’s Mire so he’d figured why not him too? He even spent a morning picking wildflowers when he heard she liked them, but she’d just laughed in his face and told him she’d crawl in a bed with his father’s leeches before she’d crawl in one with him. She stopped laughing when he put his knife in her. That was sweet, the look on her face, so he pulled the knife out and put it in her again. When they caught him down near Sevenstreams, old Lord Walder Frey hadn’t even bothered to come himself to do the judging. He’d sent one of his bastards, that Walder Rivers, and the next thing Chett had known he was walking to the Wall with that foul-smelling black devil Yoren. To pay for his one sweet moment, they took his whole life.

But now he meant to take it back, and Craster’s women too. That twisted old wildling has the right of it. If you want a woman to wife you take her, and none of this giving her flowers so that maybe she don’t notice your bloody boils. Chett didn’t mean to make that mistake again.

Like Tyrion, Chett is rejected by others for his appearance, has a violent father and a lot of resentment that comes out in the shape of murdering “slatterns”. He also mixes it up with the idea of marriage. Like Tyrion, the cold night reminds Chett of the girl in his past.

He could see Bessa’s face floating before him. It wasn’t the knife I wanted to put in you, he wanted to tell her. I picked you flowers, wild roses and tansy and goldencups, it took me all morning. His heart was thumping like a drum, so loud he feared it might wake the camp. Ice caked his beard all around his mouth. Where did that come from, with Bessa? Whenever he’d thought of her before, it had only been to remember the way she’d looked, dying. What was wrong with him?

Chett killed her in a rage, but the truth is layered and haunts him.

But back to Tyrion.

Tyrion VI emphasizes Tyrion’s cleverness as he converses with Bronn, explaining his strategy in the Vale for how to steal Bronn from Cat’s service and make use of his practical talents, and his strategy for their travels in the Mountains of the Moon. Tyrion talks, Bronn listens and agrees to serve him.

The point is, Tyrion is very observant and smart. Reader, trust Tyrion’s judgent and words, is the message. Then we get more personal.

As they light a fire and eat a goat, Tyrion remembers his goaler Mord who treated him cruelly in the sky cells.

(Mord, btw, translates to murder in many a germanic/Scandinvian language.)

“And yet you gave the turnkey a purse of gold,” Bronn said.

“A Lannister always pays his debts.”

Even Mord had scarcely believed it when Tyrion tossed him the leather purse. The gaoler’s eyes had gone big as boiled eggs as he yanked open the drawstring and beheld the glint of gold. “I kept the silver,” Tyrion had told him with a crooked smile, “but you were promised the gold, and there it is.” It was more than a man like Mord could hope to earn in a lifetime of abusing prisoners. “And remember what I said, this is only a taste. If you ever grow tired of Lady Arryn’s service, present yourself at Casterly Rock, and I’ll pay you the rest of what I owe you.” With golden dragons spilling out of both hands, Mord had fallen to his knees and promised that he would do just that.

The image of coins spilling from hands is picked up later.

Tyrion was hoping to lure in the mountain clans, but they take their time showing up, so he tries to be even more conspicuous.

Tyrion chuckled. “Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror.” He began to whistle a tune.

He chooses the “terrible” tune himself. It leads straight to his memory:

“Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head.” Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was a clear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. “I met her on a night like this,” he heard himself saying. “Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats.

Myrish, as in the Myrish lens. The object Lysa sends Catelyn, which has a false bottom hiding the real message in a secret language, a message of murder and conspiracy. A secret language, a foreign language, like Mord.

"A lens is an instrument to help us see."     (AGOT, Catelyn II)

Bright and merciless as truth.

My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed … yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gotten a name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to … well, nowhere, really.

Where Tysha went will become a theme. @une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir examines that beautifully here.

But even right here, the tone is ominous, and GRRM goes out of his way to emphasize it with the ellipses.

We get the story of Jaime chasing after the outlaws and Tyrion and Tysha falling into bed at an inn after drinking, eating and talking, and the story of their marriage, and its end.

Tyrion was surprised at how desolate it made him feel to say it, even after all these years. Perhaps he was just tired. “That was the end of my marriage.” He sat up and stared at the dying fire, blinking at the light.

“He sent the girl away?”

“He did better than that,” Tyrion said. “First he made my brother tell me the truth. The girl was a whore, you see. Jaime arranged the whole affair, the road, the outlaws, all of it. He thought it was time I had a woman. He paid double for a maiden, knowing it would be my first time.

NOTHING about this makes sense, which is ridiculous when you consider we were just hammered over the head with how smart Tyrion is supposed to be.

Since when is Jaime prone to setting up complex schemes? Why would feel the need to push Tyrion to have sex at thirteen, and why would be ever do it this way? Why would be hire him a virgin for his first time? We don’t question it because GRRM has told us not to question the smartiepants. But as we later learn, that was all. not. true. So maybe other things aren’t true, either.

“After Jaime had made his confession, to drive home the lesson, Lord Tywin brought my wife in and gave her to his guards. They paid her fair enough. A silver for each man, how many whores command that high a price? He sat me down in the corner of the barracks and bade me watch, and at the end she had so many silvers the coins were slipping through her fingers and rolling on the floor, she …” The smoke was stinging his eyes. Tyrion cleared his throat and turned away from the fire, to gaze out into darkness. “Lord Tywin had me go last,” he said in a quiet voice. “And he gave me a gold coin to pay her, because I was a Lannister, and worth more.”

The parallels to his memory of Mord are striking. Silver and gold, coins spilling from hands, a “price” beyond expectation... and a promise of something very sinister at the next meeting.

After a time he heard the noise again, the rasp of steel on stone as Bronn sharpened his sword. “Thirteen or thirty or three, I would have killed the man who did that to me.”

1) Nice how Bronn makes it about Tyrion’s pain. Tysha’s pain does not exist to them. And so the reader is also drawn away from it. Poor Tyrion.

2) Another reference to killing. It foreshadows Tyrion’s murder of Tywin over this very matter, of course, but at the same time...

Tyrion gestured impatiently with the bow. “Tysha. What did you do with her, after my little lesson?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Try harder. Did you have her killed?”

His father pursed his lips. “There was no reason for that, she’d learned her place … and had been well paid for her day’s work, I seem to recall. I suppose the steward sent her on her way. I never thought to inquire.”

“On her way where?”

“Wherever whores go.”

Tyrion’s finger clenched.  (ASOS, Tyrion XI)

I don’t think it can be emphasized enough that this happens right after he murders Shae. Shae the whore.

“Did you ever like it?” He cupped her cheek, remembering all the times he had done this before. All the times he’d slid his hands around her waist, squeezed her small firm breasts, stroked her short dark hair, touched her lips, her cheeks, her ears. All the times he had opened her with a finger to probe her secret sweetness and make her moan. “Did you ever like my touch?”

“More than anything,” she said, “my giant of Lannister.”

That was the worst thing you could have said, sweetling.

Tyrion slid a hand under his father’s chain, and twisted. The links tightened, digging into her neck. “For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman’s hands are warm,” he said. He gave cold hands another twist as the warm ones beat away his tears.

And just before he asks him about Tysha, Tywin assures him he was meant to be sent to the Wall. Whether or not that’s a lie, we’re looking at another Chett parallel. Murdering a “slattern”, facing life at the Wall.

We close Tyrion’s memory of Tysha:

Tyrion swung around to face him. “You may get that chance one day.  Remember what I told you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He yawned. “I think I will try and sleep. Wake me if we’re about to die.”

He rolled himself up in the shadowskin and shut his eyes. The ground was stony and cold, but after a time Tyrion Lannister did sleep. He dreamt of the sky cell. This time he was the gaoler, not the prisoner, big, with a strap in his hand, and he was hitting his father, driving him back, toward the abyss …

Like Chett, his thoughts return to the girl. He turns into the goaler, Mord, his rage comes through, his capability of great violence. In ASOS, his lashing out at Tywin is preceeded by directing his violence toward the “whore” who allegedly betrayed him. Which is preceeded by a truth about Tysha.

“Thank you?” Tyrion’s voice was choked. “He gave her to his guards. A barracks full of guards. He made me … watch.” Aye, and more than watch. I took her too … my wife …

“I never knew he would do that. You must believe me.”

“Oh, must I?” Tyrion snarled. “Why should I believe you about anything, ever? She was my wife!”

“Tyrion—”

He hit him. It was a slap, backhanded, but he put all his strength into it, all his fear, all his rage, all his pain. Jaime was squatting, unbalanced. The blow sent him tumbling backward to the floor. “I … I suppose I earned that.”

“Oh, you’ve earned more than that, Jaime. You and my sweet sister and our loving father, yes, I can’t begin to tell you what you’ve earned. But you’ll have it, that I swear to you. A Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion waddled away, almost stumbling over the turnkey again in his haste. Before he had gone a dozen yards, he bumped up against an iron gate that closed the passage. Oh, gods. It was all he could do not to scream.

(ASOS, Tyrion XI)

The turnkey here is interesting. Once again, Tysha’s memory is associated with a cell and the presence of a turnkey. In his anguished memory, Tyrion almost stumbles over him. The last turnkey was Mord.

So, just looking at Tysha’s first mention, there are so many ominous connections. Murder murder murder.

The chapter ends with Tyrion meeting and “hiring” the mountain clans. How? To avenge himself on Lysa Arryn, he promises them the entire Vale. Really driving home that “a Lannister pays his debts” is all about disproportionate retribution.

A few chapter later, to create some distance to this dark tale, Tyrion meets Shae and sets up to re-create his entire Tysha trauma. The two are intertwined, so why should their ends not be?

That’s fodder for a different post, though.

#asoiaf #anti tyrion lannister #tysha #murder mystery #long post #Shae #tywin lannister #bronn #mismemory #memory edit

[westerhos]

Our Story: Chapter 6

[December 24th, 1998]

There is something to be said for the peculiar hour of the blue-morning, when a hospital beeps into quiet life. Death rattles behind drawn curtains, expletives are spat over set bones, and shots are taken in the thigh. It is not like Jamie’s Grampian refuge, which springs forth naturally from the earth. Instead, Boston GH scars the landscape, numbing loneliness through morphine drips and the tug of sheer necessity.

It is during this gradual reawakening that Claire hides in a closet, imagines the pink, wet sacs of her lungs contract and expand. She counts her breaths to release the night’s chaos, still lodged deep in her throat.

During the wild evening hours, Claire sees only what exists outside her body. Such an easy thing to do as a doctor, this sudden corporeal separation—a leap into the procedural dance, a temporary loss of oneself to the staunching of blood and the sewing of sutures.

But eventually the window of calm arrives, and the wall of dissociation begins to crumble. Claire, in her closet sanctuary, returns to her body once more, the sight of her arms and her hands like four old friends reacquainted.

Claire hunkers down between two shelves, and relief travels from foot to torso, settling somewhere inside her gut. As always, she has brought her medical bag—a gift from her husband, CER embossed in golden filigree—and rummages through it. As always, she finds the folder and flicks it open, seeking the page that is stowed inside. She is forever tethered to its final sentence, which launches a fresh rip of longing straight to her chest.

And as always, she goes back to the beginning, following the words. Fingers like greedy sponges, text absorbing into skin.

NEW YORK CITY, 11:30AM - The diner hushes when the bell tinkles, announcing the arrival of literary darling James Fraser. He is a giant in more ways than one: six-feet tall, wide-set shoulders, and a critically-acclaimed author with legions of fans. But for all his inches and his clout, Fraser is blissfully unaware of the eyes on his back. When he sits opposite me and shakes my hand, I, like the rest of the world, find him to be impulsively likable.

Sporting one month’s growth of beard and a wrinkled v-neck, it doesn’t take long for Fraser’s roguish charm to earn a complimentary meal. He is quick to thank the waitress, and for not the first time, one has to wonder how the man could possibly be single. Surely his good looks, his talent, and Reformed Bad Boy reputation draws the ladies in?

Point proven: Our waitress lingers, hungry for Fraser’s attention, but he closes his menu after ordering a glass of lemonade. (An odd choice, but then our writing heroes are full of idiosyncrasies, aren’t they?) I almost leap to console the girl, that poor thing, as she runs a self-conscious hand down her apron.

Alas, one gets the impression that it isn’t pickiness keeping Fraser romantically unattached. Nor is it misogyny or closeted homosexuality (despite what those tabloid vipers spit). James Fraser simply enjoys his place in the lonely hearts club—and is perfectly content to stay there, sipping ice-cold lemonade.

Frank’s ring glides across the lines, pauses over “single”. Such a different life, so removed from Claire’s, though here it thrums beneath her hands. Suddenly, her head grows heavier, weighted by the chain draped around her neck. Jamie’s thistle ring dangles there, cold as death. Forever tucked inside her shirts, a secret between her breasts. (Frank lets her wear it, just as she lets him wear his stained button-downs, other women smiling from the collars.)

Fraser’s second and latest novel, Two Centuries in Purgatory, released just last month to stellar reviews. Hailed as a “modern classic” by The New York Times (and truly, it is), Purgatory has found a comfortable seat at the top of the bestseller lists, and shows no signs of losing momentum. Now touring the U.S., Fraser seems nonplussed by the bustle of the Big Apple, his eighth time to our concrete jungle (“I’ve a parade of publisher meetings and interviews tomorrow,” he grumbles). Though he’s a longtime resident of both Edinburgh and Glasgow, he says no city feels like home nowadays. “Where is home then?” I ask him, and in traditional Fraser fashion, he deadpans: “Lost.”

For all his fame and glory, there is something decidedly melancholy about James Fraser. But of course, we all know why. We’ve read his books, haven’t we? We know his story.

Gillian Edgars: Are you enjoying your lemonade, Mr. Fraser?

James Fraser: Aye, verra much so. Lemonade in Scotland doesna taste like this.

GE: Mmmm, exploring the pleasures of America. I like it. Now, shall we begin? Let’s start with Two Centuries in Purgatory.

Claire brings the page a few inches closer. This is not the first time she has read the article, its edges worn to yellowing curls.

A familiar anger sinks its claws into her side as this reproduction of Jamie staggers into a flickering half-life. Gillian Edgars thinks she knows the man behind the book jacket. The entire world, for that matter, believes they can claim the bold-faced names on their hardbacks.

But, Claire seethes, do these people know that Jamie smiles in his sleep? That he’s prone to seasicknesses, could not wink at the waitress even if he tried? No. Only Claire knows these smaller, intimate truths—but still, they are not enough. Jamie is no longer only hers, but a communal being disseminated and shared amongst millions. Strangers have molded her Jamie into something new, into hollow casts of their false impressions.

Without warning, the closet door swings open and Joe Abnernathy leans in. “Knew I’d find you in here,” he says, but he draws up short. His smile falters when he sees Claire on the ground. Falters further still when he reads the headline, "Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero," on the page and on her face.

“Lady Jane, why do you do this to yourself? We’re working, I know, but can’t you try to be merry? It’s officially Christmas Eve!”

Joe kneels down, and levels his gaze with hers—the gentle but silent disappointment of an older brother. Claire holds firm when he pries the clipping from her grasp, the paper snagging the skin of her palm. It glides over and up, a shallow curve that splits into fine, shining rubies. A jeweled J, just at the base of her thumb.

Claire presses the wound to her teeth, tastes the heady, metallic taste of herself. (Later, she will trace the cut with reverence, grateful to be marred, at the very least, by a shade of Jamie.)

Joe tsks and reaches for a shelf, bringing back the first aid kit.

“Perks of hiding in a hospital supply closet. Bandages, everywhere. Take this.”

“It’s fine, Joe,” Claire assures him but accepts the bandaid anyways. “I’m fine—just a bad day and a scratch. See? No significant blood loss.”

“Thought I’d witnessed the first fatal paper cut,” Joe says, but then continues, more softly, “LJ, I thought you’d given this up. That Frank made you promise you’d stop.”

“He did,” Claire replies. “And I did too, for a while.”

Her stomach turns as the memory resurfaces: her husband, feeding the shredder a feast of papers. The machine’s tight-lipped and fanged smile destroying Claire’s collection of articles, her glimpses of Jamie. Frank had held her as the teeth had chewed, tightened his grip when she repeated his words back to him, “Time to leave the past behind.” And afterwards, once the the bin had emptied into the trash, Frank had dragged the bag of shreds to the curb. Claire had looked on, standing in the doorway, a soldier’s wife already in mourning.

(That evening, she almost snuck outside to piece the words together, for old habits die hard and a planet will always yearn for her sun. But then Frank’s arm had risen in the darkness, flopped sleepily across her waist. The weight of it had held her there, and so she’d stayed, picturing the night creatures stealing Jamie away, piece by piece.)

“I just…wanted to see what people were saying. About his new book.” She sighs. “I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just that…”

“He’s everywhere, isn't he? In the papers, on TV. Saw they’re making a Lifetime adaptation of A Blade of Grass. Jesus.”

Claire nods. “Steering clear of that one.” (But she won’t, of course. Claire will want to see herself and Jamie on that screen, their better, manufactured selves broadcasted in technicolor.)

“You’re really gonna let me down like that, Lady Jane? I thought we’d drink cheap Scotch, put the movie on mute, and invent the dialogue ourselves. Next weekend, the two of us. Drunk and vengeful. Whaddya say?”

“A hard pass, Joe. We’ll be in Oxford for the holidays, anyways. Visiting Frank’s family.”

“Well, la-di-dah. I’ll be on this side of Atlantic throwing popcorn at my TV.” Joe leaps to his feet when his pager beeps. As he walks out the door, his hand flies to his coat pocket and he withdraws a shabby paperback. “Before I forget—a Christmas gift, for the Lady. If you’re gonna scramble your brain with nonsense, let it be Tessa’s ‘membrane of innocence’. Not ‘Scotland’s Newest Literary Hero.’”

Claire laughs and flips through The Impetuous Pirate, inhaling its smell of antiseptic and mildew and the vestiges of long-ago fingerprints. A Harlequin, taken from the hospital waiting room. “Aye aye, captain. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here in Davy Jones’ Locker for a while longer.”

Joe nods, consoling, before he turns to answer an intern's cries for help.

Alone again, Claire tucks The Impetuous Pirate inside her bag, picks up the discarded article from the floor. For the first time, she notices its publication date, October 20th, was her 31st birthday. She cannot remember the details of the occasion—Did Frank take her to a concert, or to a movie? Buy her flowers or chocolates?—and yet a foreign scene plays so clearly in her mind. It is something cut from the script of her life, the stagehand’s hook pulling her to the wings before she has a chance to speak. Cast in the closet’s dim spotlight, it unfolds as the playact that could have been but never was:

Jamie, in the New York diner, drinking lemonade. Condensation like dew drops, rolling down the pitcher. A young girl in Gillian Edgars’ place, singing a high soprano. And Claire, beside her, blowing out candles in a single huff.

As she slices the birthday cake, this almost-Claire nicks her finger on the knife’s blade. “Kiss to make it better!” the young girl cries, and Jamie does, his lips are on the sting, and then Claire’s mouth. He tastes of citrus, of yellow and sunshine, a marigold paradise in a city of dying autumn leaves. “Does it still hurt, Sassenach?” he asks her. “Not anymore,” she says. And when the little girl giggles, watching them, it is something sacred. She licks the frosting from the candles. “So what’d you wish for, Mama?” she asks, not knowing that, in a moments like these, there is no need for wishes.

Claire’s pager rings, rearranging her memories. Now she remembers her 31st birthday—and knows it did not happen in that diner. On that day, there was no little girl; no citrus kisses in a molting New York.

Instead, Frank had taken Claire to the opera house, a drawn-out affair they had both fidgeted through. Back at home, he had led her to the bedroom and its king-sized bed, had slipped off her dress while she kept her chain on. “Talk to me,” he’d panted, silver thistles against her chest. And when she came, it was not Frank’s body that drew her cries. It was not Frank’s name that rose from her lips.

Claire scans the article, skipping again to the final paragraphs. Here lies the line she reads over and over, the very reason she shells $15 for subscriptions and scavenges in bins for scraps. Anything to discover some evidence of herself, some proof that she still lives in the peripheries of Jamie’s life. And whenever she finds it, it pours into her and lingers, like wine.

GE: Your debut was quite impressive—an instant bestseller, an Oprah Book Club pick, an upcoming TV movie. I’m sure you’ve been asked this before…but allow me to be a hack for just one moment. Let me ask the nosy questions. Let me pry.

JF: I dinna have a fear of rats [SMILES]. Get on wi’ it then.

GE: I appreciate it, Mr. Fraser, I do [LAUGHS]. The protagonist’s struggles in A Blade of Grass—the financial woes, the criminal record, the years of solitude—they seem to mirror your own. Is it accurate to say that the book is autobiographical?

“Randall?” a voice calls from outside the closet. “Randall, are you in there? Mr. Duncan in Room #18 needs to be—”

“Prepped for surgery, I know!” Claire finishes. Her voice is shrill, rising with her goosebumps as she nears the interview’s end. “I’ll be out in a second, Dr. Hildegarde!”

JF: In some respects, aye, A Blade of Grass is autobiographical. Mind, I made a lot of it up myself. Embellished a few things.

GE: Oh yes, certainly. But even without your embellishments, your life does make for such an interesting tale. In a way, your struggles are what made you a literary sensation. But still, I do wonder—do you regret any of it? The gamble, the money, the arrest?

JF: [LAUGHS QUIETLY] I thank ye for the compliment, Ms. Edgars, but I hope my sins are no’ responsible for the book’s success. And for the record, they were largely exaggerated by the press.

GE: Ah, right. We rats are despicable creatures, always desperate for crumbs. But they never fill the belly, not really.

JF: Have ye tried poetry before, Ms. Edgars? You’ve a knack for it [LOOKS AWAY]. But nay, it isna the crimes themselves that I regret most. Whether they were exaggerated or no.

GE: Really? There’s something else [LEANS FORWARD]? Will you tell me then, your life’s biggest regret? Or will you keep me and your readers in the dark, forever wondering what keeps our beloved James Fraser up at night?

Now Claire closes her hand into a fist, forces herself to bleed out from that thin, half-mooned J. She imagines Jamie’s face, inscrutable to Gillian Edgars, but fixed in an expression that she, and only she, can read. And if Claire had been there on that October afternoon, sitting in the diner’s vinyl booth, she would have understood. Would’ve known already what Jamie regretted most, what he would and could not say aloud. For within this precious, final line—their spoken and unspoken wishes:          

JF: My biggest regret? I let the story end early.

(JF: I should have loved her better—God! I should have loved her better.)

_______

I have very few comments about this one, but I will say A) Jamie’s POV comes much more naturally to me—probably because I, like Jamie, love Claire so frickin’ much—so writing this was like pulling teeth. And B) As I was writing this chapter, I knew it was time to bring Jamie and Claire back together. Even I was rooting for them to reunite.

I love Joe and Claire’s friendship, and I wish I’d shown more of it in this fic (although what’s here I think fits pretty naturally). And I have to say...I love Geillis—or the idea of her: witchy, feminist, and confident—a whole lot, despite her Voyager crimes. Here, she is my Outlander version of Harry Potter’s Rita Skeeter, and I could write an entire fic from her voice any day.

#outlander #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #myfic #i am so bad at dialogue!!!!!

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Prepare

Some character insight.  I’ll be doing what everyone thinks about the current situation.  As always, if you have any requests, cool ideas, criticisms, comments, or concerns, feel free to tell me.  Enjoy the story!

“Diplomacy isn’t worth a damn if you know all their secrets.”

Mass Effect Galaxy

The Citadel

Admiral Adam Vir sat quietly upon the balcony of his hotel room, staring out at the beauty of the Citadel.  A glass of something unknown and very fruity was in one hand, and his other was entwined with Sunny’s.  Her beautiful blue carapace was glinting in the light of the nearby sun, and she was perched upon a chair suitably reinforced for the Drev frame.  A ridiculous, but quite cheery, old song wafted through the air.   

“Everybody loves somebody sometime

Everybody falls in love somehow…”

It was rather like a vacation, he thought to himself as he settled back comfortably.  It was, indeed, one of the most vacation-like atmospheres he’d had in a while.  An absolutely gorgeous hotel room, with an equally stunning view, and complementary room service.  Being on the delegation team certainly had its perks.  Of course, a vacation was much more than location.  It was more with who you spent it with.  

“Everybody loves somebody sometime

And although my dream was overdue

Your love made it well worth waiting

For someone like you.”

Quite a fitting song, actually.  He’d never admit to choosing it.  He was cheesy, yes, but not quite that cheesy.  Or, at least, he thought he wasn’t.  He’d been told quite frequently otherwise.  Usually by Sunny.  

Too bad, though, that it wasn’t a vacation.  The imminent threat of massive destruction hung over the Citadel like a thunderhead.  He softly smiled at his own simile.  It was… well, actually quite literal.  From the balcony of his room, he would see the silhouette of the Watch Eternal, its massive bulk ready to rain destruction upon an half-suspecting populace.  

Strangely, he didn’t feel any tension.  He looked to his left with another small smile.  With Sunny around, everything just felt… right.  There were no problems, no tension, nothing he couldn’t handle.  Instead, there was only peace.  Tranquility.  Love.  

All of these thoughts were shattered by the pounding of boots on the hallway floor and a sharp rapping on the door.  Both Sunny and Vir shifted, both getting up with the alacrity of warriors.  Moving slowly towards the door, weapon in hand, covered by Sunny, he slowly opened it.  Never knew what to expect, especially in a high tension situation like this.  

Swinging open the heavy, old fashioned mahogany door revealed the grinning face of Peter Quill.  

“Adam,” he said.  Vir nodded inwardly.  Quill never bothered with titles, something that Vir approved of.  Always having nervous people call him ‘Admiral’ was bothersome.  “I wanted to talk to you.”  Vir nodded.  He gestured at Sunny with a half awkward cough.  

“Quill, this is Sunny, my weapon’s officer.  Sunny, I believe you already know of Quill.”  Sunny gave the Drev equivalent of a smile, though only Vir saw it.  

“Admiral.  Captain Quill.  I’ll take my leave.”  She walked past them and out the door.  

“Uh, yeah.  Sunny was just in here to discuss-”  Quill cut him off.

“I may be unobservant, but I’m not that unobservant,” he said.  Vir opened his mouth to say something (deny it, explain it, embrace it, he still didn’t know), but Quill waved his hand and plunked himself down in an uncomfortable looking chair.  “I’m in the same position, if it makes you feel any better.”  Yes!  Of course!  It was one thing remembering old movies and new briefings, but another entirely when someone was talking to you in person.  

“Yes… I, uh, rather suspected.”  He paused, thinking.  “Wait a minute…”  He recalled the advice given to him by Drake, seemingly a lifetime ago.  He had kept it in mind ever since.

I won’t tell anyone.  You can trust me with that.  In fact… well, I can’t tell you, now can I?  That would be me breaking trust.  Let me give you a bit of advice, though.  Keep it a secret, because there are people who will kill you for it.  

“Did Drake give you the same advice?”  Quill looked up sharply. 

“Yeah.  Yeah, he did.”  He laughed.  “That’s funny.  Matter of fact, I wonder if anyone else  on the team is… in our position.  There are certainly people who could be.”  Vir rubbed his chin, considering.  

“Drake straight up told us he doesn’t care.  He might be, but… you never really know with that guy.”  Quill nodded.

“True.  Very true.  What about Master Chief?” Quill asked. 

 “I don’t think he even understands the concept of romantic love,” snorted Vir in response.  “There aren’t aliens were Cooper’s from, so no for him.  Kirk?” “Maybe.  Still not sure.  He’s kinda a more classic good by-the-books officer.  At least compared to us.  Don’t know much about him,” said Quill.  “Cain?  He’s been on your ship.”

“Ha.  Cain’s job description is to shoot people like us through the head, so, definite no.” 

“Solo?”

“Also no.  But Shepard…” trailed off Vir.  

“Maybe.  Got enough hot aliens on his crew.”  Quill stood up.  “And from what I’ve heard, they don’t care about inter-species relationships here.”  That was true.  The galaxies of Shepard, Kirk, Quill, and Solo didn't seem to care as much about that sort of thing.  

“Weird how that works; some places don’t care, some do, some people care, some don’t,” observed Vir.  He looked back up to the shadow of the Watch Eternal.  It seemed much more menacing now.  

“Yeah.  But that wasn’t the reason I came here in the first place,” replied Quill.  He leaned forward.  “I wanted to know: can I count on your support if shit hits the fan, which it might?”  Vir nodded.

“Yes, you can.  Let’s hope it doesn't come to that.”  

Thomas Drake sat alone in his room, the shut shades throwing light from bedside lamps in strange patterns around the room.  A glass of simple lemon water sat on the broad desk he was occupying, idly making a ring in the synthetic wood.  The hotel air conditioner hummed in the background, its noise enough to drive most into turning it off and complain to the management about its incessant racket.  Not Drake.  He had chosen to turn it on to maximum, the frigid air welcome on the horribly scarred tissue of his arms and chest.  His usual jet black greatcoat, boots, and gloves had been discarded and were now carefully hung in the borrowed closet.  

Drake did not simply wear them as a fashion statement.  Oh, of course, they fit his style, intimidated his enemies, and brought out his most handsome features, but, like him, there was much more than met the eye.  Tailored by a master to perfectly suit him, every item was woven with fibres strong enough to stop bullets, and a small cooling system in each one save the gloves.  Drake looked sardonically at the skin of his upper arm.  Yes.  Cooling systems were necessary.  The sweat glands of his body had been ravaged by wound after wound, by horrifying burns and scars.  The worst was on his chest, the ancient reminder of his old platoon.  Many burn victims, or those with extensive scarring, had trouble regulating their body temperature.  Not him.  No weakness would slow his inexhaustible march.  The outfit covered all the weakness, all the pathetic failings of his flesh.  In it, he was Thomas Drake, mercenary extraordinaire and the most interesting man in the galaxy.  Flawless.  Handsome.  The epitome of personal perfection.  

The scars never reached his face. Many people knew of them, but it was never public knowledge.  His crew had seen him shirtless; for the most part they knew the story.  Various… individuals knew of them, having the chance to gaze on them in intimate moments.  He smiled quietly to himself.  The old adage that scars were attractive was quite true for some.  Of course, his charisma was enough to twist even the most hideous of burned tissue into captivating items of personal valor.  Those… individuals would not share his secret.  

The boots were armored and magnetized; additions that had saved his life in more than one occasion.  The gloves were specially made to be able to grip things better than a normal human hand would, and electric circuits ran through them, allowing Drake to stun or kill with a single punch.  

The coat also had another purpose: concealing weapons.  The results of this purpose were currently spread over the desk in Drake’s room.  There was no way he was going into a situation such as this without a plethora of deadly weapons at his command.  Too much was unknown, too much was riding on his contract and reputation.  So these devices… insurance.  Circuitry was cleaned, bullets loaded, plasma cores were analyzed, and armor double, then triple checked.  

He sighed, then leaned back in his chair.  Perhaps he should go out… maybe for a drink.  Scout out the area.  Eat at the new (to him) restaurants of the citadel.  No.  Not yet.  Those were all distractions.  Duty first.  Business before pleasure.  He went back to loading bullets into the dozens of magazines scattered around his workspace. 

#magnificent scoundrels #writing #my writing #story #fanfic #scifi #sci-fi

[keep-it-i-resign]

Fic Writer Asks

tagged by the lovely @vampcoffeegyrl23 I am soooo sorry this has taken over a week! I promise I was just busy away from my computer and using mobile is not the way to go about answering these! 😅

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

6 on AO3 and 6 on ffn.net. I haven't used the ffn.net account in years, i.e 2013 (and therefore my user name isn't even the same) so those 6 stories are different from my AO3 ones. I don't post most of what I write and now that I'm in my mid-20s with a few published papers behind me - I'm much more confident in my ability to write a cohesive and interesting story so expect more posted!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

17,425 words which isn't bad for only 6 fics with two of those stories having additional chapters coming soon.

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

On AO3? Just 1, which is The Flash and by extension Stargate SG-1 for the crossover I did for Snowells Week this year. Counting ffn.net that's 3 more with Castle, Doctor Who, and Firefly. Over my lifetime of writing fic for myself? I think only 7 more. Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis, Sanctuary, Harry Potter, Star Trek: Voyager, Star Trek: TNG, and Left 4 Dead. Left 4 Dead isn't much of a fanfic but I did use the zombie types as place holders in an original story until I developed my own.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

I'll Be Waiting (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry)

Well... This is Awkward (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry, Frost/Nash, Caitlin/Nash, and Frost/Harry)

Rewind Time (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry)

Through the Gate (The Flash/Stargate SG-1 - Caitlin/Eowells)

Harvest Season (The Flash - Caitlin/Harry)

5. What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I don't write angst much and I haven't posted many stories yet but of the ones posted I guess "I'll Be Waiting" is the angstiest.

6. What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

"Well...This is Awkward" has a pretty happy ending with everyone alive and together. Or maybe "Twilight of the Gods" because ReverseSnow/ReverseFrost happens and there is hope of bringing everything lost back and balance the universe again. I guess it depends on your definition of what constitutes as a happy ending. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you've written?

I've only written one - The Flash/Stargate SG-1 crossover. I don't normally think about crossovers just because the shows I watch are so vastly different they can't really work or they are already in the same universe with the canon crossovers. I'm also not always a fan of reading them because they can get chaotic quick and characterization takes a dive in order to fit characters into other universes/situations. I admire anyone who can write it well though!

As a side note: I did have a thought about a Snowells into the Arkham universe fic just because I have been replaying the Batman Arkham video games which I might give a shot at.

8. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

👀I wrote one smutty story years ago and it's terrible because I was young and naïve. I haven't tried recently but I'm not opposed to giving it a shot now. I have a few ideas on a prompt list I have for Snowells already so it's really a matter of when will I get to it!

9. Do you respond to comments. why or why not?

I do when I can! I like to get feedback from my readers and having an open dialogue of what they liked or disliked is important for me! I want to know what my audience enjoyed and what to improve on! Responding to them also shows them I saw that they said and appreciate what they had to say! 🥰

10. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Surprisingly - no, even on my old and terribly written stuff. I'm perfectly open to criticism but hate? If you don't like it, you don't like it but others might. Why spend the time spreading negativity when the world has enough of it?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

As far as I know - no.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No but given enough time I could probably translate mine. It would be grammatically atrocious because I rarely translate from English into any of the languages I know. It's normally the other way around! I'd definitely need a Beta who is fluent to correct my mistakes.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No but it's definitely something I'd try! I co-wrote an original story with a few friends of mine years ago in high school and enjoyed it. I like the idea of getting to talk and bounce ideas off of someone who enjoys the same fandoms and character as me! I haven't really done that since I grew apart from one of my friends from high school who I did that with.

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

What kind of question is this? Do people actually have an ultimate ship? Is that even possible? I have ships from several fandoms and sometimes multiple ships within a fandom. Most of the time I have a main ship from a fandom but that doesn't mean I discount any of the other ones that I or others enjoy as well. I'll throw out a few that I still got out and read for in order of what I read most often (either new stuff or re-reads) to what I read occasionally, at least according to my AO3 favorite tags.

Snowells (all variations) - The Flash

Jack O'Neill/Sam Carter - Stargate SG-1

Helen Magnus/Nikola Tesla - Sanctuary

Harry/Hermione - Harry Potter

William Murdoch/Julia Ogden - Murdoch Mysteries

Phil/ Melinda - Agents of SHIELD

Kathryn Janeway/Tom Paris - Star Trek: Voyager

Kate Fleming/Steve Arnott - Line of Duty

I will occasionally go check what kind of fics the fandom writes when I start a show just out of curiosity. Sometimes you can tell if there is fandom hate between ships by doing so and I know to steer clear, especially if I ship a lesser ship/non-canon ship. Also - the number of canon-divergence or rewrites will tell you if the shows writers start being ridiculous *cough* The Flash *cough* and whether it's worth getting attached at all.

15. What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

Hoo boy. I have a drive full of them. Most of which aren't even close to being posted. My biggest one right now is a complete re-write of The Flash dealing with a what if scenario of Earth-1 Tess Morgan being pregnant the night that Thawne kills them both and he chooses to birth the kid rather than let it die with her. It's set a few years earlier (so 18/19 years stuck in the past rather than the original 15 that the show has it) so the kid isn't Jesse but it changes how season 1 plays out and definitely how season 2 plays out when Harry finds out about the kid while dealing with the Jesse/Zoom issue. Plus it's Snowells too and I want to deal with Barry's mistakes and the consequences of them better than the show did since the show just kind of brushes them off? For some reason? I wanted things to have a little more consequence because some of the mistakes made are egregious and then they acted like it never happened which bothers me. It's a beast of a project and I'm - unfortunately- a perfectionist and a completionist. I'm thinking an episode per chapter rewrite but right now it's in bits and pieces and a lot of notes on how episodes would play out differently with an added character and dynamic.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and scene positioning. I can write out the dialogue for a story quickly with the bare bones of the scene and movements playing out. After that, it takes me ages to expand the scene and fill in the bits between speaking lines because I can see the piece play out in my head and putting that to paper accurately and engagingly without being overwhelming is a multi-layered process.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Some of this is normal, you know, like grammar and spelling. My brain moves faster than I type so words or bit of phrases end up missing and I later have to fix it. I'm also a Southerner who grew up watching a ton of British shows so a lot of the way I phrase things isn't commonly used anywhere. I have to spend a lot of time double checking things like that. I think my biggest one is not knowing how to end stories satisfactorily. I haven't posted many fics because it's hard to post them when you don't know how to wrap everything up.

18. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

It depends on whether it's an established part of a character or story and whether or not I'm comfortable with the language. Like with Sherloque - it's established he'll say something in French and then repeat it in English. I took 3 years of French so I'm comfortable writing it and it fits the character and situation. But take Cisco, we know he speaks Spanish, but it's never really shown in the show. So fics that I've read where he breaks into Spanish can be distracting as we've never seen him do it - even in dire circumstances. I also never took Spanish in school and I only know rudimentary pieces (I took Mandarin and Latin instead), so I'm unlikely to use it in any fic I write unless the circumstances warrant it (say - Cisco is talking to a grandparent or a meta struggling with English).

But again, it depends on the situation, what we know of the character, and how comfortable I am with the language enough to get it correct and in character. Any fic writer who can get the situation and character down while using a secondary language, and not make it distracting deserves applause!

19. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Hit me with a hard one why don't you? 🤣 I think it was Stargate SG-1 or maybe it was Stargate Atlantis. You're asking me to think back over a decade and a half ago to when I started reading and writing fic at the tender age of 7 or 8. I'm fairly certain it was one of those two fandoms and it might've been a crossover. I do remember writing part of it on an old Gateway computer running Windows '98 with a glass monitor that was mine and my sisters. The other half was written on an electric type-writer that I owned because this was before laptops were widely available and affordable.

20. What's your favorite fic you've written?

It's a tie between "Twilight of the Gods" and "I'll Be Waiting". "Twilight of the Gods" because I got to show off a few of my degrees (History and Classics, I couldn't shoehorn in my others but they are science related and that doesn't quite fit that story). "I'll Be Waiting" is a favorite because it's a big middle finger to whoever / collective group wrote The Flash season 7. I'm still pissed off at how the Wells plotline was dealt with and let's not get started on the whole Chillblaine/Kramer/Forces as kids of WA plots (ewwwwwww 🤢). I'd need a whole new post to talk about how tired I am of the WA kids showing up (because screw how that'll effect the timeline, right?) and the reliance on the future to drive what decisions are made (because, again, screw how bad that would be for the timeline - it's not like we have seen how much that effects things before right?) 😒

Phew.....That was longer than I expected, honestly, but a lot of fun!

Tagging whoever wants to talk about their works because you are all wonderful people who should get a chance to share!

#20 questions #writer asks #fandom things #fanfic #Snowells

[eightysixed]

happier than ever

You call me again, drunk in your Benz Drivin' home under the influence You scared me to death, but I'm wastin' my breath 'Cause you only listen to your fuckin' friends I don't relate to you I don't relate to you, no 'Cause I'd never treat me this shitty You made me hate this city

words: 3.2k plot: emma and tomo’s relationship, in a nutshell. trigger warnings: abuse, assault, drugs, cheating, violence, blood, suicidal ideation, nsfw

Five years is a lifetime when you’ve just begun your twenties. It’s half a decade of years so formative and important that you don’t really realize their importance until they have flown past.

Emma spent those years with Tomo.

[ SEPTEMBER 2014 ]

A twenty-one year old goes to an Outkast concert. She gets propositioned by a guy. Rough, pushy, handsy, it’s enough to make her feel suffocated, plan paths of escape or desperately look for a face in the crowd that could intervene. Then he comes in with his buddies and they all but rescue her. How ironic Emma thinks, years later. What a Disney-ified, damsel in distress moment to have and to meet by.

They spend the rest of the concert together, follow it up with an after hours at Los Coyotes, wolfing down soft shells in between food-spitting laughter. Emma, Tomo, and his two buddies. The energy is infectious, and she doesn’t want to say goodbye at the end of the night. It’s a feeling she has never felt before; those sparks in his eyes that are in hers too, the way he grounds and floors her. They exchange numbers and Emma’s face lights up as she’s getting off her Muni owl: it’s a text from him.

It doesn’t take long for his contact name to acquire an Emoji heart next to it, the girl who ridiculed these kinds of things in high school now finding herself enamoured, head-over-heels, and not caring for the criticisms of formerly cynical self.

[ OCTOBER ] A month later and she’s packed up and moved into his place, about as happy as she has ever been of late; everything in life falls into place with him, just makes sense.

[ NOVEMBER ] He gets エマ tattooed on his collarbone; her name in katakana. She gets 23, his lucky number.

They spend thanksgiving with her mom in Cupertino. Frankie hasn’t seen Emma this animated again in a long time, composes a poem about in her head as the green beans and pumpkin pie are passed around. Later of course, she pulls out the baby photos, much to Emma’s embarrassment and Tomo’s delight. “You were such a fat baby, Jesus,”  Tomo laughs. “She looks like she ate baby Jesus,” her mother quips.

When her mom falls asleep, they sneak out and climb up Emma’s childhood treehouse armed with blankets. They gaze at a sliver of night sky through a gap in the roof as Emma tells him her childhood dreams of flying to space and inventing computers that could contact extraterrestrial life. They kiss, they make love, Emma ponders her stance on marriage being outdated and for chumps and losers next to a snoring Tomo.

[ FEBRUARY 2015 ] Their first Valentine’s day together they drop acid at Pier 39. An irate parent yells at them for making out on the merry-go-round in view of children; have they no shame.

She makes new friends, dozens, someone always at their place as Tomo plays them new tracks, smoke weed together, and watch the oil projector light show make shapes on the ceiling. They talk about the future, fame, and world domination.

They don’t discuss babies because neither of them care for that sort of shit — but they do talk about moving into a bigger place together, maybe getting a dog or two — the breed is subject of many arguments.

[ MARCH ] In peak puppy fever, Emma adopts a two year old rescue bulldog named Tito. It’s the first, tiny sign of a crack in their relationship, of dissent — she thinks she sees Tomo glare at the precious pup when he thinks she isn’t looking. But maybe she imagined it. He does shed and slobber uncontrollably after all, and her boyfriend happens to be a clean freak.

[ JULY ] That summer, Emma braves a plane once more to see Tomo play in Atlanta. His set is off the walls and for the first time, she is amazed to see just how many fans he has, how far this boyfriend of hers has come from making tracks in his living room. It’s just too bad she is fast asleep when he tiptoes out of their hotel room to meet one of said fans for a back-alley blowjob.

They roadtrip across the South to play some more venues and the pattern repeats itself in Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico. She wakes up in a cold sweat one night in Vegas, confused as to why he’s gone. “Out getting food. Got hungry.” The message hits her in a weird place, but she is tired, sleepy, and in a haze; Emma accepts, does not question. He even returns with some Taco Bell for her.

Timeskip — 3 years:

[ APRIL 2018 ]

Emma is on her hands and knees in a bathroom, vomit dripping off the toilet rim. She can’t remember how or why she got here, but she’s here. Everything seems to be swimming backwards. Eventually she is able to collect herself off the floor, splash water against her face and wall-to-wall stagger back out of the bathroom. It didn’t work, she’s purged the worst of it but still feeling funny. “Oh, Emma, there you are.” A man’s hands wrap around her. He says he’s friends with Tomo. Says he’ll take her to him. Fade to black.

Waking up with strange bruises should not become a norm, but it does. Emma dismisses it, goes to work, does her best.

Things with Tomo are a violent rollercoaster; some days are great, some days nondescript; and some days downright nightmarish. They fight, throw shit, break shit, yell at each other. Things almost border on the unacceptable as words turn into threats, threats turn to action. A hand around the throat; a body pinned to the wall — her body, of course. His weed grinder he threw that hit her in the head which he swore he’d meant to only toss at the wall. It never crosses a line into the unacceptable, though. That’s what Emma tells herself. He might push her down on the bed, sure, but a bed was soft. He might squeeze her throat in the heat of an argument, but never so much that she’s passing out. He doesn’t hit, kick, or punch her. That was what abusers did, not him. 

She tells herself he can’t help it, his mother used to punish him and his father didn’t love him and now he lashes out the only way he knows how, on the only person he can. He didn’t grown up in as loving a home like she did. He had his reasons. It was okay. They were okay. And the makeup sex afterwards? The best ever.

[ MAY 2018 ]  A month later and Emma is walking in on some girl riding Tomo’s dick like the world was ending, right there on their couch. On their goddamn couch they picked out together, hauled up the stairs with the delivery men. Somehow, the worst part about it all, Emma’s fucked up brain tells her, is that Tito is there to witness it. Her innocent, furry son, witnessing his ‘dad’ for all intents and purposes, cheating on his mom. A ridiculously thought but one she has nonetheless as she’s driving away, Tito next to her in the passenger seat. She goes to sleep at a friend’s and sobs the entire night.

Despite herself, she doesn’t break up with him; but the rift is a mile wide and constantly palpable. Tomo becomes relentlessly apologetic. Not only does he beg forgiveness, he does it live on-air at a radio station, on social media, Emma bombarded by strangers she doesn’t know writing her to take him back. Then he goes and uses her personal kryptonite pulls a Lloyd Dobler outside her work with a Cocorosie song she was absolutely weak for. She hates making a public scene but the sentimental part of her is melting at the gesture, the boombox, all of it. Emma stays. He’d been a shitbag, but he was her shitbag, with all his lovable and terrible qualities wrapped into one person, and she just had to take the shit with the good. Because there was no one else she’d rather be with, ripping side-stitches from too much laughter at four in the morning, tears in her eyes for a good reason this time, from one of his horrifying jokes. 

He was hers and she was his, that’s just how it was to be. Well, as much as she could call him hers when he seemed to be everybody else’s in the process.

Emma does ridiculous, degrading, uncomfortable things in the name of love, and yet in the end she can’t hold on to the love she had for him in the beginning. Way back when they were going up on that ferris wheel at the pier and he looked at her like he had nothing but love in this world, for her. That was what hurt the most, because now the ferris wheel only went down.

There are threesomes, fivesomes, sixsomes, so many bodies in between hers and the one she loves, all in the name of exciting him, holding onto him, trying to be something for him that measured up to Enough. But none of it is enough. None of it makes him happy, nor did it make her happy. She gives him an inch and he takes a mile and then demands more, smiling with blood in his mouth.  She breaks down and becomes something she doesn’t recognize in the mirror. Whether it was an act of revenge or desperation, or finally wanting to give him a taste of his own medicine, Emma sleeps with Corey, one of his best friends. She takes pictures, sends them to him “by accident”. She hates herself through it all, every moment of it, mostly for what he made her into. And yet, underneath all the layers of attempts at hurting him she was really just crawling on all fours, begging him to love her again, need her and want he the way he did in the beginning. Craving to get that first hit back, the one she had been on a residue high off of for four years, the one that now tasted metallic and rancid in her throat.

The worst part? Tomo doesn’t care. He texts her back, telling her to have fun, to send more pictures. She’s never felt this hollow, this empty, this non-entity of a being. The day of her high school graduation flashes in her mind, her dad telling her to never lose her identity, the core of what made her, her. Emma took that core and probably threw it into the Pacific. Somewher between Japan and California, it lies at the bottom of the ocean. 

[ APRIL 2019 ]

Turns out, Emma could draw a line, and that line was becoming accessory to a drug deal. She knew Tomo sold on the side to make up for all the money going into the records, but it had always been a few pills here and there, nothing big. But this? Fentanyl, Xanax, bricks of coke and hash? It was a lot. It was too much.

He sells the drugs and her to go with it, and that’s the end right there. The package she delivers to the apartment he asks her to deliver it to turns into a hostage situation, and she leaves hours later, bruises and caked blood on her. She can’t go home, doesn’t want to. She wants to jump off the bridge she’s crossing from Oakland back to the city. Any bridge, any of them would do. She understands why people jump from the Golden Gate now, or maybe always had. She was there now, climbing the railings, she was ready. She wanted that plunge so badly, would be sad to leave one parent, but good to be reunited with the other. Maybe there she’d be happy, maybe there she’d find peace. 

She calls Ben that night. She’s dry eyed and unemotional, but as soon as she gets the right words, verbalizes her situation, she’s sobbing again. Tomo is out of the city, across the country in Philly on tour. Now was the time, if there was any time for it. She’s not even done with the call when Ben is getting in his car to drive to her. It’s 6 hours from Ojai to San Francisco; he tells her he’ll be there in five. She never deserved a friend like him and never would, Emma thinks as she packs, hastily because somehow Tomo walking through the front door as a ‘surprise’ wouldn’t be out of the question. In the end, she can’t pack everything, has to leave so much behind, her records, books, knickknacks. Five years in this apartment and she’s leaving all of it behind, making a getaway in the middle of the night like some kind of burglar.

By three in the morning he’s here, and they get to packing her suitcases in the car, stacking them as best as they fit in his trunk and backseat, all of Tito’s things and then Tito on a bed in the seat in the back. Emma is in busy mode, stacking and packing everything as fast she can, still somewhere in the back of her mind thinking Tomo would appear at the last minute, and how with Ben here, things could get ugly. She doesn’t want them to get ugly. She loved him far too much to see him have to deal with Tomo, the only person in that specific firing line should be her and no one else.

They drive off. She only feels herself unclench an hour out of Daly City, somewhere in between the Bay and Southern California, where she can exhale. She’s still looking behind them constantly, wondering if every passing car could somehow be him. The saddest, most desperate part of all this that a part of her wants him to have followed. One last ditch attempt to get her back. An all out attempt, one where he would get on both knees and apologize, swear to never be this way again and follow through with it, because he was her person, he was her only person, there was nobody else in this world for her but him, but what do you do when you had to run from your person in the dead of night?

She pulls her raincoat tighter when they stop to get gas, a cold and windy middle of nowhere gas station. She’s not sure how she ends up embracing him, but they’re in it, and feeling someone’s arms around her, somebody that actually cares, who’d never hurt her, who was family, was her mom and his sister and everybody she loved rolled into one, feels like a reprieve. She feels like dirt for making him do this, making him worry, Emma was a piece of shit for that.

She says as much. He tells her to shut up, that she’s nothing like that and this was nothing that he wouldn’t have done for her on any night, any time at all. And maybe that, that was the night she fell in love with him a little bit, or realized she had always been, all along, but God likes to play Lucifer’s games with the little lives he watches over, and it wasn’t made to be, too late anyway since she’d left her heart in somebody else’s hands where it would stay. And he doesn’t need a mess like her anyway, just thinking of the name Catarina was enough. It had been five years but she still remembered the day like yesterday. How low he had been back then. How they would get high together and feel miserable together because at least they had that. They had Weetzie too, but she hadn’t experienced loss like they had, she sympathized but she’d never know what this particular slice of hell was like. But Ben and Emma knew. She knew it in that part of her ribs that met his, and she did not know what she would do if she didn’t have that, have Ben Abrams in her life. 

[ MARCH 2021 ]

Fast forward two years, and the ex is in town. Here, in Los Angeles. That very ex you worked so hard to forget, to heal from, to act like he wasn’t there. And yet, reminders of him were constantly there, everywhere. She doesn’t tell her friends, doesn’t tell anybody he’s in town, just balks when his so called best friend turns up in her neighborhood. She nearly grabs Tito and runs the other way, but it had been too late for that and they have a forced, awkward catch-up. He’s oblivious to anything happening, had barely known about her and Tomo breaking up. Figures, Emma thought, that he would act like nothing happened at all.

He’s in town, and every day she goes to work dreading something happening. She thinks she sees him outside the tattoo parlor’s window, but it’s someone else entirely. She’s losing it again, losing sleep, falling prey to her nightmares. Has a boyfriend now but even that doesn’t help, if anything, he’s a guilty reminder of just how little progress she had made, because she couldn’t devote the time and attention somebody like that needed in her life. Not when all she could think about was him.

The worst part is that once he’s long gone again, back up north, she’s feeling that hollow feeling again. Feeling upset that he didn’t seek her out, didn’t come see her. Even though she knew what an unmitigated disaster that would’ve been, the horrible, rotten part of her wanted it. Of course it wanted it. Two years and her skin still itched for him like an addict longing to be in the throes of fullblown relapse. But he didn’t track her down, call, or text, and that was that. Her only run-in with him involves a party flyer papered on a wall, his name in big stylized letters as the headlining DJ at the club. She stares at that flyer for a little too long, it burns itself in her eye like she’d looked at the sun for too long. And then she does the worst thing she could probably do, go on instagram. Only to find he has a new girlfriend. A brunette with tattoos who looked fun and flirty and everything she had been all those years ago.

That was the last tip of the scale. She reactivates her Tinder, finds some half okay looking guy, makes plans to meet him that night. It’s terrifying, so terrifying going through with, but she gets sufficiently drunk, then high on top of that, and goes through with it. Thinking of another boy’s name the entire time, his face, his body, hands and all the rest. Twelve hours later she’s leaving his apartment, no longer the nun of two years she’d become and feeling shitty about that on top of everything else. It was probably time to go see Karen again she thinks, smoking a cigarette under the sun that melts her while waiting for her Uber home. Thanks friends, thanks family, I’ve made terrific process with all your help and am now back to square one. Thanks for everything.  

Maybe in a decade’s time. 

Maybe she’d be over it by then.  

#billie eilish and her new album sponsored this para #literally billie wrote this song for emma i die #did i have his s.para tucked away for 2 whole years because i was too lazy to finish it? yup #emma #self para #self para: emma #npc: tomo slater

[just-jordie-things]

What Happened 27 Years Later - Richie Tozier

word count: 18k warnings: swearing, mentions of sex, gore summary: 27 years after the horrid summer of ‘89, (y/n) gets a call that the Losers Club need her to come back to Derry to put an end to It once and for all.  But she’s got quite a history with Richie Tozier, and she’s not sure how great of an idea seeing him again is. (a/n): after IT Chapter 2 I got the inspiration to write for the fandom again, not sure if I'll stick with it or not but enjoy this super long fic anyways lolol

___

When Mike Hanlon called on that fate damning day, (y/n) had almost forgotten that it had been twenty some odd years since she’d seen her childhood friends.  Or even heard from them.  And despite the wave of nostalgia she felt when she heard his voice, a part of her still wanted to make up a reason as to why she couldn’t go back to Maine.  Any excuse would have worked, she was an excellent liar.  

“(y/n), you have to come back,” Mike had pleaded into the line.  “IT’s back, (y/n).  We promised”

Her heart sank to her gut, and it was as though her insides were digesting themselves.  All rational thought told her to decline, to go back on her promise, to tell Mike she would never step foot in Derry again.  But instead, what came out of her mouth was-

“Of course.  I’ll get the first flight out tomorrow”

It was like her instincts kicked in and spoke for her, knowing that she was going to do everything in her power to avoid going back to that hellhole of a town.  For years she’d rebuilt her life, pushed down her trauma, lost the memories of the horrors that occured when she was just a child.  And not even just that fucking clown.

“See you soon, (y/n/n).  RIchie will be glad to know you’re coming”

He hung up before she could catch her breath, not having heard either of those names in… well, twenty seven years. ___

“(y/n/n)! Richie! Get the hell over here before we fuckin’ leave without you!” Eddie screamed from outside, where him and the rest of the Losers Club were waiting with their bikes to head to the quarry.

“We’ll just meet you there!” Richie called back through (y/n’s) open window.  She was preoccupied with packing up her backpack with adventure necessities.

“No we won’t!” (y/n) added in a holler, shaking her head at Richie.  “Come on, let’s go now” She said, throwing her backpack on her shoulders.

“No,” Richie whined as he dragged his feet after her.  “Can’t we go on our own in a few minutes?

“Why?” (y/n) laughed, grabbing a can of rootbeer from the fridge on her way out the door.  “That desperate for some alone time?” She added in an overly theatrical sultry tone, laughing at her own funny voice.

Being Richie’s best friend had definitely rubbed off on her.

“Well, yeah” Richie chuckled, hoping he could just laugh over the awkwardness.

(y/n) spun on her heel, the corner of her lip tugging upwards even though she bit her cheek to keep from grinning.  It was kinda hard not to smile at him when he gave her that dorky look.

“Come on,” She giggled softly, tugging on his wrist with the hand that wasn’t holding a rootbeer, and pressing a quick and chaste kiss to his cheek.  “Our friends are waiting”

With that, he groaned, but nevertheless followed her out the door.

He’d follow her anywhere. ___

They were going to meet at a chinese restaurant.  Well, the chinese restaurant, the only one in the small town of Derry.  The one that they went to after getting plastered prom night, the one they went to to pick up dumplings to sneak into the Aladdin.  It had so many hazy memories surrounding it.  The more (y/n) tried to remember, the less she could actually recall.

It almost felt like they were made up.  Instead of being precious childhood memories, they felt like dreams she’d had years ago and could only vaguely remember.  They were real, though, right?

It was strange, second guessing herself when it came to some of her memories of growing up in Derry.  Especially the ones with-

“(y/n),” A voice announced behind her, like they’d forgotten her name until the moment they saw her standing outside the restaurant.  She spun around, staring wide eyed at Big Bill Denbrough.  “Hey” He breathed out, and once again her instincts kicked in, making her feet move until she was in his arms, hugging him tightly, and burying her face in his coat.

“I can’t believe… I can’t believe you’re here.  That I’m here even” She chuckled bittersweetly as she pulled away, eyes flickering over Bill’s features.  He’d aged well, all things considered.

“Yeah, me neither, to be honest,” He gave a half assed laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets.  “Well look at you, what are you up to these days?”

“I uh… I’m living in New York now…” She started, nodding her head slowly.  “Trying to be a journalist but… it’s hard these days, you know?”

“Oh really? I’m writing too… got a few things published but I’m in a bit of a stump right now”

(y/n) gave him a small smile, and nodded her head.  She had dealt with her fair share of writer’s block.

Mike was the next to show up, and again they played catch up, and he told them that he’d started working at the library, and had never left Derry.  This confused both Bill and (y/n) but neither criticized him for it.

Then came Beverly, whose presence was enough to make things easier, and conversation seemed less forced.  It must be her wit and charm.  They were all grateful that she didn’t grow out of it.

Eddie arrived not too long after, jittery and awkward as usual, but it was endearing.

Ben gave them all a surprise, he’d grown up real well, and seemed to finally have some confidence in himself as well.  (y/n) started to wonder if everyone really was doing as great as they were saying.  If they were all doing better than her.

Or maybe it was because she wasn’t around.

The more the others started to catch up and get into a more natural conversation, the quieter she became, observing them, seeing how happy they all were together.  She debated whether they would notice if she left right now, if she turned and walked down the alley, and then flagged down a cab to take her straight back to the airport.

“Well look at all you motherfuckers standing around outside in the cold!”

Suddenly she was drawn right back into reality, perking up to see Richie Tozier getting out of a cab, rubbing his hands together and then stuffing them into his coat pockets.  He was grinning from ear to ear, that same, dorky, adorable grin.  That grin made (y/n) certain that she was remembering Derry correctly, that it wasn’t all made up in her head.

His smile went soft when his gaze landed on her, while Bill was greeting him with a hug, and Eddie was making fun of how he must’ve never cut his hair, which hung in messy curls just past his ears.

“Hey,” He said, after what felt like a lifetime passed.  Bill let go of him and he wandered up to (y/n), a disbelieved scoff of a laugh escaping his lips.  “Wow, look at you, toots,” His hands wrapped around her shoulders, squeezing them gently as he smiled at her up and down.  “Sure grew up to be a Maxim model huh?”

Finally, she made a sound, laughing and punching his shoulder before he tugged her against him for a hug.

“Well c’mere rascal,” He said as he wrapped his arms around her tight, and it felt natural to rest her cheek against his chest.  “Missed ya”

“Missed you too, Rich,” She mumbled against his coat.  Even though she hadn’t missed him until she saw him again, just now.  “But- uh- what about you?” She asked, pulling away far too quickly for Richie’s liking, and wrapping her arms around herself.  It was to keep warm, but Richie knew it was a defense mechanism.

“Oh, you know, LA, radioshow, adult life and all that bullshit” He rolled his eyes, and (y/n’s) lips parted as though to convince him otherwise, but she quickly shut it and nodded her head awkwardly.

“Right” She mumbled, and everyone filed into the restaurant. ___

“Alright, my turn.  What’s your dream job?” (y/n) asked curiously while she unrolled a fruit roll up.

“My dream job?” Richie scoffed at the question.  “We’re paying a game where you can ask anything you want, and I have to answer honestly.  And you still haven’t asked how big my-”

“Beep beep!” (y/n) screeched before giggling.  “Jesus Rich, it’s my turn, and that’s my question”

“Alright alright…” Richie trailed off, staring up at the sky while he thought.

They’d been laying on her roof for a few hours now.  Originally they’d just come outside because the sun was setting, and (y/n) thought it would be neat to watch.  But the sun had long set, and the stars were twinkling in the inky sky now.  They’d gone back inside, only to get a blanket to rest on, and snacks to keep them energized through their game.

“What do you think I’d even be good at?” He finally asked.  “I mean, really, besides flipping burgers at Burger King, what is there for me?”

“What?” (y/n) hummed, looking over at him and furrowing her brows.  “Richie, you’re good at everything.  You could be… a professional dancer-”

“What the fuck!?”

“Or a doctor-”

“Opposite sides of the spectrum toots-”

“Maybe a love doctor then,” She giggled, and then looked over to see Richie furrowing his brows and shaking his head at her ridiculousness.  “What? You’re flirty, you’ve got moves.  But if not that then-”

“Why do you believe in me so fucking much?” He cut her off again, this time quietly, and his eyes stared into hers seriously, trying to figure her out.

“What do you mean?” She replied.  “Why wouldn’t I?”

Of course, he could give her his endless list of reasons why she shouldn’t.  But she’d spoken so confusedly, like the very idea of not believing in him never once crossed her mind.  Something about it was so sweet, so innocent, so loving, that he forgot all about his hidden insecurities, and instead was overcome with adoration for this girl.

He realized he must’ve been thinking and staring at her for too long, because her brows drew together like she was worried about him.

“Richie? Are you alright?”

He nodded, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and his hand reached out to take hers, the one that wasn’t holding a fruit roll up.  Despite blushing at the action while he intertwined their fingers, she was still confused by the action.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ marry you one day” He announced, and (y/n) let out a laugh, surprised by the comment.

“Why?” She asked through her giggles, eyeing their connected hands.

It wasn’t like it was the first time Richie held her hand.  He did it all the time, the boy craved physical attention.  But something about laying on the roof, stargazing, and his hand in hers, was different.

“No one in this goddamn town’s good enough for you anyways.  Your other options are a group of psychopaths, or the vapid dick-twitches from school-”

“Alright, alright,” (y/n) squeezed his hand, getting him to stop running his mouth.  “So you’re my ideal husband then, huh?”

“Sure am toots,” Richie grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him.  “What do you say, when we do it, we move the fuck outta Maine”

“When we do it?” (y/n) repeated, and moved to lay on her side to give him her full attention.  Their hands still clasped together between them.  “You’re serious? You actually want to-”

“Hell yeah,” He answered sincerely, but the dopey smile on his face made (y/n) curious if he was being serious or not.  “Why not?”

She let out a huff, eyes wide, somehow still surprised by Richie and his antics.  After all these years, he still managed to sweep her off her feet with surprise.

“Because we’re seventeen!” She exclaimed.  “I don’t even know where I want to go to college yet- or even what to major in and-and you want to get married?”

“Hm,” Richie hummed, as he contemplated it for a moment.  “How about this then, when we’re, say, thirty? If you’re not married yet, I’ll marry you”

“Uh huh, and if we lose touch? You just gonna show up out of nowhere with a ring?” (y/n) teased, and Richie faked a glare towards her.

“You think we’re gonna lose touch? Us? No way.  Not in a million years”

She nodded her head side to side in agreement.  There wasn’t a chance the two of them could lose touch.  They were best friends, if not just a little bit closer, and dangerously sitting on the line of something more.

“Okay then, a marriage pact it is,” (y/n) chuckled.  “Shouldn’t there be like… rules?”

“Nope,” Richie said, popping his lips dramatically, and making her furrow her brows in silent question.  “Because then you’ll make a rule against me killin’ all your boyfriends so I can marry ya”

She scoffed out a laugh, before going instantly silent as she saw the serious look on his face.  She stared at him for a minute, trying to read his complex expression.  Richie was fairly good at hiding his emotions, but she had a way of getting under his skin and getting him to confess to whatever it was he was hiding.

Tonight all she had to do was raise her eyebrows, and the trashmouth caved.

“Or we can say fuck the pact, and just get married next year” He told her.  And the girl’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.

“What?” She mumbled.

“We’ll be eighteen,” Richie shrugged.  “And then we can move outta this awful fuckin’ town together.  I’ll follow you, to whatever school you choose, I’ll go with you.  I probably won’t get in but that’s alright, I’ll work, and help make rent, it’ll be fun.  Adult life shit”

(y/n) laughed breathlessly, her eyes full of wonder at how he’d thought up all of this in that eccentric mind of his.

“You want to marry me that bad, huh?” She asked softly, and Richie just grinned back at her.  “And you want to live with me? Damn Tozier… I thought you were a commitment-phobe?”

“Toots, I’ve been hanging around you for…  ten whole years now,” He told her, and his thumb began to stroke over the back of hers.  “I don’t think I’m scared of committing to you.  Do you?”

Her breath caught in her throat, and suddenly this was less fun and light hearted, and more sincere, and heavy.  And his seriousness was starting to make her heart beat a little harder in her chest.  And gravity was weighing down on her, pinning her body to the blanket and shingles underneath her.  Tears welled in her eyes from the pressure of the situation she’d found herself in.

Richie’s thumb still caressed hers.

After a long moment, she finally shook her head, unable to find her voice.

“You alright?” He asked, “You look like you’re gonna cry”

(y/n) chuckled sadly, wiping at her eyes with her free hand.

“Sorry, you just… you’ve got me thinking about the future now” She told him, and the corner of his lip tugged into a smile.

“Gotta think about it at some point toots,” He said.  “Can’t stay here forever, seventeen, in Derry.  That’s a nightmare.  This place is a nightmare”

“Yeah, it is,” She agreed quietly, eyes wandering back up to the sky for a moment.  “Not all of it though” She added, eyes wandering towards Richie’s again, only to find his gaze fixed on her still.

He gave her that big dorky grin that she loved so much, and then laughed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him.  Her smaller frame fit perfectly against his, and she let out a sign, content.  Perfectly content.

“Alright then, Tozier,” She hummed, shutting her eyes as she used his arm as a pillow.  “When do you want to start this adult life?” ___

Everyone was full from the abundant amount of food they’d ordered, and were relaxing together.  The awkward tension had fizzled out as Bill tried not to brag about his novels, Ben hopelessly flirted with Beverly, and Eddie complained about the smoking habit most everyone had.  No one could deny the hole in the conversation where Stanley was supposed to be, but they tried their best to remember him how he was, and honor his life.

And then came the hard part.  The part where Mike told them about the disappearances, about the numerous children that have gone missing.  Just like they had twenty seven years ago.  

“It’s back,” Mike said solemnly, and suddenly the laughter died, and the seven of them went silent.  “It has to be Pennywise.  How else could fifteen children go missing in a week in Derry?”

(y/n) stared down at her hands in her lap, her fingers wringing together anxiously.

She wasn’t sure she could go through this again.  Her trauma had just gotten under control, as the years passed she remembered less and less of what happened, and that helped, but it could only do so much when every other thought she had tonight was a horrible memory of her life here.  It had taken so many kids when she was growing up, and once the Losers Club had figured out what was going on, she went to bed every night afraid It would take her too.  And that fear lasted for years, until she was finally old enough to strike out on her own.

It seemed the further away she’d gotten from Derry, the more distant the memories were too.

Finally, when it was too late to stick around and the owners were silently begging the group to leave, they started saying their goodbyes, and headed to the door to call cabs.

“Hey, toots, wait up,” Richie called while (y/n) was putting her coat on and making a bee-line for the door.  She paused, reluctantly, and then turned to look at him.  “You stayin’ at the hotel up the street?”

“It’s the only one in Derry… so… yeah”  She answered, quiet, and sheepish.

“Wanna split a cab?” He asked, and she didn’t know how to politely decline his offer, so she nodded silently, and he followed her outside.

November in Derry was relentlessly cold, and even in her coat, with her hands stuffed deep into it’s pockets, (y/n) was shivering, and bouncing on her feet in hopes of producing enough energy to keep warm.  While Richie was calling for a cab, she was watching her exhales visibly blow out in front of her.

“Alright, should just be a few more minutes” He told her as he stuck his phone back in his pocket.

“Hopefully sooner” (y/n) mumbled back, bringing her hands to her mouth, and cupping them together so she could blow warm air into them.

“So you’re still always cold huh?” Richie half joked.  “Nothing’s really changed then”

She looked up at him for a moment, but bashfully diverted her gaze when she saw him looking back at her, and decided instead to study her boots.

“Everything’s changed” She said quietly, shamefully.

She felt embarrassed that she’d done little to nothing to keep in touch with her friends.  Especially Richie.  But it felt even worse to realize that she’d just about forgotten them, replaced them, and created a new life in order to further stomp away the few good memories she did have in Derry.

“Yeah, I’ll bet it has” Richie replied soberly.

“And I know it has, because I have no clue what to say to you” (y/n) spoke in a whisper, her eyes round and full of sadness as she blatantly didn’t look at him.  But Richie wasn’t afraid of staring her down.

“Yeah,” He agreed.  “Me neither”

She finally met his eyes for more than two seconds, a sad sort of smile tugging on her lips.  He returned it, letting out a huff of a laugh.

“It’s really strange seeing you again, toots,” He told her, the old nickname never died, but it did sound more depressing than it once did.  “I uh… I can’t believe I almost…”

“Forgot about me?” (y/n) finished wistfully, eyebrows drawing upwards in a knowing manner.

Richie only nodded his head, and he was the one to stare down at his shoes now.

“Yeah…” (y/n) sighed, wrapping her arms around herself as she felt the coldness spread further throughout her body now.  “I mean, we were…”

“Who would’ve guessed it, huh?” He spoke sarcastically, kicking at the pavement of the sidewalk they were waiting at.

She looked at him again, at a loss of words.  It broke her heart to look at him now, to see how handsomely he’d grown up, knowing he had a whole life of his own now, without her.  And they’d once planned their life together.

“Cab’s here” Richie announced when a taxi rounded the corner.

They fell back into silence as it pulled up, and Richie got the door for her to get in first.  Always a gentleman, (y/n) thought to herself, before remembering the day he’d gotten into a mud fight with Beverly over something she couldn’t quite remember.  Well, always a gentleman with me.

She sighed contently as she relaxed in the back of the tobacco smelling cab, enjoying the hot air blowing, and rubbing her numb palms together to heat up quicker.

Richie hastily gave the driver the address, and again, it was silent.

When he let out a heavy breath, (y/n) looked over to see him fogging up the glass, and then drawing a smiley face.  She let out a laugh at the childishness, and he looked over at her with an amused smile.

Maybe not that much had changed.

When they got to the hotel, they split the pay, and Richie paid the tip, even though (y/n) argued to split that too.

They walked inside together, but stalled awkwardly in the hall by the elevators.

“I’m- uh, on the fourth floor” (y/n) said, though she wasn’t sure why.  He hadn’t asked, and she wasn’t trying to invite him to her room by any means.

“I’m on the second” Richie replied, bopping his head in a nod.  She felt relieved that he’d even responded, since she’d said something so weird.

(y/n) was mentally kicking herself, begging the elevator to get to the first floor faster, so she could go to her room and be alone sooner.  Probably to cry.  She guessed when she shut the door and was in privacy, the stress would overcome her and she’d have a mini breakdown.

“You want to go to the hotel bar for a couple drinks?” Richie spoke suddenly, just as the elevator doors opened.

It would be so easy to jump inside and press the fourth floor button and get the hell out of this situation that made her palms clammy and her knees weak.

“I’d love that” She said instead, a smile spreading across her lips that took away some of the nervous tension that blanketed the two of them.  He grinned back at her, and they abandoned the elevator to head back to the lobby. ___

After they each had a drink, it became easier to talk to one another.  And slowly the tension went away, and they could catch up about their lives.  (y/n) was eager to hear about Richie’s radio show, giggling when she realized that it probably had been his dream job.

“I should’ve known that you would find a job where you could keep all your voices,” She giggled, swirling the ice in her drink around with her straw.  “Probably talked more in them than in your usual voice”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended,” Richie declared in a british accent that he’d definitely gotten better at.  “But I’ll let it slide, since it’s you” He finished in his normal voice.

“Alright then,” She giggled softly before taking a drink.  “So, besides work, what else is new? What’s Los Angeles like?”

“Loud, full of angry people.  I love it.  You would’ve liked it-” Richie stopped himself with an awkward cough.  “At-at one time anyways, you would’ve liked it.  But you’re probably shacked up somewhere real nice in New York, huh? Big city?”

“It’s alright,” She shrugged a shoulder.  “I live in an overpriced studio apartment that I can’t afford, and can’t afford to lose” She told him, making him chuckle.

“A journalist in New York City,” Richie mused as he looked at her.  

She looked so goddamn pretty, as always.  Her hair falling in messy waves around her shoulders, wearing a simple sweater and jeans, the coat she’d been wearing hanging off the back of her chair.  She’d angled the seat to be facing him rather the counter, giving him her undivided attention.  Well, him and the near empty drink in her hand.  She was smiling, that cute smile that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing for all these years.  

“Told ya you were destined for something great-”

“Rich” (y/n) laughed, shaking her head shyly.

“What? That’s amazing!” Richie said proudly, and then in a softer and more sincere tone, “You’re amazing”

Her cheeks were pink, and she stared down at her drink so that he wouldn’t see her blushing, but he saw anyways.

“So, now’s the big question” Richie said, and she grinned back at him curiously, finishing her drink and flagging won the bartender for another.

“Shoot” She said, propping her elbow on the counter, and leaning her head in her hand while she studied him.

“What’s the boyfriend situation?” He asked boldly, and while the question made him nervous, her certainly didn’t show it.  He kept a straight but questioning face, raising a brow at the girl after she hesitated for a few moments too long.

“Uh.. no, actually,” She answered, and happily took the new drink from the bartender, just glad to have something to hold onto.  “You?”

“No boyfriends here” Richie grinned, and (y/n) chuckled but gave him a pointed look.  “Nah, you know me.  Dating isn’t my scene” He said, setting his beer bottle on the counter and watching her look skeptically at him.

“Dating isn’t your scene?” She repeated in a monotone of disbelief.  RIchie shrugged and nodded, but the smile on his face said that he knew otherwise.  “You tried to marry me, Rich” She reminded with a small laugh.

“Well, that was different,” He answered simply, but the girl’s brows furrowed and her lips parted in surprise as she shook her head.  “You were… you,” He clarified.  “But, I suppose you know that” He finished in a near mumble.  However, it did not clear up her confusion.

“Rich…”

“You don’t remember, do you?” He asked, and she shook her head, waiting for him to explain himself.  “That night I told you I wanted to marry you?” He suggested, hoping that she’d be able to remember.

He knew as well as the others that recalling memories of their childhood in Derry was the damn hardest thing to do.  But he was desperate for her to recall this one specific night.

After a few sips of her drink, and a troubled silence while she racked her brain, her eyes widened, and her head shot up to look at him, and he knew.  She remembered. ___

“Alright then Tozier,” (y/n) mumbled as she nuzzled her head on Richie’s arm.  

The small affectionate action alone nearly made his heart burst out of his chest.  He figured she could hear it, or feel it even.  Her chest was pressed against his, she had to feel his wild heart beating against hers.  But if she did, she didn’t mention it.

“When do you want to start this adult life?” She finished, sleepy eyes meeting his.  The faint smile on her lips made them look so kissable.

“As soon as fucking possible toots,” He answered with his usual dorky grin.  “Whenever you’re ready to get outta here” He added in a more sincere tone.  I’ll just… follow you”

“You’re really gonna follow me wherever I go to school, and marry me?” (y/n) asked, swallowing the nervous laugh in her throat.

It was quiet for a moment, which was very unusual for Richie, but then again, everything about his friendship with (y/n) was unusual for him.

“Of course,” He told her, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice.  “Anywhere you wanna go, as long as you’ll take me”

“Of course” She mimicked him, voice quiet, barely a whisper, but he still caught what she said.

“Well then, next year” Richie grinned, and (y/n) nodded in agreement.

“Next year” She repeated.

Richie smiled at her, eyes flickering over her features, admiring how pretty she was in the moonlight.  She was pretty in any lighting though.  His free hand, the one that wasn’t trapped from her lying on his arm, reached up to tentatively trace over her cheekbone, before pushing her hair back behind her ear.  He didn’t miss the way her cheeks turned rosey pink from the gentle action, but he knew full well that he had that effect on her.

“You trying to make me fall in love with you tonight?” She asked, in that soft sleepy voice that made his heart soar.  She practically whispered it against his lips, the words filling the short inch between them.

He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that brought him to do it, but the moment was there and he just couldn’t not kiss her.  Not with her looking at him like that, not with her laying so close.  He was just dying to do it.

So he did, he closed the space between them, and with the hand he still had on her cheek, guided her lips to meet his in a soft and sweet kiss.  So sweet, (y/n) couldn’t quite believe it was Richie Tozier kissing her.  She wasn’t sure he’d ever been this gentle, even with her.

They parted slowly, and her eyes fluttered open to see Richie smiling back at her.

“Don’t have to make you do anything toots,” He murmured, finally answering her question.  His thumb caressed over her cheekbone.  “You did that all on your own”

She let out a huff of a laugh, eyes flickering between his, trying to figure out if he’d meant that, or if it was just another one of his grand romantic gestures.  She didn’t find even a sliver of deception.

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip, and he chuckled a bit, making her brows knit confusedly.

Confusion seemed to be the theme of the night.

“You taste like fruit roll up” He told her, and they both burst out laughing.

“Shut up” (y/n) scolded between giggles, swatting at his chest affectionately.

“Mhm, make me” He said teasingly, leaning back in again, this time letting her be the one to initiate the kiss.  She’d wasted no time in doing so. ___

“Oh my god…” (y/n) murmured, staring at Richie with wide eyes, and he chuckled at the reaction.

“That forgettable, huh?” He joked, and she rolled her eyes.  “No… I know it’s this place that made you forget.  We all forgot stuff, you know”

“But that… I can’t believe… I mean-”

She cut herself off, shaking her head, a rush of embarrassment flooding over her.

“I know,” Richie told her, hoping she wouldn’t feel guilty about it.  He’d forgotten too, for a while anyways.  “But, we’re here now?” He suggested, in an attempt to lift her spirits.  “I’m staying here the rest of the week”

“Me too,” (y/n) said, a smile pulling on her lips before hastily finishing off her drink.  Richie watched with a startled expression as she drank the rest of her liquor, and set it back on the counter.  “Wanna go do something stupid?”

“I love a woman that’s forward” Richie laughed, and followed her out of the bar without question. ___

“You know.  When you suggested we do something stupid, this isn’t exactly what I thought you had mind” Richie said.

“What’d you think I meant?” She replied innocently, peering up at him from under her lashes.

“It’s just… so cold”

She giggled, poking his bare chest, and then turning back to face the pool in front of them.

The artificial blue waters reflected off the plain white walls and the slick tiles of the room, the only light there being the spotlights from outside that barely seeped in through the windows, and the moonlight reflecting off the waters.

It was probably one in the morning by now, and the pool had long been closed.  And they were standing at the edge of it, chilly in their underwear.

As she looked down at the seven foot deep end of the pool, (y/n) was reminded of standing on a cliffside, and peering down at waters a hundred feet below her.

“I dare you to jump first” She told him, too nervous that the water would be even colder than the air in here.

“What? No, I dare you to jump first” He responded, and all the drinks in his system started to show.

She giggled at him, shaking her head and then staring down at the water again.  She was starting to think that this wasn’t her best drunk idea.  If they got caught, they’d definitely get kicked out of the hotel, and there was no way she was going to stay at her parents’ house while she was in town.  She hadn’t even told them she was in Derry this week.

“Okay, maybe this was a bad idea” She muttered as her tipsy brain began to overthink the consequences of skinny dipping in a hotel pool in the middle of the night.

“Oh come on I didn’t raise you to be a pussy” Richie said, and before she could process what he was doing, grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him as he leapt off the edge of the pool and  cannonballed into the deep end.

She barely even had time to let out a screech before she was submerged in the freezing water.  She thrashed her legs around quickly to resurface, letting out a surprised gasp.  Richie came up moments after her, pushing his wet hair back off his forehead and laughing almost maniacally.

(y/n) playfully scowled, shoving her hands in the water at him, and splashing a big wave of water into his face.

“You’re the fucking worst!” She shouted at him, her voice and the sloshing water echoing loudly in the high ceilinged room.  Despite her scolding, she was laughing, and unable to contain the grin on her face.

Maybe it was the three drinks, maybe it was the joy of the risk they were taking just by being here.  But she was overcome with excitement and laughter as they got into a splash war.  The first one to be a baby and whine about the chlorine in their eyes loses.

“Ow!” Richie cried out.

He lost.

His fists were rubbing his eyes, and (y/n) stopped splashing him, trying to stifle her giggles as she swam closer to him while he rubbed his irritated eyes.

“You’re a baby,” She teased.  “Come on, I splashed you like- twice-!”

She was cut off by a screech when Richie suddenly splashed a huge wave of icy water, directly at her face, before grabbing her shoulders and shoving her under the water.

“You tricked me!” (y/n) gasped when she came above the water again, teeth chattering while Richie just laughed at how funny she looked with her hair stuck all over her face.

“You look like a fucking newborn” He gagged in between laughter, pushing her hair back behind her head.

“Fuck off” She chastised, a breathless laugh escaping her lips.

They were treading water pretty close to one another, and his hands were still cradled around her head.  Twenty seven or so years ago, he would’ve kissed her right now.  He probably wouldn’t have been able to help himself either, just like every other time he’d ever kissed her.

“Truce?” (y/n) asked, and he laughed, nodding his head, and taking his hands off her in order to shake her outstretched hand.

“Truce” He agreed.

They swam around a bit, every once in a while surprising each other by chasing the other.  At one point, while (y/n) was swimming away from Richie, he’d grabbed her by the ankle, taking the risk of getting kicked in the face, and tugged her back towards him.

She was drunkenly laughing at the action as his arms wrapped around her torso to trap her, proudly grinning that he’d won this round.  Her hands were pressed against his chest as she giggled up at him.  Her eyes twinkled the same way they used to when she laughed, whether sober or drunk, they always lit up.

“Humor me for a minute?” He asked, and she looked at him peculiarly before nodding her head.

“Alright”

“What do you remember?” He asked, and she blew a raspberry as she raked her mind for the memories that felt vivid enough to be real.

“I remember… the Barrens…” She said slowly, and drifted out of his arms.  “I remember jumping off the cliff in our underwear, and… and we found a turtle”

“That’s the most important thing you remember?” Richie scoffed, and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Shut up I’m thinking.  Can’t think when you run your mouth”

“Alright alright, continue” The trashmouth waved his hand dramatically for her to go on, and watched her smile as another memory came to mind.

“I remember Prom night,” She added, and he smacked his hand over his eyes, groaning with embarrassment, and making her giggle.  “Dancing with… uh… Eli? Eli Hopkins?”

“Fuck you” He muttered, but she continued.

“And you scared the shit out of him.  You were too chicken shit to ask me to Prom yourself, but had no problem making the poor boy terrified to tears over dancing with me!” She teased him while laughing loudly.

“Eli Hopkins was a- he was a fuckin’ prick! I saved you” He tried to be convincing, but (y/n) didn’t buy it.

“Uh huh,” She said with a scoff of a laugh.  “And I remember throwing our own after party, getting wasted and then… well we went to that chinese restaurant we were at earlier”

Richie nodded, recalling the memory perfectly.  It was the first time he’d witnessed (y/n) drunk off her ass, and as hilarious as it was, by the end of the night, he’d been genuinely scared for her.  That was when it dawned on him that maybe he didn’t just have a little crush.

“Oh! And I remember Street Fighter,” She said, a playful smile on her face.  “You were going to-”

“-train, yes, and I did! I was great” Richie finished for her in a serious tone that made her giggle.

“Yeah, and I’d just sit there and drink slushies until you were ready to leave to do something fun,” She reminded him.  “Who was I kidding, it was very entertaining to watch you play,” She added more lovingly then she had been.  “I remember the night on my roof,” She continued softly, and Richie could already tell she was going to bring up their more intimate memories.  “I remember you kissing me, for the first time,” She said, impossibly quieter.  Her voice wasn’t echoing anymore.

Richie swallowed thickly as she swam back closer to him so that she didn’t have to raise her voice to share these specific memories.

“And the second time,” She added with a breathless laugh.  “At the arcade, after you beat your high score,” Richie smiled back at her as she went on.  “And the third time, at… at…”

(y/n) trailed off, brows furrowing together as she tried to remember where they had been, the night that Richie ran up to her, took her in his arms, and kissed her as passionately as she’d seen in the movies.

“After graduation,” Richie told her.  “That night, after the ceremony and everything”

Today was the first day of the rest of their lives.  Their real lives, the ones they were going to start outside of Derry, and no one was more eager than (y/n) was.  She’d bragged for weeks about getting into a college in New York City.  Not because of the prestige of the school, or the flashy city, but because it was far enough away from Derry, and the boy-slowly-turning-man was going to come with her.

She hoped.

She hoped he remembered his promise, to follow her wherever she so chooses.  But it had been a year since he’d made that promise, and she wasn’t sure that being with her was what he still wanted.

It was no secret that the future was a scary thing to Richie Tozier.  He didn’t handle the unknown well, or the part of growing up that required him to be an adult and make adult decisions.

She went home alone after the ceremony.  After taking a picture with the rest of the Losers to commemorate their big day, they’d said their goodbyes and parted ways.  Surprisingly, Richie left on his own without another word.  Which was very out of character for him, everyone had just assumed he’d leave with (y/n).  Including (y/n).

So as she began listing out all the things she still needed to pack for New York, she tried her best to push away the troublesome thoughts.

What if Richie didn’t want to be with her anymore? No, they weren’t anything official, and he’d only kissed her twice, which they never really talked about, but it had to count for something.  They certainly weren’t platonic kisses.  Not to (y/n), at least.

And she hadn’t thought they were platonic coming from him, but maybe… maybe he just didn’t feel the same way she did.  They way she thought he did.

When her mother yelled up the stairs for her, she had completely stopped writing in her notebook.  After only writing ‘clothes’ and ‘buy laptop’.

“Someone’s outside for you!” Her mother yelled again, and (y/n) set her things aside to head downstairs to see which one of the Loser’s were surprise visiting her.

After how awkwardly they had parted at graduation, she didn’t expect to see Richie standing at the door.

“Hey,” She greeted, forcing a smile on her face.  “What’re you doing here?” The words weren’t malicious, more curious, but there was definitely and undertone of hurt in them as she crossed her arms.

“Wanted to… uh…” Richie brought a hand to the behind of his neck, nervously tangling his fingers in his hair, before rubbing the nape of his neck.  “See you” He finished lamely.

(y/n) let out a giggle that couldn’t have been contained if she tried, and leaned against the doorframe casually.

“Well, here I am,” She told him.  “So why are you really here? You’re a shit liar you know”

Actually, he was a great liar.  She just knew him so well now that she could read his body language like an open book.  And there was something he was anxious to tell her.

“I should apologize, about today, leaving without….” He wasn’t sure what to say.  He’d told her goodbye, what else would he have said or done? “For leaving” He finished.

His eyes squeezed shut before he hung his head, mentally beating himself up for how bad he was at this.

“We all left, why are you sorry for leaving?” (y/n) asked, ducking her head so she could be a bit more under him, since his head was hanging, now she could meet his eyes.  She gave him a gentle smile, that soothed him enough to lift his head back up and look at her normally again.

“I just am, alright? I feel like shit about it” He said defensively.  (y/n) shook her head at him, brows furrowing.

“Richie, you’re acting weird,” She told him.  “Even for you”

“Fuck it, I don’t even know what I’m fuckin’ doing right now” He muttered, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket and spinning on his heel to get off her porch.  “I’ll see you later”

(y/n) let out a silent scoff as he started to walk away, off her porch and down the driveway.  Her and Richie rarely had awkward interactions.  They always clicked, they were always comfortable.  Whatever he wasn’t telling her, was really driving a wedge between them that she didn’t know how to un-wedge.

“Rich, wait!” She called, shutting the front door and heading down the few steps off her porch.  “What’s going on?”

He turned back to look at her, standing on the sidewalk now, while she was planted in front of the steps.  He threw his arms out in a helpless fashion, before letting out a heavy sign.

“I want to go with you!” He declared in a reluctant confession.  “Everywhere.  Anywhere, really, I just want to fucking go and- and be there with you”

(y/n) stared at him in shock.  Richie wasn’t the loud professions kind of guy, but here he was, yelling what excited and scared him the most in her front yard.

“You do?” She asked breathlessly, like she was scared he was going to take it back and leave.  “You’ll come with me? To New York?” Tears welled up in her eyes from relief and nervousness.

“I- Jesus fuck” Richie muttered, before heading back up to her through the dewey grass, practically breaking into a run as he got closer to her.

His hands seized outwards, cupping her face and pulling her against him as he slammed his lips down against hers, kissing her fully, and passionately.

This wasn’t like their other kisses.  This wasn’t a gentle kiss in the moonlight, or an excited thoughtless kiss.  This was purposeful, and conveyed everything they’d both been harboring for years now.

Her arms lazily reached up to rest her elbows on his shoulders, fingers toying with his hair as their lips met repeatedly and in sync with one another, sharing ardent kisses in between quick breaths.

“Of course I want to go with you,” He mumbled, lips brushing over hers, and then kissing her once more before pulling away to look at her.  “I fucking love you”

The tears in her eyes spilled over, streaming down her cheeks and running against Richie’s fingers and palms.  A barely audible breathless laugh left her lips.

“I fucking love you too” She whispered back, pushing his glasses up his nose for him before tightly wrapping her arms around him, pressing her lips against his, and then burying her face in his neck.

She remembered standing there for a long time, just crying and embracing as tightly as they had after they’d defeated Pennywise.  It would’ve been impossible to break them apart.

(y/n) stared at Richie for a long moment, blinking away the mist in her eyes.  He could tell she remembered, because she had that same look on her face that she did at the bar when she’d remembered their first kiss.

“The only thing that would’ve made that better would’ve been if it were pouring rain,” Richie said in a half assed joke.  They both laughed weakly.  “That’a been some real… real sappy shit”

“It was plenty sappy” (y/n) murmured, swimming just a little bit closer to him.  Close enough to tell he was squinting just a little bit without his glasses on, and for a moment she wondered just how blurry she was to him.

“Yeah, well,” Richie coughed, trying to break up the tension.  “You brought out the romantic part of me that I didn’t fuckin’ know existed” He laughed, but she smiled softly at him.

“I know,” She whispered.  “I… I bought tickets, bus tickets”

Richie stared down at the waters, watching his legs kick back and forth to keep him afloat.  This part of the memory ate him up inside, made him sick with nerves, and guilt.

“Two of them.  For New York”

He still wouldn’t look at her.

“I waited for you, at the station, begged the driver to wait a few more minutes, so many times”

As (y/n) continued talking, the memory kept coming back to her.  Until today, she’d had it in mind that she left Derry without looking back.  But she had looked back.  She’d looked all over the bus station for Richie that night.

“You never showed” She finished weakly.

Richie sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head at her.

“I…” He couldn’t even find the right words to say.  An apology seemed too small.  “I couldn’t… be there,” He said, only to shake his head again and try to find a better way to put it.  “With you.  In your dream.  You- you had a whole life ahead of you, waiting for you in New York, and that proved to be true”

“Richie…” (y/n) murmured sadly, knowing what he was going to say next.

“I didn’t want to get in the way of that.  I didn’t realize when I made you that promise that… I was imposing on your dream, while trying to live out mine”

She moved even closer to him, grabbing his hands under the water, squeezing them both securely.  Her lips quirked into half a smile as her eyes flickered between his.  He had to see her clearly now, seeing she was a mere few inches away from him.

“That was our dream,” She told him softly, sincerely.  “I would’ve given anything if you’d come to the station that day”

“Yeah,” Richie mumbled, looking down at the distorted water where she held his hands.  “And I’d give anything to go back and fucking run to the bus”

She giggled, and it was a sad sound, but it was still music to his ears.

“I fucked up” He said, and she nodded, unable to deny that.

“Yeah, you did,” She agreed, in a tone too sweet for the occasion.  “But… you also brought back memories I can’t believe I lost, so I’ll forgive you”

He grinned at her, and his hands grasped hers more securely to draw her in closer.

“It’s really great to see you again” He told her softly, and (y/n’s) legs slowed in their kicking to keep her afloat, making her lower a bit in the water until her chin rested at the surface.

“Great to see you too” She mumbled, eyes flickering back and forth between his repeatedly.  She could still read him as easily as she had when they were kids.  She knew he wanted to kiss her.  Hell, he probably knew she wanted to kiss him too.

“And you’re not married…” He added, one of his hands releasing hers to wander further down in the water, before settling on her hip and drawing her body against his completely.

“I’m not…” She said, brows crinkling in confusion at his comment.

“And neither am I,” He added, and she nodded, clearly not following.  “And I do believe we had a deal, toots”

She giggled, rolling her eyes at the idea of the marriage pact they’d foolishly, drunkenly-in-love made when they were seventeen.

“I see you for the first time in twenty seven years, and you still want to marry me?” She asked, only half teasing, as her hand settled on his shoulder, holding herself against him.  She didn’t want him to let go anytime soon.

“You’re the one that taught me to commit, sweetheart,” Richie reminded her, and his nose bumped into hers as he leaned down towards her a bit.  “Pretty sure I would’ve waited a hundred and seven years to marry you”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Tozier” (y/n) replied in a murmur, shutting her eyes as she nudged his nose to the side with hers, blindly searching for his lips.

They met with ease, the kiss so electric both were surprised the water didn’t fucking electrocute them to death.  Both of Richie’s hands gripped her hips while (y/n’s) hands played with the curly wet strands of his hair.  And as soon as that kiss ended, a second began, and all either of them could hear was their erratically beating hearts in their chests and the echo of the waters sloshing around, spilling over the edge of the pool and making the tile floors even slipperier.  With each connection of their lips, they became more desperate for more.

Perhaps to make up for time lost, or maybe just because they’d forgotten how good it felt.  And good was an understatement.

She whimpered a bit as she wrapped her legs around his hips, trusting him to keep them afloat while his hands roamed over her back, before tangling up in her hair.

When it got a bit too… steamy… to stay treading water in the deep end while making out, they parted just long enough to swim over to the wall, and (y/n) giggled as Richie pulled on her arm to bring her back to him, pressing her up against the edge of the pool, and caging her in with his hands on either side of her, holding onto the lip where the flooring jut out just a bit over the water.

“Much better” He mumbled, making her smile as he leaned down to kiss her again, fully, passionately, it was like their lips still molded perfectly against one another.

She let out a long sign through her nose as she loosely wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling his body to be flush against hers under the water.

“This is my new favorite kiss” He told her, and she giggled against his lips, tilting her head back to look up at him.

“What was your favorite before?” She questioned.

“What was yours?” He shot back.

“I didn’t have one,” She laughed, “I personally ranked them all equally”

“Well, mine was the one on your roof” He answered, and she giggled again.

“Which one? There were like- fifteen that night-” She teased.

“Wow (y/n/n),” He replied, tone thick with sarcasm.  “You must really get around, huh?” He quirked an eyebrow at him, and she bit her lip to keep from grinning like too much of an idiot.

“No… no, I’m just a bit of a slut for you” She joked, and pathetically splashed water at his chest.  Richie laughed, shaking his head at her.

“Don’t say that,” He told her.  “God, that sounds awful, what’re you trying to make me out to be?” She continued to laugh, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

There was nothing but adoration in her eyes, and as usual, Richie couldn’t help himself when he leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose, and then leave a peck on her lips as well.

“Coulda been kissin’ you for like thirty years,” He mused.  “I really am an idiot”

“Shut up, you’re gonna ruin the moment” (y/n) ordered, drawing his head down close to hers again.

“We’re having a moment?” He replied like a dumbass, and (y/n) just rolled her eyes before pressing her open mouth against his, which did the trick in shutting him up.

“Not if you keep running your mouth” She hummed, as she caught her breath, before sensually kissing him again.

“Hey! You two!”

The pair broke apart, but put no distance between them, even as a flashlight shone in their faces, effectively sobering them up the rest of the way.

“Pool’s closed, horny freaks,” The security guard muttered and shook his head.  “Get the hell outta here and back to your rooms before I go report you to my manager”

Richie cussed under his breath, but pulled himself out of the pool anyways, and turned to help (y/n) out as well.  The guard waited impatiently as they grabbed their clothes and towels, and scurried out of the room.

The corridors of the hotel were even colder than the water, and as they took the elevator to their floors, both of their teeth were chattering from the unforgiving air conditioning.

“Well that fucking sucked,” Richie grumbled.  “Guy totally ruined our moment”

(y/n) scoffed before giggling and swatting an arm at his chest.

The doors opened when they got to the third floor, and Richie dropped a kiss to her hair before stepping out.

“Goodnight, toots” He told her with a half-smirk half-smile that made her heart flutter, just like it used to.

“Night Richie” She murmured back with pink cheeks.

The doors began to close, and he began to head down the hall to his room.

However, before they could shut, and before the elevator could take her one floor higher towards her own room, (y/n) shot her arm out, triggering the sensor that made the door open again, and raced out onto the third floor hallway.

Richie turned around, a grin already growing on his face to see her standing there, looking surprised by her own actions.

“Can- can I stay-”

“Come on, toots,” Richie cut off her stammering, reaching his arm out for her to tuck herself under, and he kept his arm around her the whole walk down the hall.  “Let’s go” ___

As the sun seeped in through the cheap thin curtains, (y/n) stirred in her sleep, letting out a whine as she stretched her legs, inadvertently kicking another pair of legs under the covers.  Which earned her a playful groan and a chuckle from Richie Tozier, who she realized now had his strong arms wrapped securely around her middle.

“You awake, toots?” He muttered, lips brushing lovingly over her forehead as he spoke.  “Better be, ‘cause if you kick in your sleep you’re sleeping on the floor tonight”

The girl leaned her head back, peering up at him with half lidded sleepy eyes.  But the sun hit them just right, illuminating the (y/e/c) hues, and for a moment Richie was reminded of the stars.

“You’re that certain I’m staying here tonight?” She teased, fingers toying with the messy locks of hair that fell over his ears.

“Well, seeing as I checked you out of your room this morning…”

“You what?” (y/n) gaped at him, a surprised and tired laugh escaping her throat.  Richie shrugged guiltily, but the proud smile on his lips told her that he didn’t regret it one bit.

“Yeah, this morning,” He informed her.  “Took a lot of effort to get you fuckin’ off of me though.  You still death cuddle in your sleep”

“Shut up” She mumbled, wacking the side of his head lovingly before going back to playing with his hair.

“You know your entire body was on top of me?” He asked, and she rolled her eyes, not even sure she believed him.  “It’s like after you were done last night you just passed out-”

“Beep beep, Richie” She hummed with a pointed glare.  Although her cheeks flushed pink as she remembered the events of last night, after she’d followed Richie off the elevator, and into his room.

“I can’t believe I didn’t suffocate,” He went on dramatically.  “You coulda killed me woman!”

“And yet, you checked me out of my room so I’d stay here the rest of the week” She teased, and bumped the tip of her nose against his affectionately.  

Richie smiled down at her, leaning in closer, but before connecting their lips he just had to run his mouth first.

“By the way, you have to get your stuff packed and outta there before noon”

(y/n) leaned backwards so he couldn’t have his satisfactory good morning kiss, brows furrowing.

“And what time is it?” She asked, watching him grumble before looking over his shoulder at the clock on the bedside table.

“Uh, 11:30”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, and shuffled out of bed.  Only then realizing she was only clad she in his mustard colored button down.

“Richie,” She sighed, gesturing downwards at the barely-covering-her-ass shirt and bare legs.  “Where are my pants?”

“What pants?” Richie played dumb, and she gave him a bored glare.  “The only thing I remember about pants was ripping them off-”

“Beep beep!” She squealed, already rushing about the hotel room in search of something that covered just a little more skin.  She found his tee shirt, which she threw at him, and her own shirt, which she just held on to.

What? She was already wearing a shirt.

“Did you hide them?” (y/n) asked, hands on her hips as she stared Richie down, where he still laid comfortably in bed.  Too comfortably.

“I told ya toots,” He grinned.  “Haven’t seen ‘em since I took em off ya”

Her brows furrowed as her eyes narrowed skeptically.

“Who knows?” Richie pretended to ponder it.  “Maybe I threw them out the window.  Legs like those shouldn’t be covered-”

“Alright.  So what you want right now, is for me to run out of here, pants-less, go up to my floor, pack my things and come back here to stay for the rest of the week, right?” She asked, done with the playful bullshit.

“That’s exactly what I want.  Yes” He agreed with a sly grin as he folded his hands over his stomach, watching her curiously to see what’d she’d do next.

“Fine” (y/n) huffed, and headed for the door.

“Well- wait- hold on toots,” Richie called, and she turned to look at him, hoping he’d just give in and get her the pair of jeans so that she didn’t have to do the walk of shame across the hotel.

(Not that there was anything shameful about what happened last night)

“You’re gonna leave without kissin’ me goodbye?” He asked, puckering his lips playfully.

(y/n) rolled her eyes, and action that Richie had grown quite fond of, seeing that it was almost always directed towards him, before tugging open the door and racing down the hall to the elevator.

The less people to see her in just a weirdly colored button-up, the better.

She made it into the elevator without any complications, and sighed in relief as it took her up the one floor to get to her room.  All she had to do now was run to her room, slam the door shut, and pull on a pair of jeans.  How many people could be up and about in the hallways anyways? It’s not like Derry was a destination overflowing with people-

“(y/n)?”

The doors opened on the fourth floor, revealing Eddie Kaspbrak and Ben Hanscom waiting outside of it, jaws dropped open and eyes wide with realization as they looked at the girl.

“Holy fuck you slept with Richie!” Eddie screeched, his joyous laughter echoing down the halls, before he suddenly cringed and groaned in a disgusted manner at the girl.  “Why?”

“Because they’re still in love” Ben cooed adorably.

(y/n) shook her head at the both of them, realizing just how much they hadn’t changed.

“Excuse me” She managed a mumble as she pushed past them, cheeks pink as she speed walked towards her room.

“Those two are still fucking digusting” She heard Eddie tell Ben before she got into her room and was finally able to shut the door and have some privacy.

And despite the teasing, it made her smile, because what Eddie thought was disgusting, (y/n) and Richie had waited a lifetime for.  This was their fate, finally coming true. ___

After packing up her things, putting on a pair of pants, and moving her bags into Richie’s room, the old gang headed into Derry with Mike, awaiting further instruction on how to defeat It.  For real, this time.

Much to everyone’s dismay, he’d told them to split up, to search for the artifacts they’d each left behind when they left Derry.

“Woah woah woah,” Richie spoke up, shaking his head almost comically fast.  “That’s probably the worst thing we could do right now!”

(y/n’s) hand grabbed his wrist calmly, and her thumb stroked over the soft skin to settle him down.

“For once, he’s fucking right.  Splitting up is how we die” Eddie agreed.

“You have to find it on your own,” Mike said.  “That’s how this works, it has to solely be yours”

Richie frowned deeply, but didn’t argue again.  Mike had spent the last twenty-seven years plotting, studying, trying to find a way to stop IT through hours, years, of research.  If he said this was the only way to do it, then it must be.

“Once you have them, meet back at the library, okay?”

Everyone nodded, and began to head off in search of their artifacts.

Richie however, tugged (y/n) back, and gave her a look she could only describe as lost.

“It’ll be fine,” She told him with a reassuring smile, her hand settling against his cheek.  “I’ll be fine,” She clarified.  “And you will too.  It’ll only be a few hours, and I’ll see you at the library, alright?”

“I hate this” He muttered, and she giggled softly.  Richie took her hand from his face, holding it delicately in his.

He gazed at the matching scars in the palms of their hands before looking back at her again.

“Be safe?” He spoke in the form of a question, and she nodded.

“And you don’t be stupid.  I mean it this time”

“This time?”

“Could never stop you from doing stupid shit before” She teased, and pulled her hand out of his as she turned to leave the woods.  “See ya in a bit-”

“Hey! No goodbye kiss? Again?” He complained, and she grinned back at him.

“You can have it after your special mission,” She mocked.  “I’ll see you at the library, Tozier” She added before finally heading off in the direction of town.

She had a pretty good idea of what her artifact would be.  She just wasn’t totally sure how to get to it. ___

The (y/l/n) household looked the same as it had twenty seven years ago, if not a little more run down.

As she stood in front of her childhood home, (y/n) couldn’t hide the grimace on her face.  Countless memories of the suffering she’d gone through growing up in that house.  From her neglecting parents, to the nights she’d spent crying herself to sleep after being plagued with nightmares, her house was her least favorite part of Derry.  And it was supposed to be a safe haven.

She could have walked up to the door, greeted her parents, and then went up to her room to retrieve the artifact, sure.  It would have been relatively easy.  

But she didn’t want to see her parents.  She wasn’t ready, and somehow, it seemed easier to scale up the side of the house to her bedroom window, and sneak in as quietly as she could, rather than have to face the people who raised her.

As she struggled to force open the window, she wondered how Richie had managed to creep in all those years ago.  He’d done so every night, how the hell did he get himself all the way up to the second floor?

Finally, the plane cracked as the worn wood gave out, and (y/n) was able to the window upwards and open.  She cheered silently to herself as she crept inside her bedroom.

She left a considerable amount of things behind.  Her bed was still against the same wall, and her desk and dresser on the opposite side.  There were a few boxes of things that she’d left behind to be donated, but it appeared her parents had never taken them to the donation center.

Actually, the more she looked around, she wondered if her parents ever even came into her room.  It looked untouched, dusty, and not a single thing had been moved since the last time she’d been here.

She curiously looked over the photos she and Richie had taped onto one of the walls, a collage of the Loser’s Club.  Polaroids of the gang at the quarry, in their Halloween costumes, at school dances, regular ones from sleepovers.

But in the center of them all, she’d plastered one right overtop of a picture of Bill on his bike, with Bev holding onto him from behind.  She’d covered it with a picture from Richie.  

The photo was a blurry one of the two of them, (y/n) sitting on his lap, on Eddie’s couch, she thought.  Her hands were on his cheeks, shoving them together adorably and making his lips pucker.  She was grinning down at him, and despite his mouth being forced into looking like a fish, she could tell just by looking at the picture that he was smiling back.  Ben had taken the picture, she remembered.  And she remembered Richie giving it to her.

She carefully pulled the polaroid off the wall, fingers stroking over the delicate image, before flipping it over.

It was still there.  The note.  

In his typical messy handwriting, he’d written her a little note on the back of it before thrusting the picture towards her for her to take.

Stay adorable, sunshine.

And a little heart scribbled underneath it.

(y/n) found herself giggling as she looked at it, the same giggle she’d let out the day Richie had given it to her.

This was her artifact, she knew it, she could feel it.

She carefully tucked the precious photograph in her pocket, eager to get back to the library to show the others.

Just as she was halfway out her window, a voice whispered to her.

“(y/n)? Sweetheart, is that you?”

A shiver ran down her spine.  Her mother’s voice hadn’t aged a day.

She was frozen in the windowsill, staring with wide eyes at the closed door.  There were footsteps on the stairs, and she could see a shadow walking beneath the crack of the door.  If she didn’t move now, she’d be caught.

“My little girl?” The voice called again, but this time it was distant, and distorted.  “Is it really you?”

Her heart pounded in her ears, absolute fear in her bloodstream as all she could do was watch as the door suddenly swung open, revealing her mother.

Except, it wasn’t her.

It was her body, with torn, yellowing skin.  Once dull (y/e/c) eyes glazed over with a milky film.  Saliva dripping past rotting teeth, and over pale lips.

“My child,” The thing that wasn’t quite her mother called, and (y/n) let out a guttural scream as It raced right towards her.  “You’ve come home! Back to mama!”

“No- No!” She screamed, and It took a few taunting steps towards her.  Close enough that the stench of rotting flesh wafted into her nose.

And as quickly as It had stepped towards her, it’s limbs bending and snapping unnaturally, as It took a different shape.  A new shape, that was also vaguely familiar.

Her father.

“It’s about time you came home…” He drooled all over her carpet, and if she wasn’t so overcome by fear, she probably would’ve thrown up.  “It’s been so long, your mother just about died.  But now you’re here.  To stay”

Her breath caught in her throat, swallowing a scream and in turn letting out a whimper.

“No-! No you’re not- this isn’t- you’re not real!” She squealed, and forced her legs to swing out the window.

“Not real enough for you?” The gnarled voice of her supposed father asked, and slowly, the parts of him that were torn, the glossy eyes, and the drooling lip, disappeared.  And just like that, it looked just like her father, the one she’d known as a child.

She wasn’t sure if this was worse than the zombified version.

“Stay!” He surged forward, snatching (y/n) by her wrist.  “Stay and float”

At that, she found her voice and screamed again, yanking with as much force she could to get her arm out of it’s dirty grasp.

“Stay and float! Stay and float! Stay and float!”

As it continued to screech it’s mantra, his voice became more and more deeper, louder, monstrous.  And she was afraid she’d have to risk getting her arm ripped off just to get out of it’s hold.

He threw his head back, a disgusting shriek escaping it’s throat as it’s jaw unhinged, and the body took on a new form.

“Come on toots,” An all too familiar voice took over.  “Stay and float”

It took all of her fear and willpower to get away in order for (y/n) to muster up the courage to swing her leg in through the open window, kicking not-Richie’s jaw with a loud and unpleasant crack against her boot.

It stumbled backwards, finally releasing her arm as it did, and collapsed inside the bedroom.

Because of the force of her kick, and because of It letting go of her hand, she stumbled onto the roof, and rolled backwards off of the slope of shingles.  Landing back down flat on the dewey ground with a thud and a groan.

She whined as she just laid there for a moment, processing (as best as she could with the wind knocked out of her) what had just happened.  From It attacking her, to falling off the roof.

Richie was gonna love to hear about the latter.  He’d fallen off her roof countless times when they were kids, in failed attempts to sneak out of her room.

With a wheeze she pushed herself to sit up, wiping off the grass and wetness from the sleeves of the ugly button up she still wore.  After getting used to being in an upright position, she forced herself to stand, huffing and puffing and mumbling profanities.

Her hand subconsciously hovered over her back pocket, pulling out the photograph and panted out a ‘thank fuck’ seeing that it wasn’t too damaged from the encounter.  Just a little bent at the edges.

A rush of adrenaline surged through her, and for the first time since coming back to Derry, she truly believed they could defeat It.  The Losers could win this. ___

“Hello?” She called out into the library, eagerly running in and searching for the others.

She held the polaroid in her hands firmly, glancing around the aisles of books, but judging by the lack of response, she figured that no one was back yet.

She had known right away what her artifact would be, so perhaps the others were still on the search for theirs.

She began to wander amongst the shelves, curiously admiring the very old looking books on them.  But in a small town like Derry, it wasn’t too surprising that they hadn’t gotten anything new in the last thirty years.  Or by the looks of it, one hundred and thirty years.

Just as she was about to actually pick out a book to pass the time, she heard a muffled noise, which sounded all too much like someone struggling to just be the old building settling.

Her instincts told her to call out to see if anyone was there, but her history with terror told her to keep quiet, and follow the noise to see what was going on.

She crept on the tips of her toes down the aisle, and again, a definite ‘hmph!’ could be heard.  She surely wasn’t alone in the library.

Peeking her head around a shelf, she was certain that this was where the intruder was.

Her heartbeat spiked, seeing him there.  He had aged horribly, as expected, but something about him still had that terrifying ‘Henry Bowers’ vibe.

It was probably because he held Eddie in a prison-like grasp, a hand clamped over the hypochondriac’s mouth, and his other hand pressing a knife dangerously close to his neck.

(y/n) could see there was already a stab wound on his cheek, covered by a small square of gauze.

“(y/n)? Is that really you sweetheart?” Bowers asked, tongue licking over the front of his yellowing teeth in a sultry manner that made her shiver and grimace at once.

“Let him go, Henry,” She muttered, and tucked her photograph in the back pocket of her jeans.  “You can still walk away from this.  Walk away”

“Whatcha got there?” He asked, ignoring her completely.  “Somethin’ sentimental? Hm? Somethin’ that’s gonna save your sad little lives? Aww…” He mocked, and shoved Eddie forward with him as he stepped closer to the girl.  “Give it to me and I won’t fuckin’ slit his throat”

Eddie let out a whimper, muffled against Henry’s clammy palm.

“Not a goddamn chance” She said, voice clear, hands curling into tight fists.  

There was a time that Henry Bowers could’ve threatened her into doing anything, but that was a lifetime ago, and she wasn’t afraid of his pathetic ass any more.

“Now let him fucking go”

“So pitiful.  Always so naive, bitch” Henry said, and took his hand off of Eddie’s mouth to grab him by the back of his shirt, still holding a knife to his neck.

“You alright?” (y/n) murmured to Eddie while he sucked in deep breaths.

“He smells so fucking bad” He muttered back, and (y/n) chuckled, and gave him a certain nod.  A nod that told him that he needed to make a move to distract Henry, and get that knife away from his neck.

The idea of fighting against a crazed man with a knife petrified Eddie, but he trusted (y/n), and right now, he trusted her with his life.

So before he could chicken out, he kicked his foot backwards, effectively swinging his foot right between Bowers’ legs.  This distracted him just long enough that Eddie could run away, and (y/n) grabbed his arm to pull him with her faster, towards the library doors.

“He’s still fucking alive?” She screeched as they ran, and Eddie fumbled for his inhaler in his pocket.

“Yeah, and he’s still a fucking psycho!” He replied, taking two puffs of proventil.

The doors were just in sight, they were just a few quick strides from the exit.

But out of seemingly nowhere, (y/n) was ripped away from Eddie, and thrown against the ground.  She groaned aloud as her head slammed into the floor, leaving a bruise where a bump would later rise.

“I’m tired of you fucking running away!” Henry screamed down into her face, making her wince and shut her eyes, shuffling as much as she could to get away from his knife that was threateningly pointed at her.  “I’m gonna fucking kill you this time” He muttered, raising his arm with the knife, and (y/n) held her arm over her face to brace for the sharp impact.

However, she barely felt the swipe across her cheekbone, before there was nothing.

She dared herself to open her eyes, lowering her arm just as the weight of Henry Bowers fell off of her, a metal beam shoved into the back of his skull.  She let out a squeak of disgust at the gruesome sight.

Just as quickly as she felt sick to the stomach, she was flooded with relief to see Richie standing over her, panting heavily and staring wide eyed from Henry’s corpse, then down to her.

“Holy shit,” He muttered, mostly to himself, and took (y/n’s) hand to help her off the floor.  “Are you alright?”

She could only manage a shaky nod, her hands grasping his wrists, and her hold tightening on him the longer she held him, the reality of the situation settling in.  She could’ve died.

“I killed him?” Richie half asked her, and she nodded again, glancing for half a second at the body on the ground.  “I fucking killed him” He breathed out, both surprised, and a little proud.

He was beginning to smile, before he abruptly ripped himself away from (y/n) and threw up the contents of his stomach on the floor.  Apparently reality had just settled in with him too.

“Oh my-” (y/n) gasped at Richie’s violent puking.  She turned her head away, but patted a comforting hand on his back.

Mike, Ben, and Beverly came into the library a few moments later, all groaning and shrieking at the sight of Henry Bowers’ body on the floor, a pole through his skull.

The day had just started, and there was so much to catch up on, and so much left to do.

But for now, they had to go get Bill before he stupidly walked into Neibolt alone. ___

Richie’s hand had never held (y/n’s) so tightly.  His heart dropped to his stomach as soon as they’d stepped foot into the (definitely haunted) house, and his hand had instantly shot out and grabbed hers.

For her or himself, he wasn’t sure.  But they were both grateful for it in the moment.

“It’s just like last time” (y/n) mumbled, shining her flashlight all over the floor in front of her.

“If you thought that was romantic, it wasn’t” Richie replied, giving her a small smile, that she weakly returned.

If her heart wasn’t about to beat out of her chest right now, she might’ve even laughed.

After a horrible encounter with a creature designed from Stan’s corpse head, and having to swim through greywater to get to the tunnel, her heart only beat harder, and louder.  Fear and adrenaline mixing together in a toxic concoction that made her swear she could feel her blood pumping.

She peered down the tunnel, afraid to even trust the rocky walls of it to climb down, much less what was on the other side.

Mike had already hoisted himself down, and Ben followed shortly after.  (y/n) was the next closest to the opening, so she knew it was her turn.

“You’re alright,” Richie told her as she tied her flashlight around her wrist.  She nodded, wanting to believe him, but her eyes were full of tears, and her bottom lip quivered a bit.  “I’ll be right behind you, okay? It’s gonna be fine”

With a kiss on the cheek, she believed him a little more, nodding again, and then slowly lowering herself into the well.

Her hands shook as she grabbed the jutted out rocks, but she didn’t slip up the whole way down.  And when she finally landed on her feet, in a cave beneath the town of Derry.

Richie dropped down a few short minutes after her, and wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her against his side almost comfortingly as they waited for the others to come down.

“What’d I tell ya?” He said with a dopey grin down at her.  She let out a small laugh, and for a moment, leaned her head against his chest.

Her cheek had stopped bleeding, and while the cut that Henry Bowers had made wasn’t deep, it looked awful.  Dried blood smeared over her pretty skin, dirtying it.  Richie made a mental note to help her clean that up later.

“Yeah yeah, you’re always right,” She muttered, looking up at him again.  “Thanks for saving my life earlier”

“Yeah, I’m a real hero, huh?” He said with a heavy sign, and she swatted at his chest with the back of her hand, and then wandering a little further into the cave, exploring the path they’d have to take to get to their final destination.

The journey continued as Eddie was the last to come down the well.

And after what felt like hours of walking, it was obvious when they reached the place they were looking for.

“Alright, quickly now!” Mike called, running up to the large rocky structure in the vast open space.  Rocks jutted out from the ground, almost forming a crown in the cave.

The others followed behind him, and watched as he placed the pyramid on the ground, filled it with lighter fluid, and set it on fire.

“Okay, now place your artifacts inside” He instructed.

Bill was the first to pull his out, a paper boat, with neat handwriting on it’s side that read S.S Georgie.

Then Beverly, a taped-together postcard that she didn’t really share about before adding it to the fire.

Next was Eddie, who threw in his old inhaler, but not before taking a puff from it first, making everyone cringe.

Richie threw in an arcade token without a word.  And when Eddie called him out for having an artifact that would take forever to burn, he snapped back at him.  No one asked any questions about it.

Ben added a piece of paper to the fire, which he admitted was a page from his yearbook, and the only signature on it was Beverly’s.

(y/n) was next, and she reluctantly pulled the polaroid out of her pocket, gazing down at it lovingly, and smoothing her thumb over the bent corners.

“Is that…?” Ben peered over, grinning to see that the picture he’d taken all those years ago, as a joke about how much (y/n) and Richie cuddle, was still in near perfect shape.

“Wow,” Richie mumbled, reaching out to hold one side of the polaroid, as (y/n) held the other.  “Look at that”

He turned it over, curious to see if his message had faded away.  But there, in black sharpie ink, written in his handwriting, Stay adorable, sunshine.  A sloppy heart scribbled underneath.

She grinned bashfully up at him, before a sadness settled on her features as she looked at the fire.  Richie squeezed her hand, as if to tell her it was okay, she could throw it in.

“It’s uh…” She cleared her throat, hand a bit shaky as she held the picture over the fire.  “It’s the one thing I should have brought with me but… didn’t”

With that, she dropped the photo into the fire, and watched edges curl up and turn black, before the flames ate it up.

Mike held up a rock, painted with what had to be blood.

“Do you remember this, Bev?” He asked, a knowing smile on his face, and her own features lit up as the memory replayed in her head.  “It’s the rock that hit Bowers” He said, looking at it, and admiring what it had done for him all those years ago.  It had saved his life.

He tossed in the rock, and the flames erupted even larger, brighter.

And above them, a portal, of sorts opened up.  (y/n) got a glimpse of bright orange streams of light before Mike hollered for everyone to look away from the deadlights.

She had more trust in him than she had curiosity in the lights, and was quick to look downwards, pressing her hand over her eyes for safe measure.

Richie’s hand grabbed her free one, pulling her closer, and even closer when the power of the deadlights going into the pyramid was blowing harsh winds all around them.

The ground began to shake as the orbs were completely submerged inside the pyramid, and (y/n) pressed her face completely against Richie’s chest, holding him tightly and fearfully.  She wasn’t sure what was happening, or when it was safe to look.

But things settled down, the winds stopped, the ground stilled, and slowly, everyone cautiously peeked their eyes open.

Mike was quick to slam the lid over the pyramid, trapping the deadlights inside.

“We did it?” Bill breathed out, unsurely.

“It’s gone?” Richie asked.  “Just like that?”

“We did it,” Mike said, a tired grin tugging on his lips.  “We did it, we trapped the lights”

Everyone seemed to smile, and let out sighs of relief.

(y/n) pulled away from Richie only to reach up and eagerly press her lips against his, hands splaying across his cheeks, and grinning even wider as she pulled away.  He took her in his arms, lifting her off the ground as he hugged her enthusiastically.

“We fucking did it!”  He cheered, even spinning the girl around before setting her back down.

Their moment was short lived, as they were soon joined by Pennywise, who mocked their efforts at defeating him, and released the deadlights from the pyramid.  And if that wasn’t enough to make their fear settle in their bones again, he grew about a hundred feet, taking on the leg form of a monstrous spider, and chased them amongst the rocks with crazed laughter.

Richie haphazardly reached out for (y/n), and pulled her with him behind a tall rock that should keep them out of It’s view for a few moments, which was all he needed.

“Listen to me, are you listening to me? Listen,” Richie instructed hastily.  “We dont- we don’t have much time-”

“What?” (y/n) said, urging him to hurry up before Pennywise rounded the corner and was able to see them.

“First chance you get, you run the fuck out of here-”

“Richie no-!”

“Promise me, fucking- swear to me, that if you get the chance you fucking book it, okay?” He pleaded, but she shook her head back and forth, tears welling in her eyes as Richie continued to beg her.  “Swear to me- do it (y/n) swear”

“I- I can’t” She whimpered.

“You can, please, please.  If you stil love me just- just fucking promise me you’ll get the hell out of here, and get safe,” She cried harder, a small gasp departing her lips as her throat burned with tears.  “I need you to be safe, okay?”

He peered around the rock, seeing Pennywise nearing where they were hiding, and then turned quickly back to (y/n).

“Richie I can’t leave- I’m not leaving you again,” She wept, tears flowing down her cheeks.  “Please don’t make me-”

“I’ll be there with you as soon as I can,” He promised, cupping her cheeks in his hands.  “I swear it, alright? I just need you to swear to me you’ll get out of here”

“Rich” She cried, squeezing her eyes shut tight, and for a mere second relished in the feeling of the pads of his thumbs swiping away her tears.

“Do you understand me?” He spoke after a moment, and she nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Her sad eyes met his, and they alone told him everything that she needed him to know.  He gave her a bittersweet smile, before drawing her face in close for him to press his lips in the space between her eyes.

“I love you,” He murmured before pulling away.  Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Richie could see that It was even closer, and he pushed her away from him.  “Now go!”

She let out a cry as she was forced out of his hold, and the tears started up again as she made a bee-line towards the entrance of the cave they’d come in through.

She made it through the passing just before It was able to spot her, and hid under the rock as she watched It pass, and Richie ran from his hiding spot to another.

Her hands had been shaking, and she couldn’t get herself to move, even though at this point, she probably would get away.  But looking at the Losers, her friends, all running about the cave and trying to hide before It could grab them and terrorize them, she couldn’t go through with it.

Her eyes caught Richie’s, who began to shake his head, already knowing what she was thinking.  She gave him a sad smile, and realized she wasn’t shaking anymore.

She wasn’t afraid.

Richie shook his head again, waving his arms around in an ‘x’ sort of motion, desperate for her to listen to him.  To turn around and start running.

‘I’m sorry’ she mouthed, and wiggled out of the crevice.

“(y/n)! No!” The scream Richie let out echoed over the sounds of Pennywise’s snapping jaws and clattering crab-like legs.

She wasn’t afraid, but he certainly was.

She scaled up to a cliffside that was jutted out from the cave’s wall, collecting as many rocks as she could and beginning to throw them with all the force she could muster.

And if their lives weren’t at stake, he would be proud and cheering her on as she began to launch rocks at It.  But instead, his heart was beating erratically with fear as he watched her do something so reckless.

Nevertheless, he ran up to her, and joined her in pelting the monster with the largest rocks they could lift.

“You’re stupid! You’re insane!” He yelled at her, but she just gave him a wide grin, and shrugged her shoulders, before heaving up a rather large rock, swinging low so she could throw it as high as she could.  It landed with a loud ‘thunk’ ‘crack’ against Pennywise’s skull, and he screeched as the area began to crack, blood pooling upwards.

“Well where do you think I picked it up from?” (y/n) asked teasingly, hands dropping to her knees as she bent over and heaved.

She only had a moment to catch her breath before Pennywise whirled around, and the small moment of victory was gone in an instant.

It’s large crooked leg knocked her off the cliffside she stood on, and sent her tumbling down to the ground below.  Richie shrieked, scurrying to get down to her, but in his haste his eyes went upwards, landing on the blue circling orbs, and he was trapped in the deadlights.

(y/n) pushed herself up on shaky arms, spitting out blood and wiping haphazardly at her mouth to get the excess blood off her lips.  As she got up, her eyes caught Richie, floating above her, staring with dull eyes at whatever Mike had told them not to look at.

“Richie!” She screamed, and despite her legs feeling like jelly, she shoved herself upwards and ran towards him, hoping if she jumped high enough, she could grab his leg and pull him down to her.  “Richie! Come on!” She pleaded, eyes welling with tears as she tried, and failed, over and over again to grab onto him.

“(y/n)! Look out!” Eddie blared, just in time, as It came running towards her, reaching greedy hands down towards her body.

“Come on toots,” It’s voice was deranged and she hated the way her special nickname sounded coming out of it’s clown painted mouth.  “Don’t you wanna float with your lover?”

She scrambled away as quickly as she could, but It was so close behind her, she was bound to be snatched right up.

“Help!” She screamed, begging her legs to move faster, but sure enough, a large hand wrapped around her torso and picked her up like she was a doll.  

She screamed, throwing her fists against the back of Pennywise’s gloved hand, as though it could cause any damage anyways.  The higher he pulled her upwards to his face, the more she realized she didn’t actually want him to let go of her.  A fall at this height was bound to kill her.  So eventually, she stopped hitting his hand, and instead clutched onto the silk glove to keep her secure.

“You’ve caused quite some trouble” It spoke angrily, leaning in close so she could see it’s bright orange eyes.

“There are other ways to make him feel small!” Mike shouted.  “You have to make It feel small!”

Her eyes darted from the man on the ground, back up to the large figure that held her captive in it’s hand.

“I’m not afraid of you,” She declared, voice clear, and candid.  For a moment, she swore It’s face twitched with a wince.  “You’re just a clown.  You’re not fucking scary.  And I’m not scared of you!”

It snarled, baring it’s endless rows of razor sharp teeth as it roared right at her face.  She screamed, suddenly very afraid that this was how she died, that she’d be just another one of it’s snack-turned-victims.

But just as she thought she was going to be thrown into It’s mouth like a potato chip, the roaring ceased, as a long metal spear had been thrown into it’s exposed throat, ripping through to the otherside.

Her eyes widened at the gruesome sight, and It stumbled backwards, dropping her body in the process.  She screamed as she fell, but was silenced as soon as she hit the ground.

“Oh my- fuck! (y/n)!” Eddie ran over to her, helping her sit up and make sure she hadn’t hit her head too hard.  “Did you see that!? Did you see what I just fucking did!?” He cheered for himself, but his voice was merely a distant echo in (y/n’s) ears.

“Wh- what about Richie?” She mumbled, rubbing her head as she looked over to see him falling from where he was floating.  “Is he- oh my god”

Her legs shook, so much so that she kept on tripping and falling as she made her way over to where Richie laid, and eventually her knees completely gave out, and she collapsed at his side.

“R-Richie?” She shook him, afraid to see his eyes shut as he laid there, almost lifelessly.  “Richie!?” She yelled now, grasping the material of his shirt in her hands as tears built up and burned her eyes.

He gasped, head shooting up for a moment before falling back down against the rock.  He took in deep breaths and stared at her with wide eyes, not sure what had just happened that had knocked him out.

“You’re okay, you’re okay?” She repeated herself, hands moving rather quickly over his face, both comforting him and inspecting for any blood or injuries.

“Yeah, I’m alright,” He wheezed, and (y/n) took his face in her hands, a cry of relief coming from her throat.  She was smiling, but still crying.  “You gotta stop crying today toots, I don’t have the time to kiss all those tears away” He teased, and pushed himself to sit up on shaky arms.

“Shut the fuck up” She whimpered happily, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him to sit up the rest of the way so she could hug him as tightly as possible.  

Her hands grasping at his hair, and then his shoulders, and then the back of his shirt, anything she could hold.  Richie buried his face in the crook of her neck, arms encircling her torso and squeezing her tight against him.

“God, Rich,” She mumbled, pulling away from him to look at his face.  His glasses were a bit cracked, and there was a nasty bruise along his cheek, a little bit of blood trickling down his forehead from his hairline.  “You look like shit” She giggled, carefully wiping away the blood with her thumb.

“Yeah yeah, real hot coming from you” Richie said, silently counting the cuts and bruises littered over (y/n’s) face.  The cut from Bowers, a bruise at her temple, a slightly blackening eye, bloody nose, split lip, she was a mess.

It hurt to smile, but she couldn’t help it.  One of her hands shakily racing to place her palm against his cheek.  The expression on her face something that made Richie want to both cry and hold her in his arms for as long as possible.

“Richie…” She mumbled.  “I-”

The world stuttered in it’s timeline, it had to have, because what happened next, Richie was certain it was in slow motion.

A large claw protruded through (y/n’s) chest, making her words stutter to a stop, and slowly, she bowed her head down to see that it was, in fact, It’s razor sharp leg.  Impaled clean through her back.

“(y/n)!” Richie’s scream was blood curling, but all she could hear in that moment was white noise, eyes trained on the wound in her chest.  She was frozen in fear, and the realization that she was going to die here hit her like a truck on the highway.

Her chest suddenly felt very warm, and as It retracted the claw that had pierced through her whole body, she realized it was because of the fresh blood streaming out of her body, dampening her clothes in a soggy red.

Richie’s hands were fumbling over the wound as Pennywise’s claw was retracted, and the other Loser’s were screaming insults at it to finish the job.  Meanwhile, Richie carefully laid (y/n) down over his lap so she’d be more comfortable.

“(y/n), no… no no no, sweetheart, hey,” Richie cooed quietly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over.  “Hey it’s alright, you’re alright, we’ll get you out of here real soon-”

“Richie,” She whimpered, taking his bloody hand away from her face, and intertwining his fingers with hers.  “Listen to me”

Her voice was small, but she needed him to stop his rambling so he could hear her.

“Listen- listen,” She mumbled, gathering what little strength she had to squeeze his hand.  “It’s okay”

“No-! No, no it isn’t it’s not fucking okay-”

“Richie,” She cried, one tear rolling down her bloody cheek.  “I’m okay, I’m gonna be okay,” She was lying through her teeth, just trying to calm him down even if it was just for a moment.  “You’ll be okay”

He shook his head, tears falling freely now, but he didn’t cut her off.

Thi couldn’t be happening, not now, not after he just got her back.  He just got her back, last night.  And they’d had a wonderful time together, they clicked just like they had back then.  He’d gotten to kiss her again, hold her again, love her again, how could this happen? How could she be ripped away from him so soon? This wasn’t fair this wasn’t fair this wasn’t-

“I love you,” She whimpered quietly, sad to even say it, given the circumstances, but she knew she had to.  For both of their sakes.  “Okay? I love you, I always did, okay?”

I told you to run, why didn’t you run away? Why didn’t you listen?

It wasn’t fair.  But there was no changing it, there was no way for him to fix it, and that’s what broke him the most.

There was no saving her.

“Okay,” Richie mumbled back.  The finality of their situation could be heard in the one word he spoke.  It was a goodbye.  Holding her hand tightly in his, and his free hand stroking her hair out of her face to keep it from getting stained with blood, he nodded his head a bit down at her.  “Okay.  I know, toots”

It was quiet for a minute as she tried to hold back her tears, for him.  SHe could feel her heart slowing, and most of her body had gone numb in shock.  All she could really feel was Richie’s hand tightly holding hers.  She hoped that when the time came, he’d let go.  Begged whoever was up there to help him let go.

“Hey,” Richie called softly, hastily wiping at his wet eyes with the back of his hand.  “(y/n) (y/l/n)”

“Richie Tozier?” She replied weakly, confused.

“Will you marry me?”

The question was so soft, she almost didn’t catch it.

A cry left her lips as she nodded, unable to hide her tears from him any longer.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” She mumbled.  “Yeah, I’ll marry you”

Her whimpers broke his heart, but he smiled gently down at her nonetheless.

“Alright then toots,” He whispered, and stroked her hair back again so he could lean down to her, and kiss her forehead with a featherlight touch.  

She closed her eyes at the action, and they both missed Pennywise being shrunken down into dust.  Too wrapped up in one another to even realize he was gone.

“Rest easy, baby” Richie said quietly, his nose pressed into the crown of her head, and his eyes squeezing shut tightly, too afraid to look at her as she took her last breath.  “I love you so fucking much”

When he finally pulled away, he knew her eyes wouldn’t open again.

The Losers were quiet as they gathered together, all staring at (y/n’s) boneless body in Richie’s arms.  He was holding her against his chest, rocking slightly as he cried into his shirt that she still wore.  If they’d stepped closer, they would have heard him cursing straight at God.  But no one dared to take another step forward, letting Richie have this moment to mourn. ___

“She saved my life,” Eddie declared, while everyone was floating in the quarry, rinsing off the blood and gore that stained most everyone’s clothes and skin.  “At the library.  If she hadn’t come in, Bowers would’a killed me”

The others nodded solemnly as Eddie spoke.

“She genuinely cared about me,” Ben said next, remembering the first time he’d met her.  She was the one that offered to let him ride on her bike after his run-in with the Bowers Gang.  She’d demanded that they helped clean him up.  “I guess… she saved my life too”

“Mine too,” Beverly agreed, smiling bittersweetly.  “Beat up Greta Keene in the seventh grade.  She was half her size, and she lost terribly but… she did it anyways”

“Me too,” Mike added.  “Told my grandpa she was a vegetarian so when she came over we didn’t have to slaughter anything,” He chuckled a bit.  “We always starved but… she knew I was always too chicken shit to do it”

“She used to help me with my s-” Bill cut himself off before he could chop up the word.  “She’d help me pronounce things b-better,” He looked down at the water with a frown.  “She always just wanted to help”

Everyone was looking at Richie now, while he was holding his glasses in his hands, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I have too much to say” He finally spoke through his tears.

Beverly swam over and held onto his arm, leaning her head against his elbow to comfort him.

“You always do,” Eddie said, but the teasing words came out in a gentle whisper, as he floated to Richie’s other side, and wrapped his arm around him.  “And somehow, she loved that about you”

Richie laughed humorlessly, and for a moment wondered how she’d put up with him all through their adolescent years.

“I abandoned her,” He told them.  “We were supposed to go to New York together, but I left her” He frowned deeply, but the corner of his lips twitched up in a small smile.  “But when she came back… when we all came back she…”

It was like his voice broke at that point, and he shoved his glasses back onto his nose.

“She still loved me anyways” He finished in a hushed voice.

“Of course she did,” Beverely cooed.  “No one’s ever loved anything as much as (y/n) loved you” She told him sincerely.

“Back then and now,” Ben added.  “Just so you know.  It was always obvious to the rest of us”

Richie’s lips pulled into a small smile at everyone’s kind words, but they didn’t stop the tears from falling down his cheeks.

Everyone gathered around him to embrace tightly, all mourning the loss of their friend, and admiring her for saving all of them in her own little ways.

“I just miss her so much,” Richie whimpered, leaning his head down onto Eddie’s shoulder as he cried.  “I don’t know how to go about the rest of my life now without her”

“Day by day,” Bill said softly.  “We’ll get a gravesite for her, alright? So we can visit?”

Richie nodded, wiping at his face.

“Yeah, that’d be nice” He mumbled out.  (y/n) wouldn’t have wanted to be buried and forgotten in the place Neibolt once stood.  She’d want a real memorial, and Richie wanted it for her.

He was going to do for her what she deserved, for the rest of his damned life, he swore it.

It would’ve been in his vows, anyways.

___

taglist: @hippeyhaley (i'd had my taglist for IT closed bc i didn’t think i'd be writing for it again, but i'll re-open in the case that i do continue writing for it, hmu if you want to be added)

don’t worry, here’s the alternate ending.  i knew y’all would cry about it.

xoxo ~ jordie

#IT #IT fanfiction #Richie Tozier #Richie Tozier x reader #Richie tozier fanfiction #richie tozier scenario #richie tozier imagine #finn wollfhard x reader #bill hader x reader