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saintsenara · 9 months

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your voldemort is 10/10 perfection. are there any characterizations, common interpretations, etc that you find implausible or just plain dislike? or that you really love and have drawn from? :)

thank you so much for this ask anon :)

i received a similar ask from @sarafina-sincerity, and so they are answered here together.

i have received a flurry of asks about my main boy, lord voldemort, which form a neat triad, so this is part two of a three part meta on him:

1. what do i like about voldemort as a character? [here] 2. what is my preferred way of writing voldemort (a character analysis deep-dive)? 3. what does dumbledore get wrong about voldemort? [here]

what is my preferred way of writing voldemort?

this meta is split into two parts, the first of which has three sections:

influences on my writing of voldemort character traits my voldemort always has voldemort’s physical appearance

part two examines diferrent stages of voldemort's life

voldemort’s childhood voldemort’s school years what do i think is going on with voldemort between 1945 and 1970? voldemort and the first war voldemort and the second war

let's get into it...

influences on my writing of voldemort

the author whose voldemort has had the greatest influence on me is, without a doubt, eldritcher. while i have no hope of replicating the majesty of their prose, i have never been able to shake their depiction of voldemort as someone profoundly lonely and deeply affected by grief, something most prominent in their transcendentally good almagest, and a reading of voldemort which i bring not only to my writing but to my engagement with the canon text.

i am also very struck by their depiction of voldemort as a creature of sensation, instead of the rather austere version we tend to find in fanfiction, particularly in their catullus 16 and their writing of tombraxas. while i diverge from their portrayal of voldemort as lazy - i think he’s sustained by a current of nervous energy (and, indeed, that both he and harry have poorly-managed adhd, but that’s personal projection) - i find myself always writing voldemort as someone who likes being warm, loathes the outdoors, and is fond of expensive, sensory fabrics.

that voldemort is a creature of sensation also affects how i read many of his relationships. as i have pointed out in my prior writing about bellamort, he tolerates an enormous amount of physical touch from bellatrix in canon, and i am quite taken with the idea that he’s a surprisingly tactile person.

another influence i have found very significant recently is @phantomato’s excellent series of meta on voldemort and gender identity, in particular because they have helped me work through a discomfort i have always had with this quote from half-blood prince:

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore’s refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.

voldemort and gender identity is something which i would love to see explored more in the fandom. i am as guilty as anyone of writing a cheerfully cisgender dark lord, and - in particular - of not engaging enough with the fact that the canonical voldemort considers tom his deadname. i find myself returning again and again to these meta each time i sit down to begin a new voldemort-centric wip, and i think that my own writing of voldemort has been nuanced considerably by them. certainly, voldemort’s gender plays a far bigger part in scylla and charybdis than in my previous long-fics

there are, of course, portrayals of voldemort which have influenced me to write in the opposite direction. i’m not going to mention, even obliquely, the names of these authors or their stories, but i am going to mention one version of voldemort which i loathe and which i never intend to replicate in my writing: the voldemort of the films. as i said in the previous meta in this series, film!voldemort is the source of countless fanon which undermines the statement of the canonical seven-book series, above all the idea that voldemort is not terrifying, that he is completely deranged and incompetent, and that he doesn’t very nearly win.

character traits my voldemort always has

as i said in the previous meta in this series, i prefer a voldemort who isn’t a sociopath, largely because i think it’s quite lazy writing to have a villain whose evil is caused by just not getting human emotion (after all, there are plenty of people who find it difficult to parse other people’s emotions, and it doesn’t automatically make them bad). it is considerably more challenging - as both a writer and a reader - to have to confront the idea that the villain has complicated, human, and multifaceted motivations behind their actions, and that we are called as humans to accept that it’s possible to be simultaneously horrified by and sympathetic to people who cause harm (voldemort's political beliefs are addressed in part two of this meta). above all, i loathe the implication of the text that voldemort was born bad and was always irredeemable, not least because it completely undermines the series’ central thesis on the value of choice.

i accept, of course, that this is not what the doylist text thinks. jkr has been very clear that she thinks voldemort is sociopathic and that he has no concept of humanity. fortunately, i take her opinion as infallible in very little (trans rights are human rights), and i much prefer a watsonian approach to the text which views dumbledore’s conviction of voldemort’s sociopathy as… just incorrect.

separate to this, i like a voldemort who is emotionally demonstrative. it seems to have become standard to write him as preternaturally controlled (maybe breaking down when under extreme pressure, but almost exclusively doing so in private), but the voldemort of canon is, and there’s no other word for it, feral. he is one of the male characters whose emotional range is described in the most detail and who is described as registering his emotions very obviously on his face (snape, another person whose fanon characterisation is one of emotional repression, is the other). i’m always tickled by harry’s complaint in order of the phoenix that he picks up ‘lurches of annoyance or cheerfulness’ via the scarcrux, and i love thinking about the little joys in voldemort’s day.

i also see him as someone who is often fretful and unmoored - indeed he basically says as much in goblet of fire:

"I will not pretend to you that I didn’t then fear that I might never regain my powers... Yes, that was perhaps my darkest hour... I could not hope that I would be sent another wizard to possess... and I had given up hope, now, that any of my Death Eaters cared what had become of me."

certainly, the canonical voldemort has a sense of purpose when focused on the wars which doesn’t seem to be a permanent presence in his everyday life, and he - like dumbledore - seems to spend a lot of time in stasis until pushed to change course; the clearest example of this being that he stays in customer service for ten years and would have continued at borgin and burkes if hepzibah smith had just kept her treasures in the safe.

this is not, of course, to say that voldemort is not ambitious - he absolutely is - but that, as with harry, that ambition is accompanied by a certain need for pressure. indeed, voldemort is one of the more adrenaline-chasing slytherins we meet in the series, and i am convinced that this is the trigger for his often-expressed (and, let’s be real, pretty gryffindorish) view that courage and daring are valuable, seen most clearly in his frankly simping description of james potter as dying ‘like a man, straight-backed and proud’ and his determination to duel harry in the graveyard rather than just off him; as well as in his frequent statements that he loathes cowardice, his cruelty to minions (especially wormtail and lucius malfoy) he regards as insufficiently daring, and his taunting of harry and dumbledore with the idea that they allow others to hide them or fight their battles for them. that dumbledore fails to understand this about voldemort is addressed in the next meta in this series.

so, too, is the fact that dumbledore fails to appreciate voldemort’s clearly quite profound sense of honour. this is seen most clearly in his relationship with wormtail, whose inherent lack of honourable conduct - not only to him, but to the marauders - evidently disgusts him:

“Wormtail, I need somebody with brains, somebody whose loyalty has never wavered, and you, unfortunately, fulfill neither requirement.”

“You returned to me, not out of loyalty, but out of fear of your old friends. You deserve this pain, Wormtail. You know that, don’t you?”

his detestation of liars seems, throughout the series, to be genuine, and he is actually very rarely shown lying in canon - although the implication that he lies frequently off-page is obvious.

i like the canonical description of voldemort as highly independent, self-motivated, and self-sufficient, although - as discussed in the second half of this meta - i think there is room for more nuance in whether he actually likes the death eaters than canon gives us. i also like the fact that the canonical voldemort is incredibly pragmatic (even if this is undermined on several occasions by his flair for the dramatic) and i think that this aspect of his character is all too often overlooked by authors who want to make him inflexible and obsessive. voldemort openly admits to having changed his mind on several occasions throughout canon, or to have modified his approach on the basis of new information; that this information is often partial, or given to him falsely by snape, does not change this. he seems - like ron, and somewhat like harry - to have good gut instincts, to be an excellent judge of character, and to be reasonably self-aware (although he uses this almost exclusively for nefarious ends). i love the chameleon-like aspect of his charisma - the being-the-centre-of-attention at the slug club which morphs into him having negative charm in the hepzibah smith scene, as he sits offering her all the rope she needs to hang herself - and i love writing, especially in tomarry, the ways in which his customer service mask cracks.

now, the more controversial aspects of my characterisation of voldemort…

the canonical voldemort is very, very funny, and far too few fics engage with his (malicious) sense of humour. tomarry works as a ship entirely because they would have a great time bickering with each other, and snapemort works because they are both comically petty and extremely dramatic.

i adore the magpieishness to voldemort’s character, not only in the idea that he likes shiny things, but also in that his love-language is gift-giving (he rewards his followers for acts of service, absolutely, but the language with which he describes this is always focused on the idea of gift-giving, and, especially, reciprocal gift-exchange). i always write him as a collector not only of impressive magical objects but of things full stop, whether we’re doing the cheerful fluff of him filling grimmauld place with interestingly shaped rocks he finds on walks, or the more canon-compliant helping himself to trinkets he sees in his friends’ magnificent houses. i am committed to the idea that he genuinely likes working in the antiques trade and i never write him going into teaching or politics - if i find myself in a situation where he has to get a job beyond being a terrorist, he stays at borgin and burkes.

i view voldemort as someone whose great longing is to be perceived and understood. both the child we meet in dumbledore’s memories and the adult who rises in the graveyard share a tendency to reveal far too much about themselves when they are given the opportunity, and i always write voldemort - especially the voldemort in one year in every ten - as never mastering a habit of letting things slip when he gets excited. tomarry again works because harry is happy to do this perceiving.

i also - and this is definitely the controversial one - view him as someone capable of great and stalwart faithfulness, whose ability to express this aspect of his character is constrained by the trust issues caused by his childhood trauma. he is extraordinarily devoted to both snape and bellatrix throughout the canon series, and he also seems to be quite fond of augustus rookwood. obviously, this is because he thinks his read on them as loyal servants is right, but i don’t think we necessarily have to see this as a negative - most of us trust and like people because we think their motivations are trustworthy and likeable, and most of us maintain at least some relationships which have a degree of transactionality to them, but are no less sincere for that.

whether he is someone who loves is another question. i vary it by story, although i always frame his rejection of love as a deliberate choice rather than, as the text does, something innate.

my voldemort always has several much more frivolous traits which i like to put into stories entirely to amuse myself…

i notice a tendency for voldemort to be written as pretty culturally sophisticated, and i think this is generally correct. certainly, the way that class functions in britain is that toleration within a class which is not one’s own can be achieved through simply knowing the right references, and i absolutely believe that voldemort is someone who learned what books to say he’d read and which knife to use at dinner with dizzying speed when he arrived at hogwarts. however, one thing i can never get on board with is the idea that he’s a good cook. i prefer my voldemort to have a touch of the ration book to him - and for his plebeian tastes in food to confuse and annoy the posher death eaters. i like him refusing to eat at fancy dinner parties, before sneaking into the kitchens for a stack of toast and margarine, and being a connoisseur of all the finest bits of british cuisine: a fry up, beans on toast, a good roast dinner, potatoes in any form, kippers and kedgeree, fish and chips, mysterious pies, and tea with everything. that is not to say, of course, that i think he’s into bland food (the only mischaracterisation of the brits i, as an irishwoman, am prepared to go into bat against). this is a man who loves a curry, without a doubt, and i am incredibly fond of the idea that he develops a serious taste for many of the world’s most delicious cuisines on his travels.

i also always write him with an incredibly sweet tooth - he takes his tea with milk and six sugars, hermione is dismayed. i do this entirely because i think it’s funny. (fans of the asenora cinematic universe will have noticed a repeated motif that voldemort loves marzipan. this is because i love marzipan, and everyone else i know thinks that this is a great moral failing equivalent to being a mass-murderer.)

i like a voldemort who has some muggle skills. i write him as being able to drive, use a telephone, fire a gun (although this is another eldritcher influence), take the tube, and correctly handle muggle money, much to the shock of many of the death eaters. i prefer him to be absolutely terrible at anything which could be termed muggle manual labour, though - the man cannot do diy, garden, lift heavy objects without magic, play any sport, swim, or cook well (as discussed) - although i imagine him as extremely fastidious and perfectly happy to be put to work on household chores. i have him keep a diary into adulthood.

i also like him to have some appreciation of muggle culture, very much despite himself. again, this is because i think the fact that he is exactly the right age for the fashions of his youth to have been distinctly un-voldemort-ish - think tiki cocktails, p.g. wodehouse, golden age detective fiction, film musicals, swing music, and the lindy hop - is hilarious. this manifests across my works in the idea that he is incredibly fond of fred astaire, the only muggle he is prepared to accept has some sort of residual magical talent. the only reason i write this is because my late grandfather, a man whose only personality trait otherwise was ‘fenian’, was born in the same year as lord v and absolutely adored old fred, and i will get teary-eyed listening to cheek-to-cheek for the rest of my life as a result.

voldemort’s physical appearance

the narrative importance of the young voldemort’s appearance is often overlooked, i think. it is a comment on his broader purpose within the series - he wants to be perceived as striking and special, and his unusual physical attractiveness as a young man and horrifying eldritch features as an adult contribute to that, while harry, the modest, everyman hero, is neither obviously beautiful nor obviously ugly (and the series, more generally, treats those who are very poorly). voldemort’s attractiveness - as with snape’s ugliness - is also an inversion of one of the series-as-children’s-literature’s main characterisation choices: that good people are nice, kind, and good-looking, and bad people are ugly, rude, or unpleasant. i also always love the little nod to the picture of dorian gray in the way the sin voldemort inflicts upon his soul changes his face.

however, beyond being told that voldemort is hot-then-not, the text also gives us some hints at voldemort’s appearance and mannerisms which i would like to see more in fanfic, especially the fact that he is described in quite a few feminine-coded ways: his voice is high; he usually speaks softly; he moves in a way which suggests elegance - that he’s always described as ‘gliding’ in canon always strikes me; and by his late twenties he has hair long enough for harry to comment on it (particularly interesting, since this comment comes in the course of voldemort’s most feminine-coded action in the series - the murder, in a domestic context using poison, the classic ‘woman’s weapon’, of hepzibah smith and the framing of her servant, hokey). the text refers to him as ‘finely-carved’, which can be read as meaning that he has quite delicate features; the repeated emphasis on how pale he is - even pre-horcruxes - makes us think of the consumptive, effeminate artist of victorian literature who never leaves the house; and the text’s constant highlighting of how thin he is - and, especially, his long, elegant fingers - again calls to mind effeminate stereotypes who lack proper male brawn. voldemort’s only uncomplicatedly masculine characteristic in canon is that he is very tall.

this is to say, i much prefer a voldemort - whether he looks as he does aged sixteen or aged sixty - who doesn’t look stereotypically masculine. the text refers to him as ‘handsome’, of course, but i choose to believe that this is just harry’s own binary understanding of how men should talk about men, and that the more appropriate word for voldemort is ‘beautiful’. i've discussed some references for how I picture him here.

even when writing him as cisgender, i always find myself leaning towards him being quite camp, and there being an effete edge to his otherwise sinister vibe. i go back and forth on whether i imagine him as vain - the tom riddle of bookbinding spends hours each morning on his elaborately-pomaded hair, the one of scylla and charybdis keeps wearing cologne even as his face his whittled away by dark magic, but the canonical voldemort of the second war clearly isn’t doing either of those things…

i am also interested in the idea that voldemort is physically quite fragile. i write him as having been quite a sickly child, and i think this provides an interesting jumping-off point into thinking about why he is so obsessed with magic. i like the idea that he wasn’t top dog at all at the orphanage, because he was easy to physically subdue, until he learned to use his magic to protect himself, and i like to imagine that he always knows that, should dumbledore or harry decide to throw away their wands and just deck him, he is absolutely losing that fight.

of his individual physical features, i am completely wedded to the idea that voldemort has his mother’s eyes. marvolo gaunt is described in half-blood prince as having ‘brown’ eyes; morfin gaunt, like his nephew, is described as having ‘dark’ ones. i like to think merope's are the same.

voldemort’s childhood

i love an au as much as the next girl, but only very rarely one which alters voldemort’s childhood and expects him to turn out largely unchanged. indeed, i don’t think there’s any way to write a voldemort which nods to canon if he’s not an orphan, not raised in an institution, and not poor - he can have some similarities with his canon version (i’m always struck by the comment in goblet of fire that nobody likes the riddles, and i always write tom sr. as being the source of many of voldemort’s traits and mannerisms) but voldemort’s purpose within the series depends on his relationship to his class background, and especially:

that he is the most ‘aristocratic’ wizard we meet in canon - he is the only person in the seven book series to be directly descended from one of hogwarts’ founders, and the only one (horcrux harry doesn’t count) to possess a unique magical talent connected to his lineage - but is unable to reap the benefits of this in the wizarding world because he has a muggle name and a muggle face (it’s notable in canon that pureblood families all tend to look very alike within their family units - think the weasleys, the malfoys, the blacks, and the longbottoms - that voldemort doesn’t look like a gaunt confers him benefits in that he’s hot, but it undermines the ‘immediately being identifiable as one of slytherin’s descendants’ vibe which he might otherwise have.)

that he is the most aristocratic muggle we meet in canon - he is the only person in the seven book series to have a member of the landed gentry in his immediate family - but is unable to reap the benefits of this in the muggle world because his father doesn’t acknowledge his existence and he is raised as working-class.

that neither of these two halves of his class background can ever intersect, and he is a half-blood character whose sense of belonging in either world is tenuous (snape is another; harry - who has a pureblood name and resembles his pureblood father - is much less so). voldemort’s dislike of the common and ordinary, the fact that he is absolutely shameless about money, the fact he takes a muggle title for his wizarding alias etc. can all be read as attempts to seek meaning in a world in which he is otherwise pretty liminal. whether he actually supports the class system is discussed below…

all of which is to say, i never write a voldemort whose childhood circumstances alter from canon. there are no two ways about it: voldemort’s childhood is spectacularly grim, and the trauma it causes (while different from the trauma fanon often ascribes to it - above all, and i’ll die on this hill, the fact that he doesn’t give a fuck about dumbledore setting his wardrobe on fire) drives far more of voldemort’s actions than the watsonian narrative seems aware of. it is, for example, clearly the trigger for his hoarding, for his lack of trust in authority (which is exactly the same as harry’s, but treated very differently by the books), for his obsession with being the best, and for his tendency to show off. the adult voldemort loathes reminders of childhood neglect - especially babies crying - and, while dumbledore mocks him for this, his ignorance of fairytales is a neat way of saying that he didn’t have a real or carefree childhood. i am flexible on the headcanon of him suffering specific physical or sexual abuse in the orphanage (i always wonder if his canonical fear of doctors is meant to imply something along those lines), although frankly i think the childhood we see in canon is miserable enough.

the most significant bit of voldemort’s childhood trauma, though, is his grief over the death of his mother (and, it’s worth noting, his grief over the presumed death of his father - who he doesn’t know for certain is alive until morfin tells him). i’ll go into this - and especially dumbledore’s spectacular mishandling of it - in more detail in the third meta in this series, but i want to emphasise two important merope-related things which the narrative highlights: that voldemort murders both his father and hepzibah smith to avenge her, and that the locket is the only horcrux for which he constructs an elaborate defence in a place meaningful to him from childhood. i expand on this in my writing with the headcanon that voldemort believes he killed his mother and that, therefore, his destiny to be a killer was set from birth; that he doesn’t know her actual name; and that he believes he looks like her and is devastated to discover this isn’t the case. i am certain that he gets his conviction that tom riddle sr. abandoned his mother due to magic from his father directly, and that his implication in goblet of fire that he thinks he was a wanted baby until his mother revealed her powers is a deliberate, self-comforting misinterpretation of tom sr. not being able to fully articulate what happened to him at merope’s hands beyond ‘she was a witch’.

i have two worldbuilding headcanons when it comes to voldemort’s childhood. the implication of canon is that the orphanage is in vauxhall in south london, but i always locate it on dorset street in spitalfields; this is the site of one of the ripper’s most brutal murders, and i like the idea of the long shadow of that horror hanging around the place. naturally, i see him having a cockney accent he goes to great lengths to disguise as an adult.

i also always write the orphanage as a catholic institution and voldemort raised - although he has no genuine conviction (which doesn’t mean he escapes lots of catholic-y quirks) - in the church. this really can’t be justified by canon - the orphanage appears to be state run, which would mean it was church of england, if anything - but i do it because, as someone from ireland, the appalling history of the laundries is the first thing which comes to mind when thinking about poor pregnant merope staggering into an institution to give birth and promptly dying.

voldemort’s school years

as i’ve said above, i don’t think you can write a good voldemort if his childhood poverty isn’t acknowledged. however, where i might deviate from other authors is that i don’t think his isolation in the muggle world (clearly the rest of the orphans go out of their way to avoid spending any time with him) continued once he was at hogwarts. it seems to have become standard fanon that voldemort was bullied in slytherin over his secondhand possessions and either the assumption that he was muggleborn or the knowledge he was half-blood. i understand this - particularly because i’m a snapemort defender, and its parallel with snape’s canonical experience at school is nice - but i think that it fails to note two key things about voldemort’s character.

firstly, as said in the first half of this meta, class in britain depends as much on performance as background. while snape clearly remains identifiably working-class into his late teens at least, voldemort is chameleon-like enough to ape his roommates’ accents, mannerisms, and references immediately and to pass as someone from a wizarding background with comparative ease. the fact that he has shabby possessions wouldn’t count against his ability to claim that he was a pureblood or half-blood - after all, we see plenty of poor purebloods in canon, and it doesn’t stop their blood status from giving them a social cachet - if he was able to give the impression of passing as someone who wasn’t raised as a muggle.

secondly, voldemort is shameless, a show-off, and - crucially - has proof of his claim to be from, to borrow slughorn’s phrase, ‘good wizarding stock’. i am sure that dumbledore is inadvertently right when he speculates in half-blood prince that voldemort discovers slytherin was a parselmouth almost immediately and uses this to establish among his fellows the fact that they’re related. voldemort implies in chamber of secrets that he learned of this connection early in his first year, since he claims to have spent five full years planning to open the chamber - although dumbledore’s implication in half-blood prince is that, initially at least, he believes his father is the descendant. all of which is to say, it is clear that voldemort could undercut any negative rumours about his heritage - and any bullying which might result - very easily and very quickly after arriving at hogwarts.

indeed, i always write voldemort as - while perhaps not being popular - having a group of ‘dedicated friends’ (dumbledore’s term - voldemort himself refers to them as ‘intimate friends’) whose affection for him is genuine. i think it’s impossible to write the knights of walpurgis/the original death eaters as not really liking him - voldemort’s very charismatic, yes, but it takes more than charisma for people to agree to become terrorists under your command, and one of the things it takes is genuine sympathy and admiration for you and your aims; and the fact that voldemort’s shamelessness about money must mean that he happily freeloads off them would require their assent at first (he might be able to squat at malfoy manor in the second war on the basis of nothing more than being terrifying, but that isn’t going to cut it at eleven). more controversially, i am of the opinion that he genuinely likes them - as noted in part one of this meta, voldemort tends to tell the truth in his canon appearances and while this is a narrative necessity (it often falls to him to provide exposition harry and the reader otherwise don’t have, especially because both dumbledore and snape need to keep information to themselves) i like the reading that his claim in the job interview scene in half-blood prince that dumbledore is ‘mistaken’ to dispute that he considers the earliest death eaters friends is sincere.

and also i just like the idea of them having normal teenage fun while at school. as well as all the crime.

intellectually, while it’s clear that voldemort’s canonical favourite subject is defence against the dark arts, as a snapemort girly i always love writing him as an extremely good experimental potioneer - which he does imply of himself in goblet of fire. like everyone else, he hates history of magic, and he is definitely not someone who particularly enjoys subjects like herbology or care of magical creatures - all of which sound a bit too much like hard work in the outdoors. his least favourite part of being at hogwarts, of course, is quidditch, and i am absolutely on board with the idea that he learns unaided flight because riding a broom is the one thing he’s not good at.

what do i think is going on with voldemort between 1945 and 1970?

as i’ve said in the first part of this meta, i think that working at borgin and burkes suits voldemort - and it’s my preferred non-dark-lord career for him. i love lots of fics which show him being a good teacher (especially this) or which examine how he trains his minions, but i just don’t see him doing well at the job within the confines of hogwarts. there’s a certain rejection of the ivory tower baked into voldemort’s character - not least in the fact that all the ‘pushing the boundaries of magic’ stuff requires a rejection of academic gatekeeping around systems of knowledge - and i can’t imagine him happily settling into what appears to be an existence for the hogwarts teachers which is pretty removed from the realities of everyday life. (incidentally, if you’re writing a muggle au an excellent basis for voldemort-at-university would be something like engleby - a working-class kid yeeted into an elite academic institution which hates him and which he hates in return. with deadly consequences.)

so he becomes a shop assistant and is, as dumbledore tells us, extremely good at his job. so good, in fact, that he stays at borgin and burkes for a decade and seems to commit only the most minor crimes while he’s there.

and this seems quite strange, for someone who - aged sixteen - tells harry that his plans for world domination were well established before he had even left school, particularly because most of the knights of walpurgis/death eaters must settle down into family life over the course of voldemort having a 9-5 (we don’t canonically know that abraxas malfoy is one, of course - although i consider it more feasible that he is given the diary than the explanation we get in canon - but lucius malfoy is born while voldemort is still in england; my belief is that the lestrange mentioned in half-blood prince is rodolphus and rabastan’s father, and so they’re also born in the late 1940s or 1950s.) it would undoubtedly have made more sense for him to have struck immediately after school, before his followers got tied up in the messy obligations of adult life.

i’ve seen some very fun explanations of what causes voldemort to stay in his job for so long (especially this), but - as i said in the first half of this piece - i think the main reason is that he’s someone who gets held in stasis quite easily, until a push comes along which causes him to dramatically alter his course. and that is hepzibah smith, and the opportunity she gives him to avenge his mother, take back his birthright, and continue in his quest to conquer death (which is, of course, evidence - contrary to the spree-killing voldemort of the films - that he is methodical in violence, more on which below).

after which he toddles off to the continent. the implication of canon seems to be that he spends most of this time in albania - and why that country seems to have such a chokehold on the magical world, i don’t know; i presume jkr just thought it sounded suitably far-flung - looking for ravenclaw’s diadem and performing ever darker feats of magic, but i like to think that he travels widely across eurasia. that he seems to spend much of his travels behind the iron curtain (he must, for example, meet karkaroff in one of europe’s socialist republics) is something the series doesn’t address, since it’s irrelevant to the canonical narrative, but it’s something that i think is incredibly interesting to explore in fanfiction. my headcanon is that voldemort must be able to speak some level of russian, as well as albanian. (and also that, like any teen edgelord in the 1940s, he has a certain appreciation for the aesthetics - and maybe the iron state control - of communism.)

as an aside here, something else i see a lot in fics is the idea that voldemort is incredibly traumatised by the second world war - and this could very well be the case. however, i think it’s worth just being clear about the timeline of some events which are often taken to have triggered this trauma:

voldemort is at school during the blitz - and therefore never touched by it - and he is also at school during the main waves of evacuations. it is possible that he returns following his second year to find the orphanage has been emptied, but evacuations were not permanent and children were often sent away only temporarily; it is equally feasible that the orphans are back in july and august 1940 and then evacuated again when the blitz begins in september.

he is similarly at school during other major bombing campaigns in 1942 and 1944; during the bombing campaigns of summer 1944, he may very well be in london - although dumbledore’s implication in half-blood prince is that he leaves the orphanage permanently in 1943, and he could be staying with a pureblood friend instead.

voldemort doesn’t have anyone in london he’s likely to be worried about, and i imagine that he watches the muggle war with professional disdain for how distinctly unmagical it all is.

i do, however, think he’s probably quite concerned by the atomic bomb - dropped on hiroshima and nagasaki when he’s 19 - and its potential to wipe out muggles and wizards alike unless muggles are brought under magical control, and i think one political belief he can be easily written as holding is that wizards (stuck thinking of muggles as they were in the age of cannon and musket) underestimate the depths of, as he sees it, muggle stupidity, brutality, and covetousness and are unprepared for what might happen if these are turned against them.

by the time he returns to england - which appears to be in around 1965 or 1966 - he has made at least four horcruxes (the diary, the ring, the cup, and the diadem - my reading of canon is that he turns the locket into a horcrux shortly before he places it in the cave, as dumbledore tells us in half-blood prince that he tends not to carry them around with him once he makes them, much as i love the image of him always wearing the ring, which would also be much more sensible…). we are told in philosopher’s stone that the first war begins in earnest in 1970, so there are four or five years which need to be accounted for. the reason for this is almost certainly that jkr can’t count, but i am committed to the belief that voldemort’s request to come back to hogwarts in half-blood-prince is completely genuine and that he has factored a few years of teaching into his plans. dumbledore’s reaction to this is discussed in the next meta in this series.

his main reason for coming back, though, seems to be to begin the campaign of political infiltration he will dedicate his forces to for the next thirty years. according to jkr’s list of ministers, voldemort returns to britain during the tenure of the only muggleborn minister in history (prior to hermione, if you accept that idea), who is forced out of office two years later when abraxas malfoy poisons him and is then replaced by a minister who also supports social causes (above all the squibs' rights riots - one of jkr’s recent heavy-handed analogies for real civil rights movements across the world in the 1960s) which do not align with the pureblood population’s views. halfway through this minister’s tenure, voldemort moves to open terror.

the wizarding world is evidently not a democracy - no matter jkr’s insistence in the linked articles above that it is - but it is implied in canon that multiple candidates are considered for the position of minister, and that the wizengamot (which canonically is not automatically a council of aristocrats, although if an author wants to have it mirror the house of lords, with hereditary seats alongside appointed ones, i can deal with it) serves as a sort of council of electors. my preferred outline of events is that voldemort’s aim in the later sixties is to trigger the election of a puppet minister (maybe even himself, although i prefer to view him as someone without any genuine ambition for political office - he’s more of a constitutional monarch) who would bring in the programme of sweeping changes to the world he desires. obviously, he doesn’t get that…

voldemort and the first war

working out how to write the first war is complicated - the form the war took, the death toll, who was targeted, and what the political justification was are hugely inconsistent in canon. fanon doesn’t stand a chance…

let’s try anyway.

you may have noticed that i keep using the term ‘sectarian terrorism’ when describing voldemort. you may also have noticed that i have referred to myself as irish. i am, to be more specific, northern irish. i come from derry, i’m from a catholic background, and i was born well before the signing of the good friday agreement. in other words, i grew up with the troubles right on my doorstep. i have experienced discrimination in the place i live for having an obviously irish and catholic name, i live in a community which could probably be described as segregated, and i still conceal my religious background in certain areas of my everyday life. i have met a number of people who spent the seventies and eighties as - by any reasonable definition - terrorists.

all of which is to say, when i first read the first six books of the series, and saw the description of voldemort and his organisation as having had a reign of terror in the 1970s, seeming to operate mainly in terms of highly-organised political assassinations with occasional attacks on civilians, seeming to issue pre-warnings for atrocities (he tells fudge that he’s going to attack the bridge he brings down in the first chapter of half-blood prince in advance), not being allowed to use his real name on the airwaves, the fact that so many of the death eaters have not only anglo-norman but hiberno-norman names, and the fact that voldemort is clearly regarded by the wizarding world at large as ‘a bastard, but he’s our bastard’... well, i know who i thought he was supposed to be a pastiche of.

and i maintain this was intentional - even if jkr (who is herself an english protestant living in mainland britain, which would naturally have influenced her experience of the troubles) later pivoted to drawing on the nazis to write the death eaters; a much better analogy if we’re thinking of them as unambiguous genocidal villains, since the causes of the troubles are incredibly complex and multifaceted and the good old protestant-coded brits of the ministry and the order of the phoenix would absolutely not be seen as the uncritical heroes of the piece if she kept to the death-eaters-are-the-ira analogy. (of course, she now claims the death eaters are like trans people - which is fucking abhorrent.) the brutality of azkaban immediately brings to mind prisons like the maze and portlaoise; the death eater trials in the first war mirror operation demetrius; a year after the canonical quidditch world cup, there was a sectarian riot at an england-ireland football match; and - oh yeah - the fucking story ends with voldemort’s defeat in the same year as the gfa was signed. jkr does not have a light touch with historical analogy, after all.

which is to say, i think the voldemort of the first war is not a genocidaire dictator-in-waiting, but an anti-state terrorist whose goal is the weakening of the ministry and its institutions in pursuit of sectarian goals, specifically the removal of the muggle-aligned’s rights to intervene in the social and political affairs of the magic-aligned population, and their relegation to a secondary influence in public life. his views can probably be more accurately described as magic-supremacist rather than blood-supremacist - he’s not exactly a meritocrat, but he clearly does reject the patronage- and lineage-based structures which define wizarding society, and there is certainly a real suggestion in the way the teen snape is written that the death eaters provided one of the only avenues for talented people from non-pureblood backgrounds to escape the crush of the class system (as i’ve said elsewhere, i think this justifies snape’s evident belief that the death eaters would be interested in helping lily, which otherwise seems deranged).

voldemort clearly believes that a system of government which keeps itself in thrall to the statute of secrecy can’t achieve the full power of its magic (his views on non-human magical creatures - such as giants and werewolves - which often seem more progressive than the views expressed by the heroes of the series - can be seen under this umbrella: he thinks that giants should have the chance to roam free and that it is anti-magic to constrain them). he evidently believes that muggleborns can never fully appreciate this view and will always stand against it - although he is presumably willing to view as legitimately magical muggleborns who completely reject the world of their birth (snape cannot be the only muggle-raised death eater, and voldemort clearly likes him because of his commitment to leaving the muggle world behind him; and i am sure that there are a couple of self-hating muggleborns somewhere in voldemort’s ranks.) he clearly thinks that a properly magic-supremacist order couldn’t exist until the muggle world - which he thinks inherently fears and hates magic, like his father, and will never let it achieve its true, free purpose - was subjugated and, therefore, couldn’t try to resist or appropriate magic for itself.

it is, of course, absolutely reasonable to not read the first war through this lens - that i do so is because the parallels to my own personal experience stand out when reading the text. the first war can absolutely also be read as racist, or anti-semitic, or inspired by islamist and/or far-right terrorism. i just, as someone who has grown up under the shadow of sectarian discrimination and violence, see that as its best real-world parallel.

now, while it might be clear which way my sympathies lie in the real troubles, i certainly have no intention of saying that terrorism and discrimination is a good thing, nor that i think the canonical voldemort is a good or noble person, nor that i think the death eaters are right. i only bring this up because it is an explanation for why i think the war takes the form it takes in canon and also because it introduces a complexity to voldemort’s motivations which is flattened by turning him into a one-dimensional villain bent on wiping out a minority group for fun.

which is to say, these are the things which appear most consistently in my writing of the first war:

voldemort’s operation seems to be divided into several distinct strands: ministry infiltration; the surveillance of other key figures (snape, for example, is clearly the detail assigned to dumbledore, even before he starts working at hogwarts; barty crouch jr. could be feasibly recruited as a teen to inform on his own father); propaganda and recruitment both at home and abroad; political assassinations; and random attacks on civilians. presumably the death eaters are also conducting some sort of illicit business to finance themselves underneath this (in the second war, aberforth dumbledore complains about the trade in illegal potions going on in the hog’s head) and i tend to write voldemort as having a substantial money-laundering campaign going on in the background. i also tend to write him as having infiltrators within the muggle system - since the ministry has the same.

the vast majority of deaths associated with the war are clinical assassinations of political targets and/or their families or pro-ministry fighters killed in combat, the death eaters are tightly controlled and there are no dark revels (it’s worth emphasising that canonically, voldemort is not particularly impressed by the violence at the quidditch world cup, and i think it can be reasonably argued that quidditch hooliganism etc. was typically the result of groups of young death eaters getting drunk and going off message, rather than something which was ordered by the top brass), and when voldemort enters the fray himself he does so to attack high-profile figures connected to state institutions (in the first war, we hear of only one person murdered directly by voldemort before the potters - dorcas meadowes, who despite her fanon persona has never been stated to have been at school with the marauders, she may very well be a senior politician or auror targeted both for that and because she’s in the order; in the second war, prior to the outbreak of open combat after dumbledore’s death, the only person definitely assassinated by voldemort himself is amelia bones, who is killed because she is the head of the department of magical law enforcement).

there are nonetheless periodic attacks on both wizard and muggle civilians, which must have targeted pubs, shops, and other busy areas and which are designed to keep the population afraid. voldemort is, nonetheless, clearly prepared to leave wizarding civilians - including muggleborns - who keep their heads down free from specific, targeted attacks.

the potters are targeted not only due to the prophecy, but because voldemort believes that their deaths - and the removal of harry as a potential figurehead for the resistance - will destroy the order’s morale to a sufficient extent that they and the ministry will come to the table. he acts similarly in canon, when he tries to use harry’s apparent death during the battle of hogwarts to force a surrender.

voldemort’s army of inferi are the apparent exception to this moderation in violence - although i think we can justify the idea that they are deaths he considers collateral (i.e. executed hostages, murder family members of targets, deaths in attacks on civilians) rather than that he’s roaming the streets as a serial killer.

there is an escalation of violence against both civilian targets and political targets who are seen as sympathetic in the later 1970s - for example, in scylla and charybdis we find voldemort murdering the pre-teen daughter of a ministry official, to widespread outcry, when her father won’t do what he wants - and it is this which triggers the unease felt by people such as orion and walburga black about whether voldemort’s violence is justified.

i occasionally write the voldemort of the first war as a technocrat. whether the wizarding world is more advanced than the muggle one is a frequently debated point; obviously magic is infinitely more sophisticated than most technology and the series clearly considers muggles to be behind wizards, but i think it’s interesting to explore in fanfiction the idea that the social advances of the muggle post-war era don’t touch the magical world. the population is so small, for example, that there is no wizarding baby boom, and there doesn’t seem to be any significant immigration in the magical world (so no wizarding windrush). the changes in social mobility which muggles enjoyed in the 1950s onwards - such as the expansion of funded higher education places, changing attitudes to marriage, divorce, and family planning, changing attitudes to living apart from the family, the emergence of more spaces where young people living alone would interact, and the collapse of the domestic service industry and the emergence of affordable labour-saving devices - are clearly not part of the wizarding world. all of which is to say, magical society could be made even more advanced than the muggle, even as muggle technology improves, if only it had a certain leader willing to take the reins...

to reiterate, i am not expecting the above to be an interpretation of the war and its causes which resonates with every reader and author, but it’s something which has spoken to me since childhood - and, indeed, was one of the things which really sucked me into being a harry potter fan as i walked home from school and got shouted at for being a taig. that it led me to having voldemort as my favourite character may not have been jkr’s intention, but there we are…

voldemort and the second war

after harry blasts him into non-existence (just because he tried to be nice to snape, smh) voldemort obviously slithers off to albania to live in a tree for fourteen years - with a little trip to britain on the back of quirrell’s head to break the monotony. his return to his body in goblet of fire does several things: it completes the tonal shift of the books from children’s literature to something darker; it triggers the overtly folkloric narrative of the second half of the series and its focus on prophecies and horcruxes, through voldemort establishing a mystical connection between himself and harry through his use of harry’s blood in his resurrection ritual; and it begins the second war.

it also causes one of my least favourite bits of fanon: the idea that the post-resurrection voldemort is completely insane. in my view, this is, once again, mainly due to the films - ralph does a great job of running around that graveyard shrieking, i’ll give him that - and their omission of many of 90s!voldemort’s successes, which makes it look like all that happens in three years is the death eaters fucking up getting the prophecy, downing a bridge by swooping, and then - somehow - taking over the government. it is also, however, due to a failure to pay attention to something dumbledore says in half-blood prince:

Without his Horcruxes, Voldemort will be a mortal man with a maimed and diminished soul. Never forget, though, that while his soul may be damaged beyond repair, his brain and his magical powers remain intact.

one of the common arguments in favour of insane!voldemort is that - seven horcruxes in - his mind has been totally destabilised by dark magic. but this misses the point of how the series understands the soul and, specifically, how it understands the soul as something which exists independently from the will - that is, the soul cannot influence the will (since, otherwise, nobody would do anything which damaged their souls - but wizards evidently have the free choice to do that) and, therefore, the status of one’s soul has nothing to do with one’s cognition. the canonical voldemort of the second war is perfectly lucid in all his appearances, and behaviours which seem to have been triggered by his resurrection can be shown to just be personality traits he’s always possessed - for example, the pacing around monologuing he does after stepping out of the cauldron reflects a tendency shared by the eleven-year-old tom riddle to give away too much about himself when he’s excited (and you would be excited, if you’d just freed yourself of a year having to depend on wormtail); voldemort doesn’t dramatically monologue when he faces either harry or dumbledore in order of the phoenix, and he only does it in deathly hallows when he’s in charge of a meeting of death eaters. he remains largely methodical in his use of violence, he doesn’t cackle wildly while planning his schemes (he laughs derisively when harry is literally about to kill him and that’s it), and he is emphasised by the text as being absolutely terrifying and having the upper hand throughout the period 1995-1998, with the order scrambling to keep up with him.

that is not to say that he comes back from the almost-dead unchanged. it’s clear that the voldemort of the second war is more paranoid and secretive than before, that he is less willing to take advice (both bellatrix and yaxley’s resentment of the fact he listens to snape suggests that there was once an impression among the death eaters that voldemort was happy to solicit their opinions, which vanishes once he comes back), that he’s quicker to anger and treats the death eaters more poorly than before (indeed, i am certain that the implication of canon is that the majority of the death eaters don’t have physical violence or public humiliation - like the malfoys experience - used regularly against them until the second war, and that this is what drives their obviously wavering loyalty to their leader), and that his obsessive focus on harry (and, in particular, on mystical phenomena which will help him kill harry) is met with some scepticism by the more revolutionarily-inclined of his followers. he also seems to only attain his horrifying eldritch form after his resurrection, which must be a bit of a shock for the lads. the vision harry has in order of the phoenix of voldemort with augustus rookwood - in which rookwood is clearly thinking what the fuck is this the whole way through - is a particularly good illustration of this.

in order of the phoenix and half-blood prince, nonetheless, the course of the second war follows that of the first: voldemort concentrates on espionage, ministry infiltration, politically-motivated assassinations, sporadic attacks on civilian targets, and a propaganda campaign (lucius malfoy is undoubtedly the source of the anti-harry and anti-dumbledore press of order of the phoenix; greyback spends half-blood prince recruiting werewolves).

things change in deathly hallows, after the death eaters execute one of history’s better coups - even lupin’s impressed - and take over the ministry. at this point there’s no doubt about it: voldemort’s government is an analogy for the nazis, as jkr has widely stated. obviously we don’t have to take her word for it - the author is dead - but it cannot be ignored that voldemort’s ministry is nakedly racist and is perpetuating a genocide of muggleborns. voldemort becomes, then, per jkr’s intention, an analogy for hitler - which requires the text to gloss over pretty inelegantly the fact that grindelwald (defeated by dumbledore in 1945, which any british child reading philospher’s stone even in primary school would know was the year the second world war ended in europe) was clearly the magical world’s hitler equivalent.

and, sure, the analogy functions perfectly well within the final book - voldemort is a transparently evil man, his views can certainly be read as mirroring racist and anti-semitic prejudice in our world, his ultimate aim can certainly be claimed as outright genocide even in the first war, and i think it is impossible to justify an argument that he doesn’t know what his death eaters are up to in the ministry (he’s a megalomaniac, everything happens at his command even if he isn’t sitting behind the minister’s desk) - but i think that it’s not inappropriate to suggest that the analogy requires quite a shift in voldemort’s canonical modus operandi from the previous six books. and, indeed, that this is why he spends much of deathly hallows being… kind of useless, wandering around central europe on his hunt for the elder wand, narratively removed from much of the horror being done in his name, reduced from the terrorist kingpin with a network of agents of the previous books to someone whose only concern is harry. i don’t think this is because jkr wished to spare him from the suggestion that he’s the person directing the genocide, i think she simply couldn’t fit the characterisation of him already established into that plotline, and so she just didn’t try.

which i have some sympathy with. i find writing the voldemort of deathly hallows the most difficult - and i generally don’t do it - for this reason. as i’ve said in the previous meta in this series, i find voldemort particularly interesting as a character for what he says about the wizarding world and its social structure - above all, how his existence and the ministry’s resistance to him demonstrates the genteel corruption of the wizarding world - and how that reflects corruption in british society and state institutions. the immediate familiarity to me as an irish (and, legally, british) reader of the way the previous books in the series reflect class and how institutions gatekeep and discriminate based on it, how poverty drives resentment and radicalisation, how one becomes the other in a sectarian conflict, and so on is less palpable in deathly hallows (which is not to say that experience is universal among readers, and i am not claiming it is) and i find engaging sincerely with the fictional genocide of the last book less interesting than i find thinking about the way the text presents the first war (and, of course, less horrifying and confronting and worthy of my time than i find thinking about real genocides in our world).

how to square the circle of making the voldemort of deathly hallows feel more in character, while also not handwaving away the canonical events of the final book isn’t something i’ve managed to get a grip on yet. i suspect i’m not the only one.

and after?

what i am more confident of is saying that i hate the imagery of voldemort’s little baby soul in train station limbo - the only person in canon denied access to some sort of non-liminal afterlife (clearly heaven exists for wizards, but does hell?).

is it his own fault? absolutely, although i’m always raging at dumbledore stopping harry offering the soul-piece some comfort at king’s cross. am i surprised that he doesn’t have a road to damascus moment in the final confrontation and collapse to the floor shaking and crying? not a bit.

do i think he could ever feel remorse for his actions? yes. one of my least favourite fandom debates is whether x or y character is incapable of redemption (rip snape, it’s always you). a principle i hold is that there is nobody on earth incapable of being redeemed - and i don’t mean redeemed in a religious sense or a heavenly context, i mean redeemed in their human actions and in their human form.

and redemption absolutely doesn’t mean getting away with it, and it doesn’t mean that remorse absolves you of having to experience punishment or work to undo the harm that you’ve done, and it isn't something which is possible by accident, and it doesn’t mean your victims being expected to forgive you. but it does have to be possible for all of us - even those who commit incomprehensible evil - because if not then it is possible for none.

so maybe voldemort sits in the nether zone and starts glueing his soul back together and eventually makes it to an afterlife where he can hang out with his mam. maybe he doesn’t, because remorse is a choice and we all have the option to keep being bad people.

but i’m a hopeless optimist.

[voldemort’s version of king’s cross is, of course, the orphanage.]

up next, what does dumbledore get wrong about voldemort?

#asenora meta #tom riddle #lord voldemort #characterisation #asks answered

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bluesfortheredj · 3 years

Text

A little extra to love.

Smut ahead.

A/N: Here we are; the last ever request. What an odd thing to type! Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The towel you’d wrapped around yourself in the bathroom gapes open at your stomach and you can feel the cool air on your skin before you quickly grab both sides of it and hold it together to preserve some sort of dignity as you rush across the landing to your bedroom. Ben was downstairs watching the telly while you were getting ready after a long day at work, and the thought of him catching a glimpse of you in this sorry state was stomach churning. You sit down on your bed and the towel opens up completely with absolutely no hope of bringing the two ends together across your protruding belly and a for a moment you sit there with tears stinging the back of your eyes at how disgusting you felt. It had been a tough year thanks to the pandemic, but what was even tougher for you was the weight you’d gained throughout your time at home; you were already big enough at the beginning of the year but now that you were two stone heavier you felt completely defeated. All you wore these days were men’s XXL t-shirts with jogging bottoms or leggings, and most of your wardrobe had been chucked out as soon as a charity bag had been posted through your door due to half of it not even fitting any more.

“You alright up there?” Ben calls out after a few minutes of you wallowing.

“Yeah… um, I don’t think I can go tonight though… I’m not feeling very well.”

“Oh love, is there anything I can do?” he asks as you hear him ascending the stairs.

“Uh, no, no, it’s okay. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“How about I make you a cup of tea?” he offers.

“That would be perfect.”

His footsteps retreat back down the few steps he’d climbed and you breathe a long sigh of relief as you look down at your excess paunch that had grown significantly the last few months. You’d been both jubilant and hesitant at reuniting with Ben after such a long time apart, especially as you could hide your extra chins on a video call, but he’d been as sweet as he was the day he asked if you wanted to be with him, and he somehow didn’t flinch at the sight of you. You quickly get dressed into your oversized pyjamas and head downstairs to find Ben already settled into the sofa with a steaming cup of tea waiting for you on the coffee table.

“How are you feeling?”

You hold your hand out flat and shake it from side to side to indicate you were feeling a little dodgy, then he reaches out a hand to your face and gently tucks your hair behind your ear.

“You do look a little pale,” he worries.

“Think it might be a migraine coming on,” you shrug, “I don’t know.”

“Well then I guess we’ll just be staying here and cuddling on the sofa,” he smiles, “and after months of not being able to do that with you, I’m certainly not complaining.”

A hesitant smile from you greets his excited grin, and he frowns a little at your underwhelmed reaction to the fact you’d be snuggled up with your boyfriend all evening but he lets it go and puts it down to you not feeling your best. You lean forward to the table to pick up your mug and adjust your top by pulling it away from your body as you sit back up again, making sure that none of the fabric got caught in your folds. The steam from your tea wafts up into your face when you lightly blow on the liquid and you keep your eyes focused on the television in front of you as Ben shuffles a little closer so he can drape his arm around your shoulders. He was a naturally tactile person whereas you were quite the opposite, but it still didn’t excuse the times you’d rejected his intimate advances purely for the reason that you didn’t want him to see what was lurking beneath your clothes.

“Relax babe,” he says quietly before kissing the side of your head, “I can feel how tense you are, it can’t be helping your head.”

You put your now empty mug back on the coaster on the table and lean back against his arm then purposely drop your shoulders to try and relax into the side of his body, and he brings his other arm over so his hand can rest on your thigh. His touch is soft, as if a blanket had just been placed across your lap, and it’s just as comforting too after being deprived of it for so very long. His fingers begin to tap a little before he gives your leg a purposely slow squeeze then he moves up just an inch and repeats the action but adds a kiss to your temple this time, and your eyes close at the feel of his hand moving higher while his kisses move lower until his lips press against yours while his fingers squeeze down between your thighs and rub along the outside of your pyjamas.

“Ben,” you moan involuntarily against his mouth.

“Mhmm,” he hums.

Your eyes fly open as you finally recognise the situation and you gasp as you pull away from him, “sorry, I can’t… sorry.”

You rise from the couch to take your mug into the kitchen as Ben looks on with a baffled frown; this wasn’t the first time you’d rejected his advances and after such a long time apart the only conclusion that made sense to him was that you must have completely gone off the idea of being with him during lockdown. He quietly follows you out to find you standing at the sink staring out of the window listlessly, and he clears his throat to gain your attention.

“If, uh, if you’re feelings have changed then you just need to say,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact and choosing to look around the room instead, “I can leave if you want me-”

“Ben, I’m fat,” you interrupt him.

“What?” he scoffs.

“I don’t like you touching me because I’m… overweight, fat, obese, whatever you wanna call it. I’m that. And I don’t want you to feel all… this. Not before lockdown, and especially not now.”

“I… wait… are you serious?”

“Yes of course I am.”

“So… wait a minute… why do you think I asked you out in the first place then?”

“I really have no idea,” you sigh.

“Oh my god, (Y/N), come on! I fancy the pants off you! That’s why.”

You shake your head and scoff at his comment then attempt to walk past him but he blocks your path quite defiantly and wraps his arms around your body no matter how much you fight against the comforting embrace.

“Hey, would you please stop trying to wriggle away?!” he says, his muscular arms tightening a little more around you.

A defeated sigh is breathed into his t-shirt as you finally give up on trying to escape his cuddle, but you keep your arms by your sides in one last attempt at trying to show him you weren’t completely giving in yet, and he laughs a little as he rocks you from side to side.

“So this is why you keep pushing me away, huh?” he mutters into your hair, “well I’m relieved that it’s not because you’ve gone off me, and I’m also pretty glad that you didn’t succeed in trying to get rid of me.”

He leans back and holds you at arms length before moving the hair back from your face so he could see you properly, and you avert your eyes from his intense gaze in embarrassment. His hands leave your body and you look up at him just as he lifts his top up and pulls it over his head to then throw it onto a kitchen chair behind you, then your eyes move leisurely over his torso from his stomach until they reach his plump lips.

“Everyone seems to think I have a constant six pack,” he sighs, turning sideways and placing a hand on his small tummy, “as you can see, that is very much not true. I just really love food,” he shrugs with a wobble of his stomach.

“But that’s cute… mine is bleurgh.”

“Bleurgh?” he questions with a single raised eyebrow, “can I at least judge for myself?”

“I really don’t want you seeing my stretch marks Ben.”

“Then blindfold me.”

“What?!” you half laugh.

“If you don’t want me to see them then cover my eyes, but please let me touch you.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again as you try to get your head around what he’s suggesting, and he gently takes your hands before leading you upstairs to your bedroom.

“Ah!” he exclaims excitedly when he sees a silk scarf hanging from the door of your wardrobe, “perfect. Here; blindfold me,” he winks, handing you the scarf.

“Uh… right...”

He sits down on the bed and you kneel behind him before holding the piece of soft fabric between your hands and lowering it over his face to cover his eyes then eventually secure it at the back of his head.

“I’m gonna say this now before it actually happens; if I get an erection during this then please feel free to ignore it,” he forewarns.

“Do you think you will?”

“My hands on your body… yeah, I’m pretty sure I will.”

“Oh,” you giggle, startling yourself at the fact that a girlish laugh just escaped your lips.

Your weight shifts on the bed as you move to stand up again, then you quickly switch the light off and take your position in front of Ben who now has his legs wide open for you to stand in between, and your heart rate quickens as he tentatively lifts his arms for you to take his hands. There’s a few seconds as you hesitate, but you guide his hands to the waist band of your pyjama trousers and he hooks his finger tips inside the elastic so he can pull them down slowly. They drop to the floor then you step out of them as Ben’s feather light touch glides over your legs; up and down your calves the around your thighs where he massages your skin, and he leans forward to press gentle kisses along the dimpled surface. His hands blindly feel their way up over your underwear and swiftly pull that down out of the way, then continue their journey under the cover of your top while his lips caress the skin you were so ashamed of as it hangs down above your thighs with nothing covering it for once.

“Can I take off my blindfold?” Ben whispers; his lips tickling your tummy.

You look around the room and how much light from the landing is coming through the gap in the door, then carefully pull one end of the neat little bow you’d made with the scarf so that it slips from his face, and he’s left blinking into the dim light as his eyes adjust.

“Wow,” he exhales as his hands run up and down your sides to lift your top and give him just a glimpse of your flabby pouch; this was not the reaction you were expecting.

He lets go of you briefly to wriggle out of his jeans without moving you away too much, then he pushes himself up the bed so that he’s leaning his back on the headboard with only his boxers covering his growing bulge.

“Do you want to come and sit?” he asks, patting the thigh that was nearest to you.

You nod in response and pull your top down to cover the bottom of your stomach then get on the bed and crawl up to where Ben sits with a knee either side of his leg.

“You’re so beautiful,” he sighs as one hand slides up your thigh and the other caresses your face, “you don’t even realise how beautiful you are do you?”

“I’m not,” you reply shyly as you lean into his touch.

“But you are,” he insists, “I love these,” he pauses to look down at your thigh as he squeezes it, “and this,” he strokes the part of your stomach that hangs lower than the rest, “and everything about this,” he smiles as he looks up at your face; his thumb sweeping across your cheek gently, “and I’ve been dreaming about the day I can show you just how much when mere words are not enough.”

“Ben,” you chuckle self consciously.

“It’s true! Now come closer,” he invites, dropping his hand from your face to your hip and guiding you forwards as far as you can go, “do you want to keep that on?” he asks, tugging at the hem of your top.

He’s met with a nod and gives you a warm smile in return, then he weaves his fingers through your hair and pulls you in for a kiss as he bends his knee slightly to press his thigh against your exposed lips. You hum with pleasure at the feel of some pressure against you, then he allows one hand to travel down your back and come to a rest on your cheeks so he can encourage you to move back and forth along his leg; your slit naturally opening up wider and allowing your sweet spot to rub against the skin. Your hands are resting on his shoulders for stability but you take one away and drag it down his torso until your fingers are able to pull the waistband of his boxers away from his body and release his erection; your hand immediately wrapping around his length once it’s free and working its way up and down the shaft with your thumb circling his tip at every opportunity it gets.

“Mhmm,” Ben purrs into your mouth as his hips twitch.

Everything feels so natural with him and even though this was your first time being intimate with one another it felt as if you knew each other’s bodies already, and when Ben diverts his kisses down along your jaw and onto your neck where he gently nibbles at your skin you can’t help but allow a moan to erupt from your throat. You can feel his finger tips digging into the soft flesh of your backside as he motivates you to move a little faster and your body responds to his touch almost instantaneously with your hand sliding along his member to match the pace that you’ve set. Pants, moans and whines fill the room along with a warm, damp atmosphere thanks to the heat your bodies were creating, and you’re soon both completely lost in the moment without a thought for anything else until Ben rests his head on your shoulder and stills as his excitement drips over your hand. You carry on stroking him slowly while your own climax builds inside but soon you have rest your hand on his stomach as your core tightens like a spring, then releases with a series of pulsations that cause a short moan to escape with each one.

“Wow,” he repeats once more.

“Yeah,” you agree breathlessly.

The two of you clean up before sinking down onto the bed in a sleepy, tangled mess and the glow of the bliss you’d just both experienced seems to add more light to the room as Ben kisses your head between strokes of your hair. His other hand slips underneath your top and rests on your stomach where his thumb runs small, comforting circles right over one of your stretch marks, and a smile spreads across your lips at the meaningful gesture.

could you do a fic where Ben and the reader have been dating but she is very insecure about being overweight and they haven't been physical yet because of it. But Ben won't give up on her and finally convinces her that he really loves her and it ends in smut when they finally sleep together and its super fluffy, passionate and romantic?

@lv7867 @aynsleywalker @pink-lemo @itisjustmethistime @mamaskillerqueen @queenslandlover-93

#ben hardy x reader #ben hardy smut #ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x plus size! reader

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jamiemackenziefraser · 3 years

Text

All That Was Fair

Chapter 18: To Go Home

Summary: Jamie and Claire get a little distracted on their way back.

Read on AO3

Read chapter 18 on tumblr below the cut

Previous, master list, next

a/n: A little early update since this chapter is essentially the second half of the last <3

Chapter 18: To Go Home

***

Hand in hand, Jamie and Claire began to walk back toward where he had parked. There was no urgency now as there had been when Jamie dragged her toward the stones, nor the anxiety there had been when he first found her on that hill and decided to take her home. Now, there was only bliss. They walked with a particular laziness— something that came with the certainty that they would be together forever.

Jamie had been in no rush to face his life of loneliness after leaving Claire on the hill, but now he was in no rush to be anywhere or do anything. So long as Claire was at his side, he was well pleased with their world.

They were strolling along, holding hands and taking in the beauty of the surroundings and the peace of their newfound intimacy, when all of a sudden, Claire stopped dead in her tracks. Jamie’s heart dropped, and he was gripped by fear that his happiness would be ripped away from him. Was she about to tell him that she’d changed her mind?

But she didn’t declare that she wanted to go back to the stones, and the world didn’t open up at their feet to swallow him up, Claire just turned sharply and launched herself straight at him.

He caught her around the waist as her lips landed on his. Laughing breathlessly into the kiss, his anxiety eased instantly.

“Sorry,” she said between kisses, pecking his mouth before rewarding him with deeper kisses, “I just really— wanted to do this again.”

They explored each other’s mouths lazily for a minute before Claire broke the kiss to trail her lips down his jaw. Tingles went down his spine as she reached a particularly sensitive spot, and he clutched her more tightly to him as his insides twisted in delight.

“I’m really never going to have personal space again, am I?” Jamie chuckled to himself, not sure whether to lean in to the tickling sensation or pull away.

“What was that?” Claire asked, detaching her slightly-puffy lips from his neck and peering up at him with that adorable look of confusion.

“Only that ye’re a touchy one,” he said playfully, reaching out to grab her around the waist. His hands could span most of it, keeping her solidly in his grip.

“I like touching you,” she stated matter-of-factly. Her face held the slightest bit of a playful pout, as if she was upset he’d called her out on it.

“Well that’s verra good,” he said in a low voice, leaning in closer to her, “because I like when ye touch me.”

He tried to bridge the distance between them and press his lips to Claire’s again, but she leaned back, just out of reach, with her brows raised teasingly.

Letting out a groan, he let his forehead fall against hers.

“Dinna torture me, mo nighean donn. I promise ye, one of my favorite things about ye is how tactile ye are. But it made it damned hard for me tae control myself when I was tryin’ verra hard not tae kiss ye.”

Claire smiled. “Like I said, I very much wanted you to kiss me, but your head was too far down the hare’s hole to do it.”

“I can do it now,” he breathed in quiet awe, and he took her lips again.

Kissing her was a drug that he was quickly becoming addicted to. He was aware that they had barely made it a quarter of a mile, so distracted as they were by each other, but he couldn’t seem to care.

Time was passing, though, and Jamie hadn’t been able to stomach eating anything that morning. His belly let out a rather mood-killing growl, and Claire jerked back.

She had the same bewildered and concerned expression she’d worn the first time his stomach had growled in front of her, but it was just for a split second before she remembered and her face spread into a smile.

“We need to get you some food,” she said, emphasizing the last word in a sweet way that clearly said be proud of me for remembering this word.

“I couldna care less about food right now,” he tried to dismiss it, eager to simply enjoy the moment of being with her. He could think of a few other activities for his mouth that he’d rather partake in… maybe something involving Claire’s mouth as well...

“I care. I won’t have you suffering because you can’t keep your lips to yourself,” she said, pushing a wee hand against his chest.

“Me? Ye’re the one who canna keep any part of herself off me. Ye even sat on my lap in front of my sister, for pete’s sake!” he teased.

The playful mood broke as Claire looked thoughtful. “Why did you say it like that? Like it's wrong?” she asked innocently, looking genuinely curious, “we both love each other.” She ran a hand down his arm for good measure, ending by taking his hand in hers. Then, she added suddenly, “and who is Pete?”

Jamie couldn't help but laugh. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to take much offense to this. She just gave him time to get it out, waiting patiently for his answer.

“Weel, firstly, ‘for pete’s sake’ is jes’ a human expression that means… weel, it is an exclamation of exasperation, only I didna mean it in a bad way. And… it’s jes’ that humans dinna show affection so much around others. They leave those things to the privacy of their own homes,” he explained.

Claire’s brows furrowed and she shook her head in disapproval. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you humans. You make such a fuss over little things. If I want to touch the one I love, I will.”

“I appreciate yer sentiment, a nighean,” Jamie laughed, “Also, it’s no’ common for a man and a woman tae hold hands or sit wi’ each other if they arena in a committed relationship,” Jamie added, “so Jenny was a wee bit appalled when ye sat on my lap.”

His precious faerie’s eyes widened in dismay. “Oh… oh no. I made things worse then, didn’t I?”

“Nah… dinna fash. I jes’ thought ye should know that, is all,” Jamie reassured, dismissing her worry.

“Is that why you would blush so much when I touched you? Or went to sleep with you?” Claire asked.

Jamie nodded with a smile as he thought about holding her body against his in bed, how terrified he’d been. “Yes. But I liked it. Probably too much. It made it nearly impossible for me tae keep ahold of my feelings. I fell hard for ye, and I had tae keep my feelings in check for so long.” He started to lean in, meaning to kiss her, but her question stopped him.

“Fell?” Claire asked.

“Ah…” another human expression, “it means felt love.”

“Oh,” Claire responded, a slight satisfied smile turning up the corners of her mouth, “well if my touching you made you love me, I’m glad I did.”

Jamie looked down at her, feeling an impossible warmth bubble up in his chest, “I didna fall in love wi’ ye because ye are touchy, lass. I fell in love wi’ ye because… well because all I want tae do for the rest of my life is make ye happy. There’s somethin’ between us, somethin’ I canna explain…”

“A connection,” Claire breathed, nodding, “I feel it too. The world was trying to bring us together.”

They were both quiet for a minute before Claire asked, “do you think maybe that’s why I came through the stones? I mean… I had never ventured out that far before that day. I just felt like… exploring. And then I heard the buzzing sound, and I was just…. Here. Maybe it was all for a reason. For you and me.”

“Aye,” Jamie agreed, “maybe. Either way, I dinna much care about the reason behind it so long as ye’re wi’ me now. I am grateful, whatever happened tae cause it.”

They both fell into a comfortable silence again, walking hand in hand.

“Claire,” he asked abruptly, “will you tell me about what it's like for faeries when they are in love? I ken ye have parents, so I imagine it must no’ be sae different for the fair folk.”

Jamie had a million questions, but he settled for asking that one, hoping Claire would answer some of those others as she explained.

“Well…” she said as she played with his fingers, weaving them together over and over and turning her hand over in his as they walked, “we choose who we love, who we want to be with. Some never find someone, and that’s okay too. But if we do… well, we mate for life.”

She looked up to him at that, her eyes holding an unspoken question.

Will we mate for life?

He wanted to tell her yes, to get down on one knee and propose then and there, but they had only just confessed their feelings for each other. He could be patient, give it more time. He didn’t want to rush her before he even knew much about her expectations.

Continuing on, she said, “some have children and raise them until they can be off on their own.”

“That sounds verra much like humans,” Jamie said, giving her hand a squeeze.

Claire seemed like she was about to respond, but her mouth fell closed again as she caught sight of the car.

“We’ll talk more about it later,” Jamie reassured, “we have time now. All the time we need.”

She nodded, looking pleased. As they reached the car, Jamie went around to her side and let go of her hand to open the door.

Claire looked disturbed by the loss of contact, and looked up at him with big eyes, staring for a long moment. Something was stirring there, some deep emotion, and it twisted Jamie’s wame. The content expression she had worn moments ago had disappeared from her face. She seemed… distant somehow. Like her head had gone somewhere else.

“Are ye gettin’ in, lass? Because if it’s the car worryin’ ye we could…”

“One moment,” she interrupted as she pressed her fingers to Jamie’s lips, halting his speech. “I need—“

She didn’t finish her statement but abruptly bridged the distance between them and leaned in toward him. Hearing the choke in her voice, he quickly got with the program and gathered her again into his embrace the second she was near enough. Her face fit into the crook of his neck as her arms went around him, and she clung to him with a mixture between fierceness and certainty of the secure place. He held her tightly for a long time, feeling her shuddering breaths against him and stroking her back in long soothing lines. He didn’t let himself think; He just held her.

“Talk to me, lass,” he rumbled gently after a long moment.

“While I was standing on that hill— I thought that you really meant to leave me. That I’d have to face a life without you,” she murmured into the skin of his shoulder, “for a moment just there I.... I could hardly believe that I’m really here with you. Going home.”

“I’m sorry, mo nighean donn,” he breathed, his heart breaking, “I’m sae sorry, lass. I thought the same. That I’d be facin’ an empty life wi’ out ye. Christ,” he shuddered at the thought of the sorrow and despair that had wrapped him in their darkness only mere minutes ago. How much life can change in an instant.

He hugged her tighter, feeling the exact same impulse as she did. He wanted to cling to her forever, to feel anchored to her in the drifting sea of emotions. The memories of walking down that hill and leaving her would haunt him forever. If only—

She drew back suddenly and placed a hand on his cheek. It was as if a switch had been flipped and all her sorrow had been pushed to the wayside.

“It’s okay, Jamie,” she said, her brows furrowed and face serious as she looked at him searchingly, “I’m here. Feel me here? I’m not going anywhere.”

Jamie felt confused by this sudden shift.

“What? Why…?” he tried to ask why she had suddenly begun to comfort him, but thankfully he didn’t need to articulate his question.

“I could feel it… everything you were. You were just thinking about it, weren’t you? Re-living those feelings of leaving me? Well I could feel them coming from you. I could feel how much you hurt.”

Jamie’s mouth must have been hanging open— and if it wasn’t, it should have been— because his brain had halted completely in its track and was struggling desperately to come to terms with yet another new divulgence.

“You’re... an empath?” he mustered.

“Empath… like empathy?” she asked quizzically.

“Aye. An empath is someone that can feel the emotions of others. It’s no’ real… I mean… humans canna—” Jamie stumbled over his explanations, “canna sense feelings.”

“You can’t?” Claire asked, surprised.

“You can?” Jamie shot back.

Both of them stared at each other for a long moment. Jamie was still trying desperately to keep up with everything. He’d known that Claire was very in tune with emotions, astoundingly so, but he’d chalked it up to her making him feel things so strongly that they showed on his face. Either that or the connection that they shared that sometimes seemed so unreal had revealed his feelings. Thinking back, it made perfect sense to him that she’d actually been able to sense his emotions, not just read his face.

He was also startled by the fact that he’d been living with her for days now, falling in love with her, and he didn’t even know she was an empath. The back of his brain was cursing him, once again, for his foolishness. He’d been so blind these last few days, so caught up in showing Claire his world and not wanting to push her that there were still so many things about her that were a mystery. Even so, they were taking things one step at a time.

Claire interrupted his scattered thoughts when she spoke, “when I touch you… I can feel what you’re feeling. Not as much as if I were feeling it myself, but I… know.”

Jamie nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense given the things ye’ve said to me. Humans canna do that. We can look at a person and try tae guess what’s goin’ on in their heads, but we never really ken. You… ye dinna actually know my thoughts, rights?”

Claire laughed, a bright and beautiful sound. “No,” she shook her head, “definitely not. And I can’t even sense your emotions all the time. I have to really be in tune with you, concentrating. It seems to be getting easier the more time I spend with you, but don’t worry, some things are still a mystery.” She punctuated that last statement with a sly smile.

Jamie felt slightly relieved. Not that he didn’t want Claire to know what he was feeling, but his heart had been thrumming with mounting embarrassment as he considered whether she had known all the inappropriately forward things he’d been feeling about her the last few days. Only… only he’d told her now that he loved her...

“So,” he began huskily, ducking his head so that his face drew close to hers, “can ye tell what I’m feelin’ now?”

She gave him a smile, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath as if concentrating herself. Then, she exaggeratedly placed her hands on either side of his face.

“I think…” she breathed, cracking one eye open to look at him playfully, “that you are feeling rather sentimental, James Fraser.”

“Ye really are an empath, my wee one,” he said, dipping his head further to press his lips to hers in a long, drawn out kiss. God help him, he couldn’t stop.

She didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. Her arms wound around his neck and pulled him closer, making a big ball of warmth grow in his stomach.

Keeping her lips somehow smushed against his, she spoke in a mumble, “we should— probably go home.”

“Hold on, I’m kissing my faerie,” Jamie said insistently, sparing barely any time to speak the words in between kisses.

He wrapped both his arms around her waist, grabbing her to pull her closer, and continued to kiss her without hurry.

She was laughing by the time he finally had to draw back for breath.

“Are ye laughin’ at me?” he demanded with answering laughter of his own.

“Not at all,” she chuckled— clearly lying— “it’s just that you were the one complaining about me never giving you space.”

“Lass, ye’re mistaken, it was most certainly no’ a complaint.”

As he spoke, his hands skated down her back and came around her sides to cup her hips.

With an impish gleam in her eye, Claire swatted at his hands.

“I’m going to need some space,” she teased. She placed a hand smack in the middle of his chest and pushed, making him stumble back a couple steps until her arm was straight and bracing as if holding him back.

“And you… a wee thing half my size… think ye can hold me back wi’ only an arm?” he challenged, raising a brow at the appendage she had forced between them. He drew himself to his full height, making to intimidate her with his size.

Claire seemed delighted to take him up on the challenge and raised her head defiantly, completely unfazed.

(Some part of Jamie deep inside acknowledged the fact that this playful, defiant side of Claire was a huge indicator of trust. It had only been days ago that she’d trembled at the sight of him. Now, they were playing with each other with the comfort of friends and lovers.)

“I think you’d be surprised what a ‘wee thing’ like me is capable of. You’re awfully big, I doubt you could run that fast.” Claire looked him up and down appraisingly, her head cocked in a manner that made Jamie want to grab her and kiss the grin right off her face.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“It is one.”

“Maybe I’ll take ye up on it.”

“Maybe I’ll go back to the stones.”

“Not on yer life.”

With that, Claire tore off at a run. She was so astoundingly swift that a flash of dismay washed over Jamie as he wondered if maybe he couldn’t catch her after all. As he slammed the car door shut and sprinted after her, though, her unnatural fae nimbleness was no match for his long legs. Bless high school track, he thought to himself as he ran.

He considered very briefly allowing her the satisfaction of evading him for a moment longer, but he couldn’t leave her challenge unmet anymore than he could resist touching her. Bridging the distance left between them, Jamie snagged her around the waist and pulled her sharply to him. She smacked against his chest, laughing breathlessly, and struggled playfully as Jamie held her fast.

“Seems I’m no’ so slow, after all,” he bent his head so he could say it right into her ear, his lips brushing teasingly along the shell of it.

“I was going easy on you because I know you’re just so in love with me that you couldn’t bear to be apart,” she said in a gasp, stilling her struggles.

“Aye, that’s true,” Jamie admitted, “I’ll thank ye, then.”

Just as he was beginning to lean in for yet another gratuitous kiss, he felt Claire stiffen.

Alarmed, he was about to ask her what was wrong when he turned his head in the direction of her gaze and saw two hikers approaching. They were clad in teflon from head to toe, likely day trippers exploring the highlands.

Even though Jamie knew there was no threat from them, he tucked Claire behind him protectively, out of sight of the couple.

“Jamie—” Claire started, but Jamie cut her off.

“Dinna fash, lass, they’re only taking a wee stroll, they’re no’ a danger.”

“No,” Claire said, tugging at his wrist insistently to get him to pay attention, “tell them to stay away from the stones.”

Jamie turned toward her abruptly. Seeing the fear in her eyes at the mention of the stones and the distress it was causing her to think of others going near them, Jamie was overcome once again by guilt over leaving her on that hill. They scared her terribly, and that was just another reason why depositing her with barely a word was one of Jamie’s biggest regrets.

“I’ll tell them, lass. Dinna fash,”

Taking her hand, he brought her out from behind him and began to lead her back in the direction of the car, toward the hikers. Claire stepped cautiously beside him but didn’t seem overly concerned about passing near them.

“Hi!” Jamie called with a wave of his free hand as soon as they drew close.

“Hello!” the woman called, returning his wave.

“Beautiful day, is it no’?” Jamie commented in a friendly manner as the two couples reached each other.

“Verra fine,” the man answered with a nod.

“Are ye two from around here?”

“Jus’ here for the weekend, we’re from Edinburgh,” the woman said with a smile.

“Ah, well I willna keep ye. Jes’ a word of caution from a local, though: dinna get near those stones. It’s a faerie hill, ken?” he said with a wink.

Both nodded, murmuring appropriate grave assent. Without another word, they passed each other, Claire’s grip nearly bruising Jamie’s hand.

Once they were out of ear shot, his faerie was fixing him with huge, almost horrified eyes and asking, “you told them about the fair folk?”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh. “They dinna actually believe me, but scots are a superstitious lot. They’ll leave it be out of respect even though they dinna really think faeries exist.”

Claire let out a hum of understanding and bobbed her head, looking relieved that Jamie hadn’t actually just outed the existence and location of the fair folk to two random strangers.

Walking hand and hand back toward the car, Jamie said, “well, I think now it’s really time to leave. Are ye ready tae go home, lass?”

His words echoed back to what he’d said earlier that day before he’d taken her to the stones. It made his heart ache with joy to think now he was saying them while referring to his home. Their home.

“Yes, Jamie… take me home.”

***

Full disclosure, I’ve been waiting for FOREVER to write these fools kissing, so I’m gonna milk it ;)) Thanks so much for reading, lovelies! Your support blows my mind <3

#same mood board as last chapter because this chapter is basically the second half #all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction

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iamtaran · 4 years

Text

The Lagoon pt. 3

(Part 1 and part 2 if you like!

Just as a note, any future updates to this will probably be posted to my AO3, along with the already existing parts in a single fic! Thanks everyone for reading, and @teddylacroix and @taketheshot21 for showing interest in this weird idea the won’t let go! Please everyone know how supremely self indulgent this ha becomes :I is it good? nah. is it a good time? well. one hopes.)

Ever so slowly, daring eyed and unblinking, the man with lilies in his skin watches Geralt watch him as he pulls himself from the water.

For Geralt, who does not for a moment release his gaze, or his sword hand, he catches only the barest impression of scales sliding silkly from the water. In the air, they melt into more and more pale skin, until the spirit lounges most deceptively, nakedly human on his mossy stone. A tumble of long lines and languidly loose elbows and knees. He leans forward ever so artfully, inviting Geralt’s eyes to drop. They don’t.

“I’ve heard stories of your kind, witcher,” he says with air of a man sharing gossip.

Geralt says nothing.

“As personable as I’ve been led to believe. What could have brought you here?”

“I have heard stories,” Geralt says. Slowly, “Like you.”

Mischief. “Oh? And what have you learned?”

“That I don’t know what you are.”

“But you know what I do?”

Geralt cocks his head just so, to better see the planes of his face in the upside-down light. At times like this, with the Cateye potion in full effect, everything searing in his sight burns more vibrantly, more starkly, more. Against his background of wetly green vines and smartingly bright waters, his velvet shadowed moss, the spirit rests like a pearl. He is beautiful; but any witcher knows better than to trust beauty. His beauty tempts, and it is meant to tempt. Geralt knows better than to be tempted.

“Listen to woes. Sing songs. Tell pretty stories.” He tilts his head yet further. “Kiss pretty villagers.” The spirit smiles, there and gone.

“I do that,” he admits, and says nothing more, though that inviting smile still lingers around his eyes. Geralt hums.

“Why?”

“Why do I listen?” He slithers up on his haunches then-- or does he pour himself out?-- and of a height with Geralt he straightens nearly knee to knee, a parody of Geralt’s kneeling meditation. “Or why do I kiss them?”

Geralt ignores his provocative glance altogether and instead allows the silence to press his question. After far too long a pause, the spirit makes a show of his disappointment and sighs himself back onto his heels.

“Company, if you must know. They bring a glimpse at the world beyond this lagoon.”

“And gifts,” Geralt says meaningfully.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t mistake me, White Wolf. The gifts are just that-- non-binding, freely given, and inconsequential to the ones giving them.” He grins into Geralt’s face, pleased by whatever change he had caught there. Pleased by his own cleverness. “Yes, I know you. White hair, two very scary swords. I’ve heard of you, Geralt of Rivia, as you’ve heard of me.”

A clever spirit means a vainglory one. Geralt raises two dispassionate eyebrows. “Yet I don’t know your name.”

“Perhaps you should have brought me a gift, then,” he returns. Unblinking, moving slowly enough to see, he then curls his fingers in the chain around Geralt’s neck and lets his hand hang there beside the wolf like ornamentation. Geralt growls, and does not move. Two self-satisfied eyebrows jump and jig pointedly at him.

“Are you sure you haven’t anything?” the spirit wheedles, and chuckles when Geralt frowns severely at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know, I knew you wouldn’t believe me about the gifts. It really is nothing nefarious. I’m afraid I’ve just been spoiled by my dear hearts, is all. They are much more appreciative than you.”

They are getting too far off topic.

“That’s what you want. Their appreciation.”

He huffs a breath as if Geralt is being particularly dull. “No. That is what I earn.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Why the interest?” He tilts his head in a coquettish mirror of Geralt’s posture, just this side of mean and grinning with it. “What do you want?”

“Answers.”

“So you can decide whether or not to kill me.”

In the sudden still and chill, Geralt says nothing. After a moment of calculating, he takes the risk and inclines his head. Just enough.

Though no describable change shifts his face or the curlicues of his always near-laughing mouth-- a twilight, in the eyes. The stars that had sparkled there recede to a winter’s distance. Wrath, or pain? From the bob of his throat, the latter.

The grip on his chain shifts. “I’ll give you your answers if you’ll give me mine,” bargains the spirit with purposeful, dishonest lightness. “Tell me, were you called here to kill me? By one of,” mine, his lips shape, but only breath escapes. Geralt, who has heard many a man take a dagger to the back, finds himself… uncomfortable. Momentarily. But even a spirit can playact.

Firmly, Geralt removes the spirit’s bold hand from his person. The spirit doesn’t fight, or blink, and no magic shifts, and the lagoon is quiet. His unwavering gaze so close could almost discomfit, were Geralt a lesser man. Thankfully, he is not a man at all.

“No,” Geralt says at last. There is no harm in sharing the truth, after all. And better to say it than risk turning an unknown spirit’s wrath on the good villagers. “They did their best to convince me of your good nature. I came to investigate only because I heard rumors in a neighboring hamlet.”

The admission gentles him immediately. He hides his relief in a turned gaze; Geralt lets him without comment. It gives Geralt the opportunity to observe every twitch of his eyelashes, and his fingers where they have risen to his neck in a mimic of human vulnerability. (Or is it genuine?) He rests it there only a moment, there and gone. When he turns back, his good humor has returned.

He looks at Geralt then in earnest. He cannot say how he knows it. It weighs differently. Without the charade of before he looks, brow to chin, shoulders to glove-clad hands. Whether he searches out some hidden aspect or believes himself possessed of its secret already. Geralt wants-- no. He wants nothing, he tells himself, and does not twitch. There is no want when his duty is to watch, to understand, to wait for any first hint of magic or ill intent. He has come to either kill or let free. Clenched fist, Geralt-- does. Does not.

Blue eyes meet his own once more. The spirit settles, stills, and splits open like waters around sharp stone.

“Freedom,” he says. “It’s what I want. To leave this lagoon.”

“Hmm,” doesn’t say Geralt, who knows at times that no words are better than too many. It works now.

“Don’t misunderstand,” the spirit rattles out breathlessly, “I love every one of my visitors. I remember every one of them that has ever come to me, by accident or by purpose, and I have been here a long, long time, witcher. Since before the village existed. There are some who come to me today whose great grandmothers I remember in their youth. There are some who live only because I whispered secret courage to their parents when shyness or misunderstanding might have kept them apart. No, their company and the time they spend with me, the work of inspiring their joy and seeing it on their faces, or tasting it on their sighs. It has been reward enough for me. Only...” He hesitates. “I began to dream of leaving only when they... gave in return.”

It takes Geralt a moment. Eyes on his, then down to the silver chain, as tactile as his hands. Perhaps you should have brought me a gift, then. Geralt purses his lips.

“The stories,” he surmises. “The gifts.”

His teeth slash open a white flash. “You were listening. I want to leave these waters. I want to see the world and find the stories myself.”

Surprised, Geralt chews wordlessly on the admission. He had begun to believe him a tethered spirit. Something of the forest and mountains, something strange, for sure, but grounded in the land. Books and tomes and lectures, and he has never heard of such a spirit wanting to leave. The power that would take; and from what source? He thinks of the trusting, besotted villagers and nearly grimaces. Doesn’t, only by strength of will, and instead asks,

“How?”

A frown tells him he did not hide his suspicions well enough.

“...You wanted to know what I am,” he says at last. Geralt grunts something like agreement. “Then let me tell you. Then you will understand.”

He goes quiet, for longer than he ever has to this point. Then, he tells his story.

“Centuries ago, this forest stretched untouched and unbroken all the way to the coast. Even the Aen Seidhe did not touch these trees, for they knew as surely as you must that when they looked, the forest looked back. It was so looking that She saw me.”

(“She,” Geralt says.)

“She. She has no name. She is the forest. Far more ancient than any spirit I’ve ever encountered. I’ve always imagined She is as old as the spheres, though I can’t know. I’ve never seen Her, not as you see me. She is too grand to have a humanoid form. Like too many birds against the sky that by filling it become greater than it.

“Centuries ago, when the forest still reached down to the sea, before the humans too dumb to magic’s song to hear its cries cut back the forest’s edge to build their cities and towns there. A traveling bard wandered the wild lands. Upon finding the ocean, he fell in love with the blue of the water and the call of the gulls, and sitting by a sheltered cove composed a song. He picked up his lute and played. The waters there had never heard such music, not by lute or human voice, and they fell in love in return. He did not know, of course. But he played, and he sang, and it was the first song in any voice not the ocean’s own there sung.

“And as he sang the bard dreamed of chime-voiced mermaids floating like lilies in the waves; and as the cove gazing up at him sang back and dreamed of sweet-face bards with gentle hands; all the while, the song echoed and returned greater each time from the throats of the rocks and waves --light that runs between crystals and multiplying grows brighter, like that. And the song grew; and the bard played, not knowing he sang a duet; and they sang with emotion deep enough to touch that stuff at the heart of all things, be they rocks or oceans or stars, the stuff of Chaos; and the song was the first; and the song was me.

“That is what I am.”

Listening, Geralt thinks that it is not the least likely thing he has ever heard. There have always been tales of spirits born from emotion if it is great enough. From Firsts, too, for they have power. Old tales from the elves recall a breathless time Before when the Aen Seidh knew only peace across years unbroken by suffering and hardship. In the stories, a betrayal between siblings saw its end. From the first death was all Death born, in all its many visages, its spirits and gods. Witchers had spent the past two centuries amassing all knowledge of such phenomena. Geralt had read every tome in Kaer Morhen, and so knew they understood so very little of these spirits. Who was he to say that it is not possible?

Besides which… as he had told his story, just for a moment in the way of true things hidden in a shape mundane, Geralt had heard and seen. Gulls and waves grumbled and shrilled beneath his breath.

When he had first appeared, glowing and serene, Geralt had known his nature in part because he had looked for it. Now lit with the light of his own tale, recalling his creation, there could be no mistaking him for a human. A more-ness swelled about him. As it fades, blue eyes gone distant with remembering, Geralt finds he believes him.

But he had not finished the tale.

“And she saw you,” he parrots when the silence has grown too clinging. The spirit smiles brittly. “She did,” he says, and takes his cue.

“She had watched me for decades as I lived within the echo of the waves barking off the stone, and sang in the mist there. No, don’t look so grim, it suits you too well for my tastes. I wasn’t completely alone. What the bard did not know all those years ago was that there are mermaids in that cove. We enjoyed each other’s company quite immensely. The harmonies we created! Ten, twelve, twenty voices rising in tandem as the tides, ululating, soaring, sighing, deeper than the dark waters, lighter than the foam lacing the waves. Oh, the nights we passed, all of us silver and amber and umber on the rocks. How the moonlight gilded their abalone-smooth breasts-”

(“The forest, spirit,” Geralt reminds him. He gets an annoyed hand waved at him for his troubles.

“No appreciation for an artfully woven scene, I see. Tell me, are all witchers so short-tempered,” he teases, “or is it just you’ve not the attention span?”

“Spirit,” Geralt rumbles, this time in warning. Another flap of his unconcerned hand.

“Yes, yes, I was getting to it. It. Well.” He sighs.)

“The humans came with their axes, and the forest dwindled until only the last willow smoothed its lonely fingers over the brow of the waves there in my cove. It was sitting under it that I first heard her whispers. Such a voice, Geralt. Never before had I heard one like it, and never since. She told me of how She had listened all those years as I sang, and how She mourned to never hear me again once Her final tree was cut from the embrace of the coast. How she sighed. The wind blew and moaned through that willow like a dirge.”

(“She pricked your bleeding heart. Played on your sympathy,” Geralt surmises, not flatteringly. The spirit turns from gazing soulfully out across the lagoon-- westward, towards the sea-- to glare at him balefully, beautifully wounded.)

“And can you blame me? Pah, don’t answer, I can see that you can. Yes, my heart went out to her plea. She begged that I come visit her. She would gift me the legs of a man so that I could leave the waters behind and move freely through the trees. I was fascinated. I had never left the cove, nor walked as any of the elves or humans or dwarves did. I had no ability to shift my form then. I had never even considered it! And She was the first spirit to whom I had ever spoken. How different She was from my friends the mermaids; how like to me, or so I thought. I longed to visit Her and to ease Her loneliness. I loved that She had listened for so long. I loved that She loved me.”

(Geralt does not need to speak to earn this frown. “She did,” the spirit snaps.

“She did,” Geralt agrees mildly, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Enough to keep you.”

For a moment, the spirit trembles. Expressive to a fault. Geralt can see why the villagers long to make him smile, if this is the alternative. Hearts softer than his would not be able to stand the blow of those crumpled brows, the agonized dip of eyelashes on his cheek. More’s the better, he thinks firmly, without the sliver-stab of guilt under his skin; the better that a witcher’s heart does not ache.

“Yes,” he says at last, wet- and bright-eyed and, to Geralt’s surprise, unfaltering. “Enough to keep me.”)

“She told me to wait for the new moon, when I would find in the grotto beneath the willow’s roots a lily growing. I found the crevice, and the lily. I did as She had told me. I pulled myself up the vines and roots of the willow with the nectar held on my tongue, and only when I was free of the water did I drink it, and found I had legs like a man.

“But the change had been painful and long, and the climb tiring, and the air so dry. So I laid amongst the roots to sleep and regain my strength. I would then follow my new friend’s voice into the trees, or so I thought. Yet when I awoke, I was here. Here I have remained.”

“And yes,” he snaps, “I have tried to walk from the forest.”

Geralt closes his frowning mouth. The spirit snorts.

“I can only leave the waters at night, and even then, I cannot walk far. Too far from the lagoon and every step will feel as if I trod on a bed of thorns. Even pushing through the pain-- and I have, too many nights to count-- there is no path out that will not turn me back. I cannot be carried from the forest, either, no matter how determined my carter. No matter how far I go, when the morning rises, I or my potential saviors are lost, and then I am back in the waters. Always, I return to these waters. For what I am, if I am anything, is a prisoner.”

His tale told, he sits back as if in punctuation. Well? His stubborn mouth unspeaking seems to ask.

Geralt finds the tale sits wrong with him.

It is not, he thinks, that it has the sound of a lie. And as a witcher trained to brutal honesty with himself as well as others, Geralt cannot say it is wholly that his sense of right and justice pricks at the fate, which it does. For all he might not experience those feelings of mortal men, in whatever fashion, he does feel some pity for the pretty, kept thing. He has always been a stalwart on the behalf of those unjustly kept. Princesses in towers, wolves in menagerie cages, and, now, spirits in lagoons.

But it is not sympathy or any doubt that unsettles him. It takes Geralt a moment to realize what.

“Most spirits of that age and breadth can’t lie. Not when they offer a greater magic, as it did in giving you legs. They can twist meaning, or hide it, but not lie outright. If she told you that your time would be to visit... there should be some way for you to be freed,” Geralt reasons.

“There are… stipulations, to the magic she worked on me,” the spirit admits. “A way to leave her hold and the lagoon. She explained them after. Just once.” He beats his fist once upon the stone. “Would that I had asked that she be more specific, that day under the willow. It had sounded quite simple.”

“It always does.”

They sit in silence for a while. It is nearly comfortable.

Geralt’s eyes wince and prick. The Cateye will wear off soon, and he will let it. There will be no battle here tonight, and there is light enough from the waters besides. He should have no trouble finding his way out of the forest. Perhaps, if he makes good enough time, there might be an ale for him at the festival. They won’t have reason to turn him away. He needn’t slay their precious spirit after all.

“So?” The spirit asks, breaking his half-hearted considerations. “Will you be killing me? I should hate for you to have walked all this way for nothing.” This, for once, is not a flirtation. The spirit smiles blandly. “Though I suppose if you hurry, you might still make the festival. It is tonight,” he asks Geralt’s momentary startlement, “is it not?”

For a moment, so surprised by his own thoughts spoken back to him, Geralt considers that maybe-- but no. He looks, and there is no tilt of victory to the look leveled on him. It had not read his thoughts. At least, not any one that he hadn’t shown clearly on his face, apparently. He had let his guard down almost without realizing. Sometime during his story, Geralt wonders with a foreboding inkling of his fate? Sometime before?

Geralt realizes he has already made a decision and, sighing gustily, unslings his swords resignedly. He gives himself exactly one moment the mourn the ale he won’t be drinking. Then:

“What stipulations?” he grunts. The man jolts from his pointed slump. The ungracefulness of his gaping speaks to his real shock as Geralt settles the swords on a bed of ferns. He himself doesn’t speak, though his mouth moves. Opening. Closing. Smiling. Geralt dodges directly catching his gaze like one avoids a direct look at the sun and clears his throat, saying to his chin (which is just about the only safe place to look which isn’t his eyes), “The role of a witcher is not only to slay beasts and monsters. We are expert curse breakers. This sounds close enough.”

“Even if I’m one of the monsters you might otherwise slay?” he lilts, like a man who knows already. Geralt scowls at being made to say it.

“You’re a spirit, not a monster. You’re hurting no one. If I can free you, I will.”

Now it is Geralt’s turn to jump.

“Thank you,” the spirit murmurs as soft and rasping as his fingertips across the back of Geralt’s hand. He leans close enough that Geralt wants to turn away-- not only for himself. He knows how his eyes and face will look from so close. The sickness of Cateye still burns through him; more so, when it is burning out. The thin, corpse-colored skin around his eyes does nothing to hide the blackness of the veins there. It seems almost indecent to expose a spirit infatuated with beauty and humanity (in fact, a spirit born from it) to such ugliness. “But I- it--” he stutters.

Geralt looks back then. Not once to this point has the spirit ever stumbled his words. So he looks, and the despair so clear in his face is all he needs to see.

“But you can’t tell me,” he concludes, and curses, and cuts his throbbing eyes back to the trees. “The magic prevents you from revealing how to break it. Of course.” Nothing can ever be easy.

The spirit bobs to the side, trying to catch Geralt’s gaze. Resolutely, Geralt turns his head.

“Witcher?” A moment. “Geralt? Why do you turn your face? Is there something you hear? Or see?”

“No,” Geralt grits out. He winces at the throb and sear of shifting blood and inflamed blood vessels. He raises a hand over his eyes when the spirit presses closer chasing his gaze like a child. He snaps. “Will you stay there?”

“No! Let me see what’s wrong.” A hand grabs his wrist. Geralt flinches.

“Don’t-”

“Touch you?” The spirit challenges.

“-look!” Geralt snarls, and closes his mouth tight immediately after, breathing hard out through his nose. A flush of nausea goes through him, followed by a dowsing of cold sweat. The sickness without battle adrenaline to cushion him from the full extent of the toxicity symptoms. Made more uncomfortable for the unfortunate honesty.

A thumb swipes along Geralt’s wrist, caressing tendon and bone.

“Your lovely eyes? Why not? Are they hurting you?”

“Not lovely,” Geralt grunts, “and not mine. The effect of the potion is wearing off.” Another throb, a flush of fever-hot blood draining down his cheeks. The muscles of his back ripple before he forces each one to release.

“You didn’t answer me. Are they hurting you?”

Silence.

“Can I see?”

Stubborn. “You won’t like it.” No one does.

Geralt can hear him shift, him in his bare skin and naught else.

“Can I see?” he repeats, so softly that he could be talking to one of his kissing villagers. “Your eyes. Please.”

It twinges to have them open as his pupils begin to contract and close and the irises shift back into place. Geralt turns to look at him anyway and bears it because he wants to punish the spirit for asking. To see him reel back in disgust. He had acted too long as if he spoke to a man and not a witcher and, Geralt thinks, needs reminding.

Only, as the night leans in on its shadowed haunches to fill in spaces that had been bright as noon not seconds before, and as the lagoon and the forest and the man with lilies in his skin go pearlescent and cool blue, the spirit startles. He watches unbreathing as the pain and therefore the blackness begins to recede, receding, gone. The shift complete.

But he does not pull back. His eyelashes splay open their beautiful, greedy, grasping fingers, and he wondering breathes, “You have brought me a gift. You just didn’t know it.” Geralt stares.

“What?”

At Geralt’s twitch his expression breaks open, not cool at all. He beams rose and peach and shell-pink warmth. His fingers weave their way into the hair behind Geralt’s ear; and he is reeling from the potion, he tells himself, that is why- why he doesn’t--

“My name is Jaskier,” the spirit says, a mere hand’s breadth away.

And that is when he dips forward and kisses Geralt on the mouth.

#the witcher #fanfic #nonhuman!jaskier #geraskier #lagoon verse #taran writes #i love dramatic larger than life fairy tales and no one can stop me #go big or go home #and i'm already home

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grimoireofwritings · 3 years

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Hello and I hope you are doing well, is it okay (despite the fact you probably have a bit of matchup requests) if I could get a matchup for BNHA if that is okay?

Okay so the essentials, I am Male (trans) and Omniromantic Asexual (male/masculine leaning), 5'6ish, Capricon, INTJ, in between thin and chubby, brown eyes, red hair up to the cab muscles (henna dyed). My personality is hard to explain, every person has a different opinion of me but the main things I hear are intemidating, empathetic, kind, a serious & calm, and intelligent? (But nah the intelligence part is really only in spanish lol). I'm increadbly insecure in myself. Almost to the point where it becomes self deprecating and self humorous but I almost become hypocritical when it comes to other people feeling insecure/taking care of themselves, I'm also a self sacrificing freak in a way. However on the lighter topic, I believe I'm a good friend! I would offer my advice, comfort, food, help in the clothes of my own back, because of this I may be considered naive and people may see me as being flirtatious even if I believe I'm beings good friend. But all of that goes to dirt if I or anyone I was close to were to be insulted, I keep my friends incredibly dear to me. One more thing about myself, I am a emotional and a animal empath that can become very emotional when it comes to seeing riots/movements and just seeing a cute pupper. When it comes to this sensitivity I can also get overwhelmed by large crowds and by loud noises, usually what helps me is being in the dark and being held/constricted by something/someone. I just like the dark, it's comforting to me and I use it to my advantage. Now onto my likes, I have an interest in witchcraft/the supernatural and celestial, and as being someone that believes that everything exists in it's own way I have an open mind to these things as well as a few unnatural experiences. Naps...I don't get enough of em and that just makes my love stronger, I also really like cosplay and acting in general, and if drawing dark/vent art counts then count it right in! And if it helps my favorite animals in order are Wolves, Ravens, and Orcas. As to not end on a negative note I'll tell more things about myself. I'm very much into PDA if not in public then just in private at least, I want to be close to my significant other and I since I've been touched starved for a long time any touch of any kind I will accept. I am also sensitive to sound (if someone is raising their voice or yelling at me I will think they are yelling at me and try to run away) and light (I don't like very bright places it strains my eyes and hurts to be in for a while)

Hello! Thank you for requesting, you're actually the second request I've gotten for a matchup and the only one I had in my ask! I was super excited to write this for you!!

Your BNHA match is... Fumikage Tokoyami!

I passionately ship this already, I am positive it would be one of those relationships that helps both partners grow and they bring out the best in each other!!! I feel like he wouldn't be someone who feels intimidated by your outward personality - it sounds like you have a bit of a calm and collected exterior that people misunderstand or misinterpret, but you are deeply kind, gentle, and empathic underneath that. This is something he relates to a lot, and being misjudged or people making assumptions based on his dark appearance (his RBF) is normal, so I think if anything he'd be more attracted to you at first above all else and he actually finds your quiet nature very soothing.

He needs a deeply emotionally strong person and a supporter, he's very drawn to those who build others up and have kindness in their heart, so I feel that your relationship would always be full of lots of warmth, love, and a deep level of shared trust. He's very much a vocal person about his feelings in private and it's very important to him that both of you feel satisfied physically and emotionally with your shared affection; he's a cuddle bug but in a chill way, and this man can sweep you off your feet with the most beautiful poetic compliments and appraisal you've ever encountered in your life. Very chivalrous, and a believer in courting / staying persistent with his efforts even past the honeymoon phase. It definitely will help with your confidence in the relationship!

Speaking of which, physical appearance insecurities is something Tokoyami understands thoroughly. He has been aware since early childhood that he looks different than everyone around him for the most part, and despite a lot of diversity within quirks that's been integrated into society, he in particular got quite a physical variation and he always deep down fears he's not attractive enough or that he's too odd looking for a partner to stay interested in for very long. He thinks he's incapable of being handsome, and while he's pretty good at regulating these emotions and keeping them in-check, managing them gets difficult when he catches feelings for someone and he really gets into his head about rejection fears.

All in all, I feel like you both would relate and share some similar experiences in that area, and you could always build each other up and remind one another that you're beautiful inside and out.. and absolutely deserve the best treatment. He reminds you sometimes when needed to take care of yourself and set boundaries with others so that you keep your health as a priority.

Relationship Headcanons:

- 1000000% takes part in your witchcraft interests with you, he was utterly delighted when he found out about it and immediately offers to help you out in any way he can, even running errands to acquire supplies you may need. He wants to talk about it frequently and learn more ideas / in depth perspectives from you - you could teach him a thing or two, since he also practices!!

- After this is when he finally lets you see his room because he was kinda salty after class 1A saw it and made fun of him for it... Lol. But after that he knew you wouldn't judge him and now you both take frequent long naps in there on days off. He's very very cuddly and really enthused about being able to spoon you.

- He understands you have heightened senses and you may sometimes get overstimulated sensory-wise. He is constantly looking out for signs that you're overwhelmed, and always remains very aware and in-tune with how you're feeling. He's wonderful and super understanding - he took a lot of time learning exactly what to do and how to best assist you in these situations. If you get distressed by crowds, bright lights, or noises his first priority is to get you to a safe place and he will politely ask if he can comfort you in the ways you like; restriction probably with hugs and keeping you in a dark, quiet / calm environment so that your heightened state can relax and reset. He is patient and will never, ever punish you or get frustrated with you for needing a break.

- If you're also very tactile and find textures / certain sensations soothing, his bird like feathers / hair is very very soft... Feel free to touch and stroke whenever, he actually quite likes soft loving hands since I think he may also be a very affectionate person, and you're the only person he allows to do this.

- You'll always find gifts that he caters to your preferences in your room, with a poem or some heartfelt words on a note...He does it enough to remind you that you're worth the world and more, especially to him, but not excessively. He still wants it to be a special surprise every time!

- He never ridicules or judges your art, regardless of if it's dark vent art or not. If anything he always compliments your ability to put such emotion in your work and he likes them because it allows him to connect with you and understand you better.

- Overall he's a really aware, giving, supportive, attentive partner and he finds that your empathy and compassion has brought him healthy changes to his life, too. Y'all are goals!

#bnha #my hero academia #match up requests #match ups #matchup request #boku no academia #fumikage tokoyami

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mimzy-writing-online · 5 years

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Writing A Blind of Visually Impaired Character: Mannerisms

This post is part of a multi-step guide to writing blind characters, and it’s master post to all parts is linked here: https://mimzy-writing-online.tumblr.com/post/185122795699/writing-a-blind-or-visually-impaired-character

All posts on writing blind characters will be tagged #blindcharacter for you to search on my blog for.

Follow this blog for more writing advice

Disclaimer: I am a very real visually impaired person who has been living with my disability for two years and these are little things I specifically do, little mannerisms that developed because of my blindness

Part Five: Blindisms or Mannerisms that Breathe Life into Your Characters

Biological Things

-My eyes get tired so easily, and when I say tired I mean they start aching and my vision gets even worse as the day progresses. The muscles start to ache and I’ll press or pinch the area around my eyes because of the pain

-Eye strain will cause headaches. When I get eyestrain I have to take off my glasses, stop looking at screens, and just relax for a while in bed until my eyes feel a little better.

-Weather has a huge impact on how I see, and any light sensitive person with a fair amount of remaining vision will probably have the same problem. Light sensitive people will find sunny days much harder, but overcast days can be a little difficult too because the sun tends to diffuse all across the sky through the clouds and the entire sky is bright

-Snow. This isn’t a me thing because I don’t live in this climate and never have to deal with it, but snow days are incredibly disorientating to people with vision issues. It covers any ground land marks you might use to know where you are (sidewalk versus grass versus street)

-Rain puddles are difficult to see and obnoxious to walk through, and your cane just sloshes through them (my mom usually warns me in advance and tells me how to avoid them)

Hobbies and Interests

-We’re actually not bared from many hobbies and activities. There are some very athletic blind people out there who play sports. Molly Burke used to rock climb and teach at a rock climbing gym when she was younger, she also learned to surf at one point. She’s gone bungee jumping and sky diving. There are lots of athletic blind people out there.

-Martial arts is very possible for blind people and certain organizations for the blind teach self defense classes. So, in case any of you were mad at me for saying you shouldn’t write Daredevil, my point is that you shouldn’t give your blind character unrealistic super senses. Your blind character can still kick some ass when needed.

-I play video games. It’s not impossible, although it is very hard for me. I still love it. I personally play Overwatch on PC and I’ve been playing Sims for years

-Reading is something a lot of blind people enjoy, and it’s sometimes described as the blind person’s version of TV, a way for them to see in their minds eyes what they can’t see with TV. So for this reason I have and will continue to tell you to keep your blind readers in mind and not traumatize, kill, assault, or victimize your blind characters for plot.

-We read in different ways. Some only read through audio books, some read through screen readers, some read on their tablets or laptops because they can enlarge font, some read printed books with magnifiers. It all heavily depends on how much sight your character has left and where they like to get their reading material. For example, if you read fanfiction a lot you will probably have to rely on screen readers on your laptops to read to you, but if you like reading published books then you will rely more on audio books.

-We do watch TV and movies, even if we can’t see the screen at all. Some movies and tv shows come with audio description for the blind, and they describe visual details on screen. You have access to lots of examples of this, because Netflix does have audio description for a lot of their shows and movies. Check audio description on your favorite Netflix Original and minimize your browser window to the background to experience movie going the blind way

-We can cook, and sometimes amazingly. Christine Hà is a blind chef who won the third season of master chef and she is amazing. She published her own cookbook too. Some schools for the blind will offer cooking classes as part of their rehabilitation services

-Art. I recommend hopping on google and checking out some blind artists out there. I’m sure you’ll be surprised by a few. There are painters, sculptors, pottery makers, photographers, and many more. My second blind character is learning to draw in school and will over time develop his own cartoonish style of drawing.

-Music. Yeah, I know I said I didn’t want to see the blind music prodigy again, but that’s because I wanted to see you guys come up with your own stories and your own unique characters. There are some wonderful blind musicians and your blind character deciding to learn to play an instrument for the first time during the course of your story would actually be pretty cool.

Theatre. It would be really cool to see some acting blind characters. Doctor Who had Ellie Wallwork, a blind actress play a blind character on their eleventh season. She was amazing and I really loved that episode, it was my favorite in the whole season. (I also adore Jodie Whittaker)

There are so many more hobbies that you can have, even with vision loss. Some might require you to adjust how you do that hobby, but with the right accommodations you can do just about anything really. (Except drive. Please don’t drive.)

Little Enjoyable Things

-Interesting textures. The less your characters see, the more obsessed they get with interesting textures. Hard ceramic mugs with decorative bumps, soft and fluffy blankets, crochet blankets and pillows, tile lines and patterns, any raised surface like slightly raised letters on a book cover, rocks with interesting but not too sharp textures. The more vision loss you have, the more you rely on your hands and your hands become a way of seeing for you.

-I have bought bumpy mugs and soft blankets and textured pillows for exactly this reason. My fingers touched them and just enjoyed the hell out of it.

-Your hands becoming a way for you to see makes you want to touch everything (except faces) Shopping in stores is especially bad because I’m touching everything even though I have quite a bit of sight left.

-There are favorite outfits, purely because what you’re wearing has the comfiest texture

-Soothing sounds and music. I’m not big into ASMR but some people might be. I like quiet background music

-Sometimes I tap my cane on pavement or other hard surfaces just to hear the way it sounds. I can’t echo-locate, most people can’t, but it’s a weird form of sensory

-Loud environments where sounds seem to come from all directions is overwhelming and not enjoyable

Cane Safety Things

-Bring your cane everywhere

-Have a backup cane when travelling long distance in case something goes wrong

-Don’t ever touch my cane. I mean it, don’t! My cane is an extra limb, it is part of my body and I get incredibly nervous when people touch it, especially if I don’t know them well. I only trust a few people to hold my cane with them for even a minute (my mom, maybe my best friend if I’m trying to put on a sweater and can’t hold it the whole time)

-Cane height: your character’s cane should be as tall as their shoulder, at least, or maybe a few inches taller to their chin.

-Because of this I like to lean forward and rest my chin on my cane when I’m bored and waiting for something (like a line)

-In general I just fidget with my cane so much

-You can actually get custom canes. I have a cane with a royal purple tip instead of red. You can get a cane that’s entirely pink or blue or black or whatever. You can add reflective tape to make you more visible.

-Some people prefer long canes that don’t fold, some people prefer folding canes. It’s really a personal decision. I’ve heard long canes are better for tactile feedback because the vibrations when they hit an object or tap the ground are more accurate. I like folding canes because I like storing it away when I don’t need it right away (in class, sitting at a booth in a restaurant, in my backpack) My preference for folding canes goes back to my paranoia of people touching it when I’m not paying attention

-Long canes that don’t fold are not easy to fit into cars and you need to get creative.

Guide Dog Things / Animal Things

-I will include a more serious list about guide dogs in my Part Four about tools and things blind people use to survive (canes, guide dogs, accessibility tools, braille) but for now this is more of a fun list

-I can’t say this from personal experience because I have never had a guide dog, but I’ve had pets and let me tell you, everyone loves spoiling their pets with gifts and hugs and pets

-Soft animals are so fun to pet

-Please tell me when there’s a cat nearby, even if I can’t pet it. I love cats? Wild bunnies too? (I’m super allergic to bunnies, I should never pet them, but I love their existence, they’re so cute)

-Some blind people are not dog people and will not get a guide dog for this reason. They are still valid. People who aren’t dog people are still valid, regardless of ability or disability.

General Safety Things

-Depending on the orientation and mobility skills of your character, they may not feel super comfortable walking out alone, and this comes down to how much training they have, how independent they are, and if they’re generally and anxious person or a self-assured person. Some blind people are great at inner city travel and can do so confidently, others feel less confident (I’m personally not great at crossing busy streets by myself and parking lots are scary to me)

-They may not like bars or nightclubs- this comes down to who your character is. Bars and nightclubs are loud, it’s hard to talk, they’re crowded so using a cane or guide dog isn’t easy or sometimes possible. They’re also poorly lit and if your character has some remaining vision but is night blind, this is especially bad. Because of how preyed upon women are, especially disabled women, your character probably won’t feel safe in a bar or nightclub because they know creeps might target them because they can’t see

-Being blind, you develop this awareness that there are predators out there in the world who see your blindness as something to exploit, that will make you easy to assault or abuse.

NOTE: please don’t use this as an excuse to write a rape as part of your plot. The general consensus of readers has come to the conclusion that using rape as something to further your plot is a terrible thing to do, it is cheap and unoriginal plot development and that you shouldn’t do it. You especially shouldn’t put your blind characters through something traumatic like this. Seriously guys, blind people are coming to your stories because they want to see themselves represented. Seeing themselves victimized will only hurt them. DON’T hurt your readers like that

-Because of this awareness of how vulnerable you can be, you learn to walk in groups and avoid places where predators frequent (bars and nightclubs)

God, this thing is getting long and there are so many other little blindisms that I’ve probably not thought of yet. I will probably make more posts in the future about blindness, including little stories or things I experience.

Follow this blog for more writing advice (and posts about experiencing the blind life)

#writing advice #writing tips #writing #writeblr #blindcharacter #my advice #mine

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lawfulpride · 4 years

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Back by popular demand! A conversation between Davos and Thor, Part II. Thor played by @honourablebravery.

captaincoffee07/25/2020

Thor, never the best at 'reading a room', is not foolish enough to be entirely oblivious. Good at this? Nah, probably not. Oblivious? Not so. The slight crease in his brow furrows further and further inward, before he moves to seat himself beside Davos-keeping a good forearm of space between them so Davos doesn't feel crowded in. "Well, you scarcely know me now, generally I have learned that speaking with someone on friendly terms can change that." They clearly have some sort of shared ground, and Davos seems to burn with the need to speak. Perhaps as Loki, he's forever been unheard Thor thinks, a pin-prick of bitterness touching his heart. "Is it something that you would wish to discuss? I am no wordsmith, but I have a gentle ear, and the ability for pragmatism."

Hopeful07/25/2020

"It's . . .. . " Davos ducks his head. He's been working on this: hard. But revelations of his personal struggles remain shameful terrain he was trained for 28 solid years to keep to himself. "It's. Not." He sighs, and looks up. "It's not seemly. For someone like me. I am. I am still learning that I have the right to be." He blinks. "Well. Human."

He gives Thor a long look. " . . . the person I put all my faith and trust in was my brother. When we turned 28, we were the two final contestants, out of all the monks in our temple, to go to trial for the most prestigious title--and responsibility--of my homeland. I was winning. Winning, but I couldn't kill him, even though that was the custom, so I begged him to yield. He was losing badly, but he still wouldn't listen to me, he kept fighting. And I kept winning. And then the light passed over the windows of the temple, and blinded me for but a moment. And Danny . . . his name is Danny, Danny Rand . . . .you've surely heard of him, he is as rich and at least half as famous as Mr. Stark . . . . he took the advantage and disarmed me, and won."

"In that one moment everything I had ever wanted, everything I had ever dreamt of becoming, was gone." He grinds his jaw. "But I was still willing to stand by his side as he took the Iron Fist . . . .the title and the duty of which I spoke. And he thanked me by abandoning us. Abandoning me."

"Coming back here. To play white Kung Fu hero to a city full of reprobates."

captaincoffee07/25/2020

Something about Davos not even being 30 yet both startles and alarms, Thor's brow knitting continually, until it's nearly a flattened line of scrunch. "Siblings are not forged in blood alone, family is family, a lack of a blood bond means little when the pain is so true, the experiences so raw, and the moments so introspective, sharp and clear. Birth right can only account for so much, it's what we know and experience that makes a relationship. This man, Danny, he is your brother, in the truest of it's definition. And you have bene hurt, both by his betrayal and abandonment, and by he effectively sneering in the face of your love and accomplishments." Thor blinks, seemingly startled by how much he's said. "Of course..I can only know this from an outsiders view' He says, quickly. Aware that-regardless of what Davos currently describes, he'd probably not appreciate Thor actually insulting the man. He knew that feeling all too well. "Davos..if I may..what is it you wish to ask him? Can it even be quantified in singular statements? What drives you now?" He saw Davos was indeed human, but he keeps this quiet, not sure how this moral complex is for the other, or what about it disturbs him so. He hasn't enough information yet for that.

Hopeful07/26/2020

Davos folds his arms across his chest. As he is wont to do, he listens closely to Thor's ruminating. The god clearly speaks from experience. "Of course." He looks up suddenly, eyes bright with a different kind of light, one not altogether gentle. "Your brother is the sorcerer who attacked this city in 2012." He would love to do battle with such a formidable creature, but he also knows that to say or even think such a thing toward this good man's beloved family member is unkind. " . . . . as for your question, I don't. I don't know."

"I cannot imagine what I would say."

captaincoffee07/26/2020

There is anger there. Thor can sense it. What he cannot discern is it's direction, and he is not about to make the situation escalate by asking. He feels pain, but he doesn't know quite why he feels pain. For a moment, he wishes he understood people, emotions, nuances better. He tries, and he hopes that is something. "Yes, Loki attacked New York here..in 2012..he was..unwell..very very unwell, that is not..I wish to not make it sound as if I'm excusing him, but much has come to light, since that moment." He chuckles, fondly, almost, reaching for his ice coffee. "You know.' Having a small sip. "It's entirely possible you won't know until you are within five inches of Danny's face that you'll know exactly what you wish to say"

Hopeful07/26/2020

"it might be unwise for me to ever see him again." Davos looks down at his right fist. He flexes it, over and over, slowly, as though something there is missing: the hand that, briefly, held the Iron Fist, when for a time he stole it from Danny. A twitch of muscles, that meditates on what might have been. "I have spent many months rebalancing my chi, recovering my self-control and my....clarity...in knowing right from wrong. Seeing Danny makes me violent and irrational."

"...it did not used to."

captaincoffee07/26/2020

Thor nods, slow, steady, and hopefully with understanding. "Unwise..yes, but are you settled?" He asks, "If you think that it would be possible to never see him, to never have that moment again and carry out your life with something else on your mind, could you do so? I would never advise anything that could hurt you, but I only ask, does it feel wise to you?" He continues, a little quickly. "You seem a man whom carries burdens like brands, Davos. A man who will always feel the burn of things that fester, that he believes wrong, because not having the resolution to something you believed in so deeply..I don't know if you'd be content, letting it go..because to you, it'll always feel like some slow moving knife taking pieces from your spine until someone yanks it back out." He could be wrong, and he truly has little clue where this babbling he speaks comes from..maybe Davos had a way of making everyone more introspective.

Hopeful07/26/2020

Davos sets his jaw. He stands, and moves to the door. But he pauses, and turns. His hand tightens into a fist at his side. He turns it and examines his palm. And he returns to the couch, and sinks back onto it. "You are right."

captaincoffee07/26/2020

He worries for a brief moment if he's said something upsetting, but then Davos just..sits back down. "I cannot speak for you, nor your best interests, Davos..but..I do..I cannot say I do not worry. Your energy is very..intense"

Hopeful07/27/2020

The Steel Serpent looks at the Thunder God in his gauging, serious way. "I was born to protect, and I must find something to protect, or I will run mad." It's a confession, a tacit agreement.

captaincoffee07/27/2020

Something to protect. It seems there could be a double meaning to that..but it feels..rude to ask. He's not sure how to respond, precisely. "What about protecting yourself..and what you believe in? It may..I feel that there are causes, things you sympathize with, perhaps, if devotion is what drives you..looking somewhere to it?"

Hopeful07/27/2020

"That is why I am a shifu at several training centers now." He rubs a palm down the back of his scalp, and inclines his head toward Thor in a single nod. "That is what I seek. Truth to my purpose. To be devout, to the people who need to learn to protect themselves. Some of them are children. Some women battered by the pigs who have abused the sanctity of marriage. Some teenagers."

"It's only...Can you miss the person who abandoned and betrayed you? I fear that is my dilemma. Yet I don't trust myself to speak to him without reverting to shameful ways."

captaincoffee07/27/2020

Norns, what a loaded question. And such a question does not have a simple response-it cannot, at the heart, have any response not loaded and situation-based. He decides to hone in on the most simplistic part of the question (or what Thor thinks is the most simple) "Yes, I think you can' He says, gently, 'But you and I both know there is more to it than that..is there not?" The set up is a clear opening I can expand upon this should you desire it. You are safe in my company.

Hopeful07/27/2020

"Please explain." Davos takes the opening, finally sipping his nearly forgotten tea.

captaincoffee07/27/2020

"Betrayal..is not a black and white issue, and it of course, determines on the type of betrayal." He's hesitating, but it's clearly in result of thinking how best to word what he desires to bring to the table here. "And how badly you are hurt by said betrayal. I think that, if one is to look for forgiveness after a betrayal has occurred, then context is utterly crucial."

Hopeful07/27/2020

"I don't want forgiveness, I want him to beg it! And I want to still tell him to go to hell!" Davos speaks ferociously but his whole body tightens, trying to regulate the emotions he keeps too constantly locked up in the dark. "I want him to have never left, I want us to be home! I would have gladly yielded him the honor he was bestowed if he had just taken it seriously!"

A long pause and he draws out a shaky exhale. "Forgive me, I should not have raised my voice."

captaincoffee07/27/2020

Thor's first instinct is to reach out, he's tactile, after all. But he doesn't have consent and he's not sure what a man like Davos thinks of such things. Knowing full well some individuals hated touch. His fingers flex against his own leg, a slight inward curl, "Anger is not always something shameful" He points out, gently, "Sometimes it is good to let it out..lest it consumes us." Unless Davos believed anger a shameful thing, "You are not..." No He puzzles, then tries again, "This is a safe haven, Davos"

Hopeful07/27/2020

"A weapon does not know anger." The words are hollow and come from a dead place behind Davos's now shuttered and lightless eyes. "A weapon does not indulge in emotions. It is dangerous. I do not think you unsafe. On the contrary, you are .....you are quite kind."

"I want him to have valued me...as much as I valued him." That's the root of it all. That's the bottom line.

captaincoffee07/27/2020

"You're a human first, Davos" He lets that sit, a moment. 'I was not always good...maybe this is why I make such an effort now..maybe I always had goodness inside, but could never access it..or..something." Words are not his strong suit. "You know the truth that you cannot force him to value you...Davos, it hurts..but Danny's blindness is not because of you, but him, and whatever has completely clouded his mind, his vision, his everything."

Hopeful07/27/2020

Davos bites his tongue halfway to saying "I know that!" because. Does he? Intellectually, perhaps, but not in his heart of hearts. "I have never been exposed to what...the Western world, I believe, refers to as 'positive reinforcement,' but I shall attempt to believe your words are true."

captaincoffee07/27/2020

"In truth..I do not quite grasp that concept either. My..my father's belief to me..was that..as long as you did what he claimed was 'good' then..it meant something. But it had to align with his personal visions. Order, regulation, he saw the future, did he? Maybe he claimed such, not sure...but I was so brash, so arrogant. And after years of encouragement from him to be so, he tells me no, it is too much, humble yourself..and I do..but it still did not align with his beliefs" "Loki suffered worse for it. He saw right through him at points..he always was to clever.."

Hopeful07/27/2020

Davos lifts his head from where it's been resting, in his hands, and studies Thor perceptively. "My parents are like your father. It's exhausting. I'm very sorry. The price of being the model pupil, always, is steep. But I succeeded often in being what my mother and father...mostly my mother, demanded. It was just that it was never quite enough. I could always be more perfect. And when I was not, I did not exist."

captaincoffee07/27/2020

"And I, to you, I am sorry..but if I may?" He has no idea how to preface it, simply launching himself head-long into words and hoping it sticks "I have learned, and I cannot claim this to be universal, these parents of ours..they have ideas, they want things accomplished. My father wanted a King, and he molded me to be just that, but when I started to eek from his mold, he punished me. He had two sons..well, Loki is Loki, but we grew up..side by side..and he made it seem as if the throne was allowed to both of us, but he deliberately kept the truth at bay. I was to take the throne, Loki not, and in his eyes we both failed because of what? Because HE couldn't be arsed to communicate openly? Because he treated fatherhood like putting pieces into a puzzle? Adding sealant to a sculpture? How can we do wrong or right when to him, sharing his thoughts was not..we were never worthy of his true voice, only spiels I have to wonder were rehearsed, he even banished our sister and told NOBODY." Now Thor is raging, that tell-tale fiery personality that still lingers beneath the surface, even to this day, rising like an encroaching flame. "She was too powerful..for him..' he scoffs, 'Imagine.." Lies, lies, deceit. Half truths. "Davos, we..we could never live up to what our parents desire, because their desires are not tangible, they are unrealistic, they always were. To the offspring are a means to an end, a continuation in a storyline they've crafted and could never finish, because we have agency. If they wanted someone to carry out legacies, whatever, to their exact specifications, make models, or something, do not expect that people with brains and feelings and hearts are blank slates waiting to be guided about like dogs!"

Hopeful07/27/2020

Davos watches Thor storm around his own lodgings, his inspirational words turning into a blaze of still unresolved emotions. The Kung Fu master blinks slowly once. He then smiles, a small soft smile, almost modest in nature. This is so familiar. Danny has a temper like this, too. Danny likes to rail against injustices, too, albeit a bit more sanctimoniously than this Thor fellow does.

Something about it is as comforting as the commiseration, the empathy, within the words themselves. He stands and walks over to the ranting god, and lays a hand on his bicep. "Are you alright?" he asks, and it's clear he actually cares. Davos isn't much of a deceiver.

captaincoffee07/27/2020

The touch does not startle him, it is both welcome and relieving. "..Are you?" He asks, quietly. "I.." He chuckles, 'I am a Thunder God for a reason, it appears." Aware that the moment is radiating tension, but comfort in the same shared space. 'Our lives seem oddly similar, Davos, in some ways."

Hopeful07/27/2020

"I am, in fact." Davos huffs a laugh through his nose, and nods. "Perhaps we are."

captaincoffee07/27/2020

Thor's grin turns downright radiant, pleased with the good discussion, moving to turn himself more fully, his own wide-palmed hand loosely grasping Davos's shoulder. "I am glad, to have given you some chance to alleviate some burdens, and I would be honoured to have you as a friend."

HopefulToday at 2:17 PM

Davos reddens. Particularly his cheeks and ears. They aren't especially large ears, but with his shaved head, they become prominent. He could face down any foe with his fists, and with his keen wits, he could navigate nearly any delicate intellectual scenario as well. But being told by a friendly behemoth that he wants to be his friend, that it would be his honor? That's intimidating to someone trained to disregard emotional attachments altogether, save those which pertain to loyalty, and to devotion. "I." Oh, but it's very good for him, this scenario. "I would also be honored." He grasps Thor's shoulder, in return. He has to stand on his tiptoes.

#Interactions: Thor Odinson #ic #Davos #Davos Iron fist

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eusuntgratie · 3 years

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1, 2, 7, 8, 15, 16, 23, 28, 30!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

bi asks | ask me

1. who was your childhood male crush? who your female crush?

i had it bad for brad pitt a la Legends of the Fall. I still REALLY love long haired men, but I was pretty much exclusively attracted to long haired men in my youth. and apparently my weakness for pretty men crying started LONG AGO. I’ve had a crush on Salma Hayek since forever <3

2. when and how did you realize you were not straight?

heh. so i’m a bit of a weirdo i guess. or maybe my story is just the result of growing up in a heteronormative society and being able to pass as straight. i’ve always been attracted to women and gender non-conforming folk, and i’ve always been drawn to, felt supported by, and felt protective of the queer community. i never had a lightbulb moment, but in the last couple of years, i actually spent some time thinking critically about and claiming an identity. i usually use pan but i’m good with bi too :)

7. what is the most stereotypical bi thing about you/that you do?

i feel like there’s this perception that bi/pan people are attracted to everyone (like literally every human), and i’m not, but i do crush on people easily, i don’t have a type and am attracted to a really wide range of humans, and almost always find a person i enjoy ogling in nearly every scenario (shows, movies, bars, whatever). my lovely husband is VERY used to me lusting after AT LEAST one character in nearly everything we watch and listening to me ramble about why they’re pretty. we watched SNL last night and during kate mckinnon’s cast intro i was like “i LOVE her” and you could HEAR the heart eyes in my voice and he was just like “babe i know you tell me literally every time we watch SNL”.

8. describe your style

what style? i never leave my house anymore 😂

typical day if i’m not dressed for work & plan to work out - high waisted workout leggings, a strappy sports bra, and a cropped shirt if its warm or a sweatshirt or something if its cold. baggy sweats and a hoodie in the evenings if its cold enough. jean shorts and tshirts in the summer, leggings or jeans and sweaters or flannel and boots in the winter. I’m almost always barefoot. I dress up infrequently but I do love to wear fancy dresses or jeans and cute tops with heels and lots of bright makeup and eyeliner. so basically, zero effort (sweats or workout clothes and no makeup) or a nice outfit and full face of makeup. no in between, except for work, but zoom life means i don’t really wear my work clothes right now.

15. your favorite queer novel?

probably call me by your name. i’ve read it a lot and i really love the aggressively first-person-ness of it...being totally immersed in every thought that pops into elio’s head because it reminds me of when I was his age and how i thought about love and attraction then. obviously i love the movie too. I haven’t read enough queer fiction, though. i have a bunch of bi books on my list for my next bookshop order that i’ve been meaning to make for like six weeks. if y’all have recommendations, send them my way.

16. your favorite queer movie?

brokeback mountain. i love the movie, but i also have such strong memories around it that i think that’s what makes it my favorite. it came out when i was in college, and i went to school in a small college town, so me and my friends drove a couple of hours to see it. we had planned to make a night of it, go out to eat after, and i just remember us all staring at each other at dinner, still sobbing. once we stopped crying, we talked about the movie all through dinner, through the drive home... i had a bunch of really great conversations with people in college because of that movie. one night in our dorm lounge in the basement a group of us stayed up all night talking about queerness and masculinity and attraction. i watch it every year or two, and it always rips my heart out. if i’m in the right mood, just the chords from the theme song will make me start crying.

23. what’s something that makes you fall for a person immediately?

i’m an actions speak louder than words kinda person. i need to see that somebody will do what they say they will, that they’ll take care of me, that they can deal with the shitty stuff. watching someone competently do something they are good at is just... oof. i’m also super duper tactile, so i’m a big fan of lots of flirty touching and dancing and touching for no reason and hand holding and hugging etc. etc. etc. y’all get three guesses why I love bucky so much.

28. what is a dating/relationship deal-breaker for you?

not doing the fucking work. i don’t expect my partner to be good at everything, but i damn sure expect him to try and to work as hard for us as I do.

and smoking. being around cigarette smoke makes me want to cut out my own lungs. i can’t with that.

30. what childhood moment makes you think “I should’ve known I wasn’t straight back then”?

i don’t know. i might not have one, which is lame. i never hid my attraction, i just let my relationships dictate my identity, i guess. so i never had this aha moment of like “oh shit i’m not just into men!”; i’ve always known that. and I don’t know that ever really thought of myself as straight when I was young, just like I didn’t really examine or think about my whiteness until I started doing racial justice work. i don’t know. I dated men and ended up marrying a cis man and I didn’t really critically think about my own identity beyond that. that sounds so utterly ridiculous and lame, but its true. I think if I hadn’t been raised Catholic I probably would’ve dated other genders, but its also not as if there was a girl I wanted to date and didn’t because i was scared; i think it was a lot more layered and complex than that. well that’s not an answer at all, but there you go!

💗💜💙

💗💛💙

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pink-jindallae · 5 years

Text

After the hospital / Part 2

[Nathaniel/Candy] bit of angst / a bit heated but no smut / kind of fluff? PART 1 / PART 2

Things never change, I'm still too slow to write. Completely rewritten as well.

Words: 3864 Author note: I succeded to finish this before my vacation... Yay! I'll be abroad for 2 weeks :) I need holliday so much, you have no idea. Anyway, enjoy! No smut here. I don't even know how I can write it after this...

Candy P.O.V

Nath is recovering better than expected. It was with relief that I attended, alongside Amber, Nathaniel's last examination which were, thanks God, all very good. I was glad to hear his head trauma didn't damage any part of his brain; Nath can move, speak, hear and his memory capacity doesn't seem affected. The only real problem is his flank injury, and although he's healing quickly, the doctor strongly advised him to take it easy with sport, especially since my boyfriend is boxing. "You should avoid too intense activities." had concluded the doctor. "With a personal nurse as pretty as mine, I can't promise you anything doctor." That idiot had responded with a suggestive wink in my direction. Amber had scolded him, very strict with her brother recovery, and here I was blushing stupidly without knowing what to answer. The doctor had just laughed softly, very amused by the comeback of his patient but hadn't replied to his salacious remark, except that the wound shouldn't open as long the efforts were not too important. Fortunately, Nath added nothing to embarrass me further... his twin sister would have stopped him anyway. He'd just chuckled to himself when he saw my flustered state. Nath was enjoying this way too much. Just thinking about it gives me a headache. "You are beautiful today." Nath says as soon as we arrive at his apartment, suddenly pulling me out of my thoughts. We've just returned home that he had immediately hugged me, his face nuzzling in the crook of my neck. I shudder while feeling his breath on my skin. He's taking advantage of Amber's absence since she has a photo shoot the whole day. He couldn't do much when he was at the hospital. To say the truth, Nath has changed. He has become extremely tactile since that awful night. His hands are always looking for mine, his lips wander more often on my skin, his fingers are more easily lost in my hair. Before his assault, he was more conscious with his touch, always slipping away when things became more heated. Like a frustrating gentleman. I could tell he was fearing to touch me more than he was allowed to, but now it seems like he cannot stop it. I won't complain about his change of behavior, I'm myself clingier with him. "You're exaggerating. And what do you mean by today?" "Never." he retorts, lingering an affectionate kiss on my hand. "You are beautiful every day, but what I mean is you are particularly breathtaking today." "The medicines make you crazy." I put a finger on his lips as he tries to take mine. "Or you're looking for something." "Maybe ..." My sly boyfriend grabs my finger between his lips and sucks it tenderly, eyes glued to mine. This idiot, my idiot, really does his best to seduce me. Another perk of his changing attitude. If he wasn't hurt, I would gladly let myself go to his embrace without a thought but ... "The doctor said no." "The doctor said to be careful, not that was forbidden." "The medicines make you crazy." I repeat, holding a laugh. I somehow extricate myself from his grip thanks to Blanche who came to greet us by rubbing on our legs. The blond-head grumbles a little bit but doesn't try anything more. For now, at least. I roam in his room while he picks Blanche up to pet her. It warms my heart to watch them together, you can see how much they missed each other during Nath's hospitalization. The white cat cannot stop rubbing her face on his while Nathaniel fondly pets her, maybe to reassure her after two days of absence. Animals perceive those things better than humans, she must feel that her master isn't feeling well. It's so cute I'm gonna die of fluffiness. "There's no better medicine than having my girls in my arms." he says, embracing me with his free arm and I only hum in agreement. None of us dares to bring up the incident, too afraid to talk about it, although we know that sooner or later, we'll have to. I just want to enjoy the present, this moment with Nath and think about nothing else, as if we are alone in the world. Feeling him, his breath, his touch, his heartbeat. It's not right to turn a blind eye and shut myself from my surrounding, but I don't care. In this apartment, our own happy bubble free of trouble and pain, the outside doesn't exist anymore. There is me, Nath and the cute Blanche. No cartel, no police. My eyes close half way. I'm just a coward who can't face reality. "Do you remember the first gift you gave me?" Nath asks out of blue. I blink, a bit puzzled. My first gift was from high school. "The first… are you talking about the sweatshirt on your birthday?" "Close enough, but not what I had in mind." I frown, trying to focus. I'm fiddling with my memory to seek for a clue, but nothing comes to my mind. Nath inwardly chuckles, more amused than annoyed by my oversight, and frees me to lay Blanche down in her condo. She raises her head, confused to be disturbed in her nap but quickly keeps sleeping after a few strokes behind her ear. I see Nath searching for something inside his drawers, then soon coming back to me with a stuffed toy between his hands and I open my eyes wide in surprise. A heat wave suddenly rushes over my face, maliciously making me go red as a beetroot. "Y-you kept that?!" I exclaim, mortified. My hands on my cheeks confirm my face is overheating, I'm indeed blushing. It's so embarrassing that I have to turn my back, so he doesn't see me redden even more. That doesn't stop him to burst out laughing, on the contrary, he's ignoring my obvious discomfiture. Jerk! Without a word, I feel him spooning me from behind, his body molds perfectly to mine. There's no stuffed toy in his hands, he probably drops it off on his desk. Shame stiffened my body despite Nathaniel's sweetness, but I slightly relax when he kisses my bare shoulder. "Don't be embarrassed." he tenderly murmurs and his breath grazing my skin gives me goose bumps. "How can't I when you're teasing me…?" I pout. "I'm not teasing." "Yes, you are." "No, I'm not." "Shut up." I mumble and he chuckles. "What about the sweatshirt, by the way? I never saw you with it." "I still have it, I'm just not wearing it anymore." "Why not?" I ask with a touch of bitterness. I remember spending hours with Rosa finding the perfect present for him as nothing was good enough for me. Now he says he doesn't wear anymore. "Well… it's a bit small for me now." He admits a bit sheepishly. I raise an eyebrow, doubtful. I turn around and take a step back to eye him. He blushes a bit seeing me checking him out shamelessly. He indeed has more muscles than before… "Can you stop ogling me like that?" "Just checking you're not fooling me." I reply as I go back between his arm to feel his torso under my palm, near his heart. It's nice to feel him like this. Warm and alive. "You're mocking me." He emphasizes with a I-don't-trust-you-look. "You did it first." "Let me close that mouth of yours." I try to sneak away before he could get me, just to tease him, however he brings me back to him with no effort. He settles the matters with a demanding kiss that I struggle to escape, but no to avail, he tightens his grip in a more possessive way. I could draw away from his arms by biting his lip, yet it only encourages him to go further to which I respond with too much vigor and passion. Hell, I'm too carried away by the sensuality of Nath's tongue, my body liquifies into blaze beneath his mouth and fingers. Between two kisses, heavy pants and deep moans shatters the seductive silence, and my resolution to pull away from him is melting like snow under the sunray. Slowly… languorously … taking its time like his lips on mine. My eyelids only open when he moves away to catch his breath. "That's enough for now." I gasp. "Then later?" "We'll see…" He just smiles but doesn't let me go. He'll be the end of me. "You know, I hesitated to give it to you. The stuffed toy, I mean." I confess, completely comfortable now. I give up on moving away. "What made you hesitate?" I smooth my palms on his shoulders before answering. "I thought you might not like it ... Usually boys aren't into those things." "I assure you, I loved your gift just because it came from you. That's why I still have it. It's too precious to me." I happily beam thanks to his confession, he grins back by mimicry. My arms is knotting around his neck and he immediately hold me tighter. Our bodies are slowly moving in a timid waltz., we dance in a rhythm devoid of music, eye to eye. The tip of our nose brushes, our breaths mix together, there is minimum space between us, just enough to talk. It seems almost magical. "I was happy you thought of me." he continues in a low voice, accentuating this intimate moment. " It was the first time I received something without ulterior motive." "You can be cute when you want to, even though you're teasing." I purr against his lips. My fingers are playing with his golden hair. "I didn't bring up this to tease you. That was just a bonus." He takes my hands and spins me before pulling me in his embrace again. He brushes a fond kiss on my forehead, and we continue to swing. "You're good at dancing." "I'm good at a lot of things. I can show you if you let me." His tone is much more suggestive. "You wish." I laugh but kiss lightly the tip of his lips anyway. "Why did you show me the stuffed toy? You had a point, didn't you?" We suddenly stop to dance, too brutally. Nath doesn't move away though, he just stares back absently, as if he doesn't see me, his gaze lost between past and present. He doesn't say a single word when he grabs my wrist and brings it to his lips, closing his eyes as if to savor the taste and texture of my skin. "Nath ...?" His unexpected reaction is scaring me. I stroke his cheek to encourage him to confide in me, confused by his sudden change of behavior. Enigmatic, a simple smile stretches on his lips. A smile that sounds wrong. "Do you remember that day?" he inquires. I only nod. I do remember. Amber wanted to cheat for the exam. She took the keys from Nath to access to the staff room and stole the exams. Nathaniel could have been expelled … He had no other choice than give her a lesson. She was excluded for a week. "You didn't know that yet, but I was beaten again by my father that day. The whole week even. It was hell. Amber complained that I excluded her for no reason. Of course, I never was mad at my sister, she didn't know what happened." He was… beaten? Because of that? It wasn't even his fault! How could it be so unfair? He looks away to avoid my eyes, ashamed. No, Nath. Please, don't be. "I felt really bad that day. I felt guilty. I thought it might be my fault, I should have handled it differently." he continues, and I realize he needs to speak out, so I keep quiet. Supportive, I cup his face and give him a reassuring smile. I feel him relaxing to my embrace. "When you came to comfort me, when you gave me that stuffed toy ... It's a little ridiculous to say, but I had the impression you offered me a part of you. Being beaten hurt less." "Oh Nath ..." I bite my lip, my body agitated by his confession, the atrocity of his story makes me tremble like a leaf. Seeing me shaking, he puts his hand on mine and squeezes it gently. The contrast between my small hand and his rougher and damaged is striking. He kisses my knuckles to appease me, or to appease himself, grasping anything that could assure him he's far away from this. Safe. "So, don't be embarrassed by your gift. Just like the day we went to adopt Blanche, this is one of my most precious memories of you." He squeezes me closer against him and puts his forehead against mine. "I want you to know it. You are and you will be the best thing that happened to me in my life." Nath ... I may be wrong, but I have the feeling that you are trying to tell me something else. Although I can't tell why, my heart is heavy. Is it the thousand emotions dancing in his eyes I dread? I can see it, he tries to formulate other sentences, but once again, his words die between his lips, suspended in the silence and I remain a stranger to his tumultuous thoughts. "It's okay." I reassure him. He lowers his eyes, perhaps feeling shameful for not being able to express himself better than this. I cup his face and pepper his cheeks with kiss until he offers me a real smile. I don't ever want to see him sad. "I'm sorry ..." he breathes, bitterness and sadness vibrating his voice. His brief answer makes me understand that he doesn't want to dwell on the subject further despite his uneasy attempt. His face is tense with remorse, and I do not insist regardless all the questions that come to my mind. I wish he would talk to me, but more than anything, I wish I could to take all his pain away, erase all those bad memories and replace them with happier ones. To appease his regrets, I smooth his face. "It's okay." I repeat. Nath's hands plunge into my hair cascading my shoulders to reassure me. He noticed my sour expression. I smile, or I try to convince myself that's a smile on my face and not a grimace. He stops his caress and sighs, moving his hand away from my skin, as if he doesn't deserve to touch it. I take it back and intertwine with mine. "Can I tell you a secret too?" "Which one? You're hopelessly crazy about me?" He tries to joke to lighten the mood. "Jeez, not that. Anyway, I must admit my first gift wasn't without interest." He stares at me, surprised. "What do you mean?" he asks, anxious, and gnaws his lower lip. I laugh deep inside and try my best to conceal a grin, he's so cute ... "Actually ... I already had a crush on you. I thought you were really cute, and I wanted you to notice me." "Really, you…" He sighs, relieved. I crack up in front of his dismay and he spanks me as punishment. "Stop laughing, naughty girl, you scared me!" Mischievous, I pull my tongue out. He raises an eyebrow, amused. "Just confess already. You're crazy about me." "No." I playfully refuse. "By the way, I wasn't the only one, a lot of girls had a crush on you. Do you even know how hard it was for me?" "Really? In my memories, girls were more attracted to the bad boy style. I was far from being popular." His curiosity a little too cheerful for my taste bothers me. Am I dreaming or does he actually like it? I frown and pout. "Why are you so happy to learn that?" "I like the idea that you already liked me." "Uh really?" I glare at him with an accusing look. "Just me or the other girls too?" His widening smile gets on my nerves. He doesn't even try to deny it! "So, you really like to attract other girls!" I accuse him and slaps his shoulder. He bursts into laughter on top of that, that boor! The teaser being teased back. "Nath, stop laughing!" "Sorry, sorry. You were so cute." he apologizes with a wide smile, not in the least sorry. He aims at my lips to calm me, but I turn my head away. I refuse letting him kiss me in these conditions. Far from getting discouraged, he plays with a strand of my hair, still with that cocky smirk I wish I could erase. Haa, he upsets me. "I told you before you are the only one, princess." he whispers in my ear and my body vibrates in spite of me, especially when he begins to wander on my hips, my back, … everywhere his hands could reach. With a caress, he moves my hair away from my neck, revealing my skin exposed to his feverish kiss. He first sucks it tenderly, then harder to leave a hickey and I let out a cry that sounds a little too erotic for my taste. He's enjoying it, that idiot ... as much as I do. "Humph ... I'm sure you'd preferred your fan club giving to you a stuffed toy like I did." I scoff. I know I'm ridiculous to react that way. I sound like a whining kid begging for his attention ... But I can't help myself, even when his hands slip under my top to fondle my skin. He won't get away with kisses, as intoxicating as they are. "Just like Melody gave you lots of presents too when we were in high school." I add without thinking. Nath stops and looks up at me, visibly annoyed. "Please not her..." "Why not? She was crazy about you in high school ..." I try to justify myself with a small voice. I don't even know why I'm insisting so much. Jealousy is speaking in my stead. "I don't care about her, she's fake. I hate that kind of girl who pretend to be saints. You're much better than she is." Too late to praise me, idiot. "Did you know that when she found out about us, she always made stinging remarks to me?" "Tch. I'm not even surprised. She was the first one to turn her back on me. What a bitch." It's true she spoke ill of him behind his back the first time I ran into her. To believe that she was only interested in the perfect Nathaniel without any flaws. And now she does the same with Mr. Zaidi. She'll definitely never change. "Do you really want to keep talking about other girls?" No. "Yes." I say instead. "She wasn't the only one, there were girls from other classes who were eyeing you all the time." "Aren't you exaggerating a bit too much?" "Oh no, I could see how they were devouring you with their eyes, and now it's even worse!" He laughs when he sees me sulk and I roll my eyes, exasperated by his casualness especially when I see his orbs sparkling in amusement. Frowning, I clench my jaw and swallow somehow a list of insults that comes to my lips. He does enjoy the situation a bit too much. "Do you know how cute you are when you're jealous?" he said to change the subject, brushing his fingertip on my neck where he left his mark. I shudder at this contact and hold my breath, hypnotized by his bewitching fingers. My heartbeat is racing, and I'm almost forgetting I'm irked. "Nath, it's serious ..." I whine whereas his mouth slips again on my neck and pecks it. In response, I instinctively press my body closer to him, my head tilting back. "And I'm extremely serious, sweetheart." he whispers hoarsely. "You don't have to worry about that, you're a way better than all of them." "Maybe, but I don't like it ..." I moan as his lips languidly graze my throat, up to my ear and nip it. I'm losing the track of my thoughts ... His touch leaves an indelible burning imprint on my skin. "I am entirely yours." he concludes in a breath, closing the discussion by taking my mouth. His tongue caresses mine, teasing at first by the tip, then licks it entirely. My vocal cords vibrate with a lustful roar in my throat. Getting hungrier, he catches my tongue between his teeth to put it in his greedy mouth. I sigh and shake when he sucks that piece of flesh. God, he's not lying when he said he was good at a lot of things. "Nath ..." I pant between his passionate kisses. I have trouble concentrating but I have to push him away. However, he doesn't give me time to think, storming my mouth to shatter my last resolutions. "Nath please ..." I know I have to stop him, but he has very good arguments ... Very, very good arguments. And me gripping his hair so tightly only fuels him even more. In the heat of the action, his hands cascade my lower back to cup my buttocks and press me against him. He can hardly be more explicit than that; he's hard and wants me. It'd be a lie to say that I don't want him too, my body is already starting to wave. An alarm signal rings in my head. The situation is completely going out of control. I step backwards, he moves forward, until I get stuck between him and the desk. My hands are pressed to his chest and I shove him before I give in for good. "Nath, no!" I may have pushed a bit too hard, because I see him wince in pain. "See! It hurts you!" "It's nothing, my little vixen just pushed me away a little too abruptly ..." he said, feigning sadness. "My heart is broken, but I'll get over it." As a sign of peace, I steal a butterfly kiss in complete opposite of the prior passion, very soft and sweet. "Only good boy are rewarded, so behave." "You're too beautiful for me to behave." "Yet you did pretty well before. You even shoo me away the first time I came here." "Everyone is bound to make mistake. I was stupid, forgive me." "Stop fooling around and sit down." I force him to sit on his bed to rest and he willingly complies. Even though he acts like he's fine, I can see he's a bit tired. Not surprising, he just left the hospital this morning. If Amber saw him, she would throw a tantrum. "Want me to read you a story?" I suddenly propose, sitting next to him. His shelf is full of book, I'm sure we can find something interesting for both of us. "Want you…?" He brushes a peck on my cheek. Always grasping every opportunity. "Mmm, yes good idea." "To read a story." "To read a story." he chuckles.

#mcl nathaniel #my candy love #amour sucre #my candy love university life #amour sucre campus life #mcl candy #nathaniel x candy #mcl episode 16

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