#i tried to tone it down as i can without repainting the whole thing so hopefully its a bit monotonous now | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

celeste-clearwater-06 · 3 years

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hello. it is i. so! i was wondering if you could do a little ditty abt nail polish with the company and/or the fellowship? basically like modern girl in middle earth type stuff, and she realizes that she has nail polish on her which is something they totally don't have in middle earth. basically headcanons abt like how they would react to painted nails and which one of these mfs would let me paint their nails. cuz like - they dont know its just a "fem" thing here so no toxic masculinity. ty <3

OMFG I'M SO HYPED FOR THIS! I just picked a few random Tolkien characters that seem to have a lot of attention, so I hope you like this!!

Nail Polish (LOTR/THE HOBBIT X READER)

Frodo~

I feel like Frodo would be very skeptical at first

Because, come on, a girl falling into Middle Earth out of nowhere??

However, his interest is certainly peaked, seeing you twist the brush away from it's blue colored bottle as you smile down at it

"What's that, you've got there?"

"Oh, just some nail polish!"

He watches with curiosity as you perfectly decorate your nails with the periwinkle color

"How interesting..."

He may not want to have his nails painted at first, but has this deep fascination with how perfectly you can paint them without screwing up

Soon, he forgets all about the ring as you paint your nails, sitting cross-legged and starting with those huge blue eyes with interest

If he allows you to paint his nails, he would smile the whole time

I mean HIS TINY HANDS?!?!

What a bean 🥺

Tries his best not to chip the color when he leaves for Mordor with Sam

Gollum is actually really interested with his nails

"whAT IS IT prECI0us?!?1!1?"

But Frodo will swat his hands away, because "it's a gift from someone important."

The one thing that keeps him smiling along the way 😊

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Legolas

Elf prince is so interested!!

He thinks the spring green color looks so pretty in the bottle

He's obviously not used to most thing from your world

Asks politely;

"How do you use this?"

"...can I show you?"

So whenever the Fellowship stops for the night, he watches with amusement as your brows furrow and you stick your tongue out in concentration

Legolas sits very still, so it's easy for you to paint his nails

How does he keep them so clean?!

He's low-key obsessed with how satisfying it is...

wAIT...

Now HE wants to paint YOUR nails?

THE PRECISION...

He's so good at it!

Legolas is so patient and calm

He says it reminded him of making flower crowns I guess?

And he doesn't even mess up once 😳

THE MASTER NEEDS TEACHING, DAYUM-

He gets so happy with how the color matches him!

Forgets that you have to let it dry at first, so it gets a bit smudged when he draws his bow

Upset Legolas :(

But you fix it for him, and he's happy again!

CAN

NOT

STOP

LOOKING

He's amazed!!

And so proud!

Pretty Elf 🥰✨

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Pippin

Pippin is very confused, to say the least

He though it would be something relatively close to a nail filer

But once he sees the pastel yellow color, on your own fingers, he has to have some!!

WILL

NOT

SIT

STILL

While you're trying to paint his hands and feet (by request), he's telling you great tales of the shire, a throwing his limbs around to exaggerate his story

You've to clonked him on the head and scolded him quite a few times

For some reason, he's saying it tickles??

"It does! The brush is like feather!"

Painting his toes it a lot easier, seeing he can't really feel much on his feet

The color goes perfect with his green eyes 🥴

Also, let's not forget that Pip is the definition of "disaster-on-legs"

After the polish dries, it immediately chips, since he's busy causing trouble with merry or practicing his hand with Boromir

He really wants to paint your nails, and you let him do so...

Poor hobbit has zero clue with how this shit works 🤦‍♀️

He feels so bad about getting it all over your fingers, but you assure him it'll be fine and that it will eventually wash off in a few days

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Boromir

HE WANTS TO USE IT RIGHT AWAY-

Pink, as cliche as it sounds, suits him so well

He's just amazed!

Also, really likes the smell 🤔🤔

Is grinning like an idiot while you're painting his nails

"Such talent and patience you have!"

"Pfft, it's really nothing. Takes a bit of practice is all."

Afterward, is flashing his bright pink nails at everyone

"Look at Y/N's spectacular skill of hand!"

I think Boromir would have a habit of picking at the polish after it dries

But that's okay, he doesn't mind too much

It gives him more time to spend with you while you repaint them!!

He's afraid he'll screw up your nails if he tries to paint them, so he never offers

That's alright though, since you know he only means well 😊

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Thorin

Oh he's so regal

You were in Rivendell, digging through your purse, and suddenly

Tada!!

A deep navy blue bottle, probably about half empty was revealed

He was curious, but tried not to let it show, since that would damage his royal ego 🙄

"What is that?"

"Oh, just some nail polish. Wanna try some?"

Thorin would insist that you show him how it works first

And so, you did

He definitely admires the color

But defied any suggestion of you painting his own nails

That would be "un-kingly" 😤

Okay so maybe he lets you paint his pinky finger when nobody is around

But he smiles (a rare sight) while watching you paint your nails

And does give a somewhat compliment at your articulate handwork

"It looks exceptional as artwork."

"Erm... Thanks?"

He definitely thinks the color matches you beautiful skin tone 😌

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Kili ~

Prince Dumbass LOVES red

It reminds him of Tauriel 🥰

One night, you left your bag opened on the ground as you went off to get some food from Bombur, and Kili couldn't help but notice the glittering ruby bottle inside

He grabbed it, being the nosy prince he was, and examined its glow in the firelight

"What kind of jewel is this?"

"Oh hey, my nail polish!!"

Very confused

"Why does it smell so strange?"

Thankfully, being a dwarf, his fingernails are a bit bigger, so there's more room and it's easier to paint

He, like Pippin, has issues with sitting still and gets you really annoyed

"I swear to all things fluffy, if you don't sit still I will cut off all of that hair in your sleep-"

"😳"

He immediately smudges them, and then you have to paint them AGAIN

Once they FINALLY dry, he won't let anyone touch them

"Stop it, Fili! You'll damage them!"

He can't stop touching them, since it's so smooth!

The others tease him, but he doesn't mind, as long as they stay nice and clean

Turns into a whiny toddler the MINUTE they chip

"Y/nnn! I need you to repaint them!"

"I just painted them yESTERDAY-"

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Fili

A mix of Thorin and Kili when it comes down to it

Definitely prefers gold 😌✨

Sees you painting your nails one night in the library in Erebor

"What have you got there sagh (friend)?"

"Just some nail polish. Wanna try some?"

Once again, he wants to see what it does like Thorin

And you of course happily oblige

Admires the color greatly

He says it reminds him of the gold floors in his kingdom, and it makes you chuckle

Fili loves to have his nails painted, and especially with such a regal hue 💅😌

DAMN does it bring out those baby blues 🥴

After that, you stare at his hands a lot, proceeded by his flirtatious teasing

Shows up Kili's sparkly red polish with his "more extravagant" color

He is also very protective of his nails and tries his very best to keep them from chipping

You love watching him hold his weapons and spar with his pretty nails 😳

Even with his larger hands, made for forging and wielding huge swords and axes and smelting, he had an incredibly steady and gentle hand when it comes to this subject, so he's AMAZING at painting his and your nails

Fili insists that you have matching nails all the time, and it's a regular thing for you to hang out and talk about your day while you paint each others nails 🥺

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Thranduil

Have you MET this man?!

KING OF DIVAS 💅💅

At first, he's very weirded out

"What do you have in your hand, mellon (friend)?"

"Oh, just some nail polish."

"Interesting..."

Thranduil watches intently over your shoulder as you carefully decorate your nails with a glossy black polish, sitting directly next to his throne

"Do you want me to paint your nails?"

"Hm?"

He reluctantly agrees, placing his BEAUTIFUL hand in yours and stares down at your gentle talented work

He loves the color more than he cares to admit, and much like his son sits very still as you lead the brush over his clean nails

The elf king loves seeing your tongue stick out in concentration

You remind him that it'll need time to dry out

And as he says in his notoriously sassy voice;

"I thousand years is a mere blink in the life of an elf... I'm patient... I can wait."

Ofc, you just scoff at this and tell him it'll only take about five to ten minutes

He just nods and stares back down at them with admiration

Thranduil doesn't do much around his kingdom, except maybe get a bit drunk and direct orders to his guards, so it's no worry about him chipping or ruining his nails

I hope you liked this, just as much as I enjoyed writing it!! Have a lovely day, and don't forget that requests are open as always!! ❤❤😊

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sebstanseabass · 3 years

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Afterglow (A Bucky Barnes AU fan fiction) - Chapter 3

Afterglow chapters

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

A/N: Thank you all so much for the support you've been giving to this fanfic!

CHAPTER THREE

It was a day of sunlight and cold smoke in New York. The clouds split above towering buildings, the sun shining in its full glory. You left the apartment earlier, scared to wake Bucky up, only for him to wake up to his stepbrother's roommate creeping up on him in the morning. You pushed Bucky's face at the back of your mind. Perhaps he just looked like someone you've seen before or you've bumped into. Who knows? New York is a pretty big city.

With your airpods plugged in, and your phone in your hand, you started running on the streets, greeting some people with a smile on the way, ignoring the pain on your head. There was Millie from the flower shop, Bob from the woodshop, Rex from the coffee shop, and Colin the friendly street beggar. After five blocks, you didn't know anyone anymore. Just some strangers on the street you see from time to time but never interact with.

Already nearing highway streets, you slowed down your pace, careful not to crash into some bikers or worse, these honking cars rushing to get to their 8-5 jobs. There was a pang of relief that rushed over me as you stood on the other end of the street, waiting for the walk sign to turn green. It was one of the things you loved working in a bar and handling your own photography gig. You weren't answering to no one and rushing to work like these angry hooligans. You both worked in the evening and on your own time. Steve wasn't a bossy boss who yells at his staff. He was just like one of you guys, but unlike you, he had a sense of leadership.

And you get to run every morning -- even though there was still a throbbing pain on your forehead. Peter will never be able to persuade you to go work in their company or in any company for that matter. But you must commend him for his unwavering determination.

You stopped at a convenience store after rounding a few more blocks and bought a bottle of water which you've finished right in front of the cashier who found her phone more interesting -- or perhaps she was just used to some girl finishing a bottle of water in mere seconds.

"Hey, where's the trash?" You asked. The trash can beside the counter wasn't there. She just shrugged and popped her bubblegum.

You walked away from the store, knowing all too well that she wouldn't say or do anything past chewing and popping her gum.

Right across from where you were standing was a tall, elegant white hotel adorned with golden flecks of some kind of shiny paint, which you remembered was Bucky's. It stood twenty something stories tall and wedged between a coffee shop and a pizzeria. On Sundays, whenever you and Peter would walk past it, he'd never forget to remind you that it was Bucky's "empire." It was no Chuck Bass empire but you must admit, that was one fine hotel.

You crossed the street and stood in front of it, a way of slowing down your heart rate just a few beats low. You were just about to cool down, anyway.

You admired the engrossed name of the hotel on the archway that led to the lobby: WHITE WOLF with a wolf headstone right between it, like the one in The Arcadian. A memory of Peter telling you how Bucky renamed it came across your mind. Before it was White Wolf, it was the Golden something. Apparently, Bucky was in a safari somewhere north or south? Maybe west. You honestly can't keep up with some of the stories. Somewhere in the face of the earth -- he was on a safari and came across a gorgeous white wolf with fur as white as snow, eyes as blue as the seas and skies. Bucky swore the wolf looked right into his soul. That was implausible but it did give him a good name for his hotel. He repainted the whole beige building white, standing out from the other buildings around.

A woman with no shoes made you tear your eyes away from the beautiful wolf headstone, screaming Bucky's name. You stepped aside and leaned in on one of the archway posts. There was a muffled noise coming from her. You removed your airpods to listen.

"...the hell is Bucky? You! Have you seen that son of a bitch?" She approached the valet boy. He shook his head no. Then she went to the uniformed man on his post or was it a podium?

"I haven't seen Mr. Barnes, madam."

You could tell by the sly look on the man's face that he saw his boss probably running down the street and taking a cab, but before even stepping foot on the streets, Bucky probably told not to tell.

The woman's lips were smeared with red lipstick, hair disheveled and was wearing a man's clothing, probably Bucky's.

Was this the thing that happened at his penthouse?

"Okay, I'm just gonna wait for him in his penthouse. If you ever see your boss, tell him I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, madam."

She went back in, hips swaying along with her blonde hair, not giving a damn at the strangers staring at her as she walked towards the elevators.

The uniformed man caught your eye and you gave him a small wave and a smile. "Crazy morning, huh? Okay, bye."

You chuckled nervously and walked away as fast as you could back to the apartment.

When you got back, Bucky was already up, eating something out of a bowl while watching something on the television. You ignored the memory of you staring at him as he slept safe and sound earlier.

Without looking up, he spoke: "Weren't you supposed to rest?"

You grinned as you walked towards the kitchen, and prepared a protein shake. Suddenly forgetting the wound on your forehead. It didn't hurt as much now.

"I don't listen to Parker." You answered. "I never do."

You set your airpods on the kitchen island then grabbed a shaker, poured in some water and dunked a scoop of protein powder inside. You shook the whole damn thing while approaching Bucky.

You stood beside the couch and faced television. It turned out he was watching some old cartoon.

The image of his hotel flashed before your eyes. "I ran past your hotel today. There was a woman looking for you."

He almost choked on his cereal. You could feel his head look towards in your direction but you ignored him, enjoying the chase between Tom and Jerry on the tv screen. "Can't believe this is still on tv." You commented.

"D-did she say something?"

"Kept shouting your name and stuff. Called you son of a bitch and all that." You stopped shaking the shaker then took a big gulp. "I hear she's planning to burn down the White Wolf into the ground." You stifled a smile, letting the liquid stay in your mouth for a little while. "Then find you and take all your money away."

He groaned, picking up on your tone. "Not funny."

"All of that was true except the last part, though." You finally let out a laugh then looked at him who now had his eyes back on the screen. "So, you leave your girlfriend alone up there? Then come here?" You would've said it was pretty low of him but this was Bucky. You knew he'd done worse.

"She's not my girlfriend."

"She's a girlfriend?"

"She's nothing but a one night stand. Don't have a girlfriend." He sighed, putting down the bowl. It turned out it was cereal he was eating. Cartoons and cereal. Wow. He really did act like an eight-year old. "Then after we... well, you know, she suddenly told me she loved me. I was drunk! Then I felt this rush, like a panic, then when she was fast asleep, I didn't know what else to do so I came here."

You knitted your brows and kept your gaze on him. Last night, he told you guys it was a long story. A thing came up. "That wasn't a long story."

"I was hammered and real sleepy. For me it was a long story." He replied.

You just laughed in response, then walked towards your bedroom. Before you could even finish your drink, Bucky shouted for your name. You yelled for him back.

"Will you come with me to the hotel?" Bucky's voice was loud but small. Like a child asking to go to the playground. It felt more like it with the muffled cartoon noises in the background.

You stepped out of your room, finishing the rest of your drink. A big gulp. Then you pouted at him. "Want me to drive away the scary woman?"

Instead of responding with a simple yes or a slight nod, Bucky shot you a wide smile with his shoulders up, making an accidental flex with his lean tricep muscles on both of his arms, and squeezing his chest muscles while he was at it. He held it for too long that veins were starting to show.

You diverted your attention from his muscles to his face. He tried to look cute as a button but in your view, he looked strained. Yet his smile never wavered. You finally agreed to go with him as long as he took a shower first, telling him he reeked of alcohol.

"Are you always this mean?" Bucky said, but his voice was light and not at all heavy or dark.

"Pretty much." You snickered before going back inside your room.

You were sitting on your yoga mat -- just finished some few stretches -- and watching some tv show on the HBO channel when Bucky came out of the bathroom. A towel hung low on his waist -- you didn't even bother to look at his toned details so as to not freak him out with all the staring since you've been doing that a lot since he'd arrived. You focused your attention back on the screen.

"Were you just working out?" He asked, ruffling his hair.

"Just some yoga." You shrugged.

You let him borrow an oversized shirt of yours. The entire time, he was behind your in your room. Bucky attempted to make some small conversation while you were rummaging through your stuff. "Cool space you got here. You photograph?"

"Yeah." You replied. "It's probably not convenient having a studio space inside my room but Parker and I couldn't afford a three-space bedroom, so yeah."

"It's still pretty cool." His response remained.

Your room was bigger than Peter's since you had to have your studio corner. He wasn't a space hogger or anything so he let you get the bigger room. You had little decorations in your room except for a few photos of college friends, old roommates, and you and Peter, a clock on the wall, some band posters from the 70's like Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, and the lights you needed for your studio corner. On that side, on the other hand, had more things to offer. Products from previous projects and all the stuff you needed for taking photos like lights, backdrops, tables, a bunch of chairs, and whatnots. Then the walls were just plain white. Yet Bucky still managed to explore around until you found him an oversized shirt.

You threw the shirt towards him. He managed to catch it on the air without looking at it. A quick reflex.

"Do you have some of your photos here?"

"They're in the bar downstairs." You replied. He looked at me with both eyebrows raised, asking a question with his face. "I work there as a bartender and my boss lets me put up my photos on the wall."

"Well, I'd love to see them."

"Actually, there's a shipment coming this afternoon. There will be no people. You can come with me then." You paused. "Unless you have other plans?" There was a part of you that wanted Bucky to have no plans this afternoon. You had a feeling he didn't. You wanted to trust your instincts.

"I have nothing going on." Oh good. "I can show you how I make a mean drink while we're there." Bucky smirked then put on the shirt which had a Rolling Stones logo on the front. He looked down on it and shot me a smile. The shirt still fit him, hugging all his muscles but it was better than Peter's clothes who wear the tightest fits on earth.

"What do you think?" He asked, showing you his fit while still having the towel draped around his waist.

"You look like a rockstar." You blatantly replied. "And hey, I can also make a mean drink. Really mean."

"Please I make the best ones, doll."

"I'll be the judge of that."

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pennamesmith · 3 years

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Skeletor Takes a Holiday

Catra thinks on the past. Adora gives out presents. Glimmer looks to the future. Entrapta drives a tank. Hordak and Bow do their best. A She-Ra Day Special.

More “Skeletor” stories here!

“Blast you, you miserable cat! Let me go!” Skeletor squawked.

“Reel it in, bonehead,” Catra replied coolly. She was leading Entrapta’s rebellious reprogrammed robot by what amounted to an ear, his arms full of stolen sugar plums.

“Please, let me explain!” Skeletor protested. “I must save the children!”

“Tell it to the queen,” Catra shrugged back. “If you really wanted to get away with it, you wouldn’t have let me catch you. And anyway, Wrong Hordak says we need more help at the snack tables.”

“You overgrown fur coat,” Skeletor grumbled. “How dare you embarrass me in front of everyone?”

They were walking down a hallway of Bright Moon palace, making their way toward one of the large common rooms. On most weeks, Wrong Hordak used the space to hold a support group for clones and other former members of the Horde, who met to talk about their lives and their feelings. Together, they healed, held on, and let go. And, with great bravery and reluctance, they tried new ways to be themselves.

Today, they were hosting a wellness afternoon.

Catra pushed open a pair of double doors and was greeted by the sight of a warm, bustling room. The therapy group regulars were there, but so were various palace staff and citizens of Bright Moon, as well as former Horde soldiers cautiously following the flyers distributed by an enthusiastic flock of clones. Mixed together, they mingled, tentatively.

Stations were set up in this and the adjoining rooms, each providing sample servings of various simple self-care options. In one area, Netossa and Spinnerella taught comics and cartooning to a circle of curious clones. In another, Swift Wind pranced at the head of an aerobics group. Glimmer had set up a portable kitchen by the window and was showing some palace guards how to make vegetable dumplings. Just about everyone looked like they were having a good time.

Catra waded through all of this and found Wrong Hordak teaching an improv comedy workshop — alongside the regular support group’s newest member, who was currently hanging off the cheerful clone’s shoulder like a feathered boa constrictor.

“Yes, and?” Double Trouble prompted the group, raising an emphatic hand. “Tell me what comes next! Show me passion! Show me imagination!”

“Start the performance! I demand to be amused!” interrupted Skeletor.

Everyone fell silent and turned to look at Catra. “I got Skeletor back,” she said simply, showing off her perturbed prisoner.

“Wonderful work!” Wrong Hordak exclaimed. He pulled a small instruction manual bearing the seal of Dryl out of his pocket and flipped through the handwritten pages. “Skeletor, please perform…” He squinted at the messy longhand. “...Relationship-building subroutine eighteen. Ah, I think I see what the problem was.”

Skeletor abruptly saluted, dropping most of his plums in the process. “I hate to leave this touching scene, but I see my plan has failed! I’ll be back another time, my friend,” he said, marching off to greet new arrivals and attend to the snack tables.

Catra turned to go, but found her way blocked when Double Trouble materialized in front of her.

“It’s good to see you back, kitten,” the lizard smirked. “We almost thought you’d abandoned us! And speaking of, look who I found while you were away.” They pointed. “Some old friends of yours!”

Following the gesture, Catra looked around and felt her insides do a flip-flop as she recognized Kyle, Lonnie, and Rogelio among the group. Double Trouble seemed about to say more, but was instantly distracted when Wrong Hordak winked and called them over for help with an armload of props and costumes.

...Which left Catra alone to face her three erstwhile friends. Who had already made eye contact and started walking towards her. The former force captain wished furiously for an alien abduction, or to be struck down by lightning, but she had no such luck.

“Hi Catra!” Kyle squeaked. Rogelio rumbled something in a friendly tone.

“Catra,” Lonnie greeted simply, wearing an unreadable expression.

“Oh wow,” Catra stammered. “It’s, uh, it’s been a while guys. Haven’t seen you since…”

“Since you went off the deep end and we deserted the Horde?” Lonnie finished for her.

Catra shrank a little. “Yeah. Since that. I’m… really sorry about all that, by the way. Have you all been okay?”

“We stick together. We have a good life. And we heard that you and Adora got married, so now I guess I owe Rogelio money.” Lonnie laughed. “No invitations for us, huh?”

“It was really small,” Catra muttered, feeling worse by the second. She touched her ring. “Just a few guests in the park. Nothing major.”

Lonnie held up her hands. “Hey, it’s cool, none taken. I just hope you treat her better now than you did when we were in the Horde.”

Catra felt her hackles rise and did everything she could to squash them back down again. “We’re fine,” she managed, eventually. “You haven’t seen her around anywhere, have you?”

“Yeah. Over by the board games with the science princess and, you know...” Lonnie mimed a tall, fanged figure with a squinting scowl. “Though I still don’t know how I feel about those two.”

Kyle and Rogelio looked at each other.

“Thanks,” Catra muttered, and slunk away.

Catra found herself stuck in her own thoughts as she wandered in the direction Lonnie had pointed, barely able to muster a friendly wave as she passed Scorpia in Perfuma’s yoga group or Bow at the jigsaw puzzle table. She kept replaying the conversation in her head, thinking about things she could or would or should have said.

In the pit of her chest, she could feel the faint fear of a voice that said she hadn’t changed at all. Unbidden, the image of her own hand on the portal lever came to her. Stupid, stupid, she thought at herself, until the self-loathing drove away the shame.

Catra sighed. She was working on it.

Fortunately, she didn’t have long to perseverate. Sure enough, Adora was in the board games area, seated around a table with Entrapta, Hordak, Emily, and Imp. All five of them were thoroughly engrossed in a heated round of Betrayal at Horror Hall.

“I’ve rolled a three,” Hordak declared as Catra approached. “Is that good?”

“No, it means you’re still trapped in the Dark Dimension,” Entrapta explained evenly. “My turn! I move into the throne room and attack the ghost!”

“Attack! Attack!” Imp echoed in her voice.

Emily beeped.

“Hey Adora,” Catra sighed with relief as she joined them. “How’s it going?”

“Emily betrayed us all, the Dark One has escaped, and I’m dead!” Adora wailed. “In the game, I mean,” she clarified, gesturing to her battle figurine, which was tipped on its side. Catra smiled and settled in, already feeling more assured of herself.

“Oh, and you have got to try Hordak’s new coffee,” Adora continued, proffering a steaming paper cup. “He called it a… peppered mint mo-cah?” She looked at Catra with immeasurable eyes and giggled. “I think I can hear space.”

Catra had a thought. She glanced at Entrapta.

“That reminds me,” Catra started cautiously. “You know that charity stunt or whatever you goons have planned for the night before Adora’s birthday?”

“You mean She-Ra Day Eve?” Adora asked, a huge grin plastered on her face.

“Yeah, that one. I changed my mind about staying home. I want in.”

“Oh, yay!” Adora nearly fell out of her seat leaning over to hug her wife. “We’re gonna have so much fun!”

“It will be a significant benefit to have extra helpers,” Hordak added with approval as he looked up from the game board. “Entrapta has engineered quite an undertaking for this event.”

“She has? Uh, how elaborate are we talking, exactly?” Catra asked, already beginning to regret her decision.

Entrapta leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s gonna be big,” she boasted, grinning. Then she sat back in her hair and laughed madly, swinging her feet with delight.

Catra gulped. Somewhere, she could hear a bell ring.

They were standing outside in the starry night.

It did not snow in Bright Moon, but the air was chilly, and everyone assembled was wearing heavy winter coats. Catra, sinking into hers like a turtle, leaned against Adora’s arm and groaned.

“I’m gonna be so bad at this,” she complained.

“You’re gonna do fine,” Adora cajoled. “You’ll get to throw stuff at people! You love doing that.”

“It wouldn’t be the same without the whole Best Friends Squad anyway!” Bow added, as Glimmer nodded beside him.

“It’s better with you here,” the queen said, smiling.

Catra felt her stomach twist and looked away. But that only faced her toward the group’s tallest member, looming lazily on her other side.

“You seem stressed, Catra.”

Catra glared back up at Hordak. “Easy for you to say! Your wife’s birthday isn’t a national holiday!”

Hordak huffed. “Perhaps not where you come from.”

“I can’t take much more of this,” moaned Skeletor.

Catra threw up her hands. “Okay, and why is Skeletor here?” she asked helplessly.

“Silence, you furry fool!” Skeletor retorted. “You ought to know me better than that by now!” He crossed his arms and sulked.

“We require a full crew for this endeavor,” Hordak explained, more calmly. “Entrapta insisted upon using one of the larger models.”

“Models of what?” Catra demanded.

As if on cue, a loud rumbling sound filled the air. The ground began to shake, and an enormous Horde tank rounded the corner, trundled down the road, and came to a juddering halt in front of the gathered friends. It was covered in tinsel and had been repainted with jolly, festive colors.

“Speak of the gremlin,” Catra mumbled, staring.

The tank’s front hatch popped open and Entrapta emerged astride Emily, hefting a huge burlap bag. Imp was sitting on her shoulder, wearing a new pair of booties with curled and pointed toes.

“Merry She-Ra, one and all!” Entrapta crowed. “Welcome aboard the Wrapper Tank!” As they filed past her up the ramp, she rummaged in her bag and passed out what appeared to be accessorized figurines resembling each member of the group.

Skeletor stared long and hard at his. “Only one is really me! Which one is it?” he mused.

Glimmer was delighted with hers and immediately set about making it hold hands with Bow’s. Catra held hers uncertainly while Adora toyed with the miniature She-Ra’s sword arm action.

“Look, it’s a tiny Hordak!” Entrapta squealed with glee as she presented her partner with his own likeness. “Isn’t he cute?”

Hordak smiled as he accepted the gift. “Your craftsmanship is remarkable, as always.”

Inside the tank was a command bridge the size of a throne room. Several more bags stuffed with small toy princesses rested in the center of the floor. On every surrounding wall there were blinking control panels and swiveling gunners’ chairs. Skeletor sat down in one and spun giddily.

“I made tiny versions of all the heroes of Etheria!” Entrapta exclaimed, sweeping her hands over everything. “Bow helped with the designs. And then I used my fabrication lab to mass-produce them!” She held her sides and cackled wildly.

“We’re going to give them out to all the homes in Bright Moon,” Adora added, settling into another chair. “Something for the kids, you know?” Catra, already brightening at the sight of weaponry, grinned and joined her.

Entrapta tossed herself back into the pilot’s seat. “If this experiment goes well, we’ll be able to expand the operation to other kingdoms next year! Maybe even the whole planet!”

“Okay, but how are we going to be able to deliver presents to every house if we only have one night?” Bow asked.

“That’s easy!” Entrapta bragged. “Behold, the power of the Wrapper Tank!”

With a flourish, she dropped one of the trinkets into a large funnel near the control panel. In seconds, automated arms had bound it in wrapping paper and a purple bow, and fired it out the front cannon at high velocity.

“This baby can do thirty of these things a minute!” Entrapta shouted proudly as she continued shoveling toys into the machine.

“Is everyone comfortable?” Skeletor asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before pushing as many buttons as his bony arms could reach.

With a roar, the engines came to life, and then they were rolling down the road, strafing the kingdom with presents that mostly landed where they were supposed to go. The inside of the tank became a bustle of activity as the crewmates passed gifts to one another and sent them shooting off into the night. Distantly, they could hear people cheering, as well as the occasional sound of something breaking.

“Is this what we’re doing all night?” Catra asked. She flipped a switch and raised her eyebrows as a Frosta doll hurtled through someone’s window. “You were right, it is kinda fun.”

“This is the main event, yeah,” Adora replied, launching a volley of Sea Hawks down the block. “We’ve got a few more personal stops to make on the way, though. The first one’s in the Whispering Woods!”

Catra froze for a moment, imagining the ghosts that were waiting for her in those dark and shifting trees. She shook her head and ignored the thought.

“What idiot started this whole thing anyway?” Skeletor griped.

The tank made its first stop at a tiny cottage, so small and low that it would have been easy to mistake for nothing at all.

“Madame Razz?” Adora called as she ducked through the doorway. The others followed behind her in a curious huddle.

“I brought you some cookies and sweets and stuff,” Adora said, setting the goodies on the table. Bow and Glimmer gazed with interest at the many mystical odds and ends decorating the walls. Entrapta struck up a conversation with the broom. Hordak, who was taller than the ceiling, crouched in as dignified a manner as he could manage.

“Who knows what evil lurks behind these doors?” Skeletor hissed in a hushed whisper.

At the far side of the cottage, Razz sat in a rocking chair and tipped slowly back and forth, staring at nothing. Catra felt her hair stand on end.

Adora looked worried. “Razz? You there?”

Madame Razz blinked and snapped out of her trance. “Yes, yes, deary! Come in! I remembered this was going to happen.” Leaping to her feet, she held out a stuffed doll with pointed ears, blue hair, and soulless eyes. “Look here! I have a gift for you also.”

Adora took it gingerly. “How… nice. What is it?” She turned the doll over in her hands. It wore a rainbow jumper and a plastic smirk.

“It’s a Loo-Kee on a Ledge!” Razz explained cheerfully. “You put it in your home. Move it every night. Tell the children it can see them. Makes the young ones more obedient!”

“Thanks, that’s terrifying.” Adora passed the doll to Catra, who seemed far more interested in its potential applications. “I bet it’ll make a nice game.”

“Game?” Razz turned and stared through her glasses in confusion. “We are not here for games, we are here for fruit cake!”

Before Adora could stop her, the old woman had rushed to her little cottage oven. She made a show of reaching inside with protective mitts and extracted a cold stone brick, which had been placed in a pan with some wild nuts sprinkled on top.

“You want a slice now?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Entrapta pushed her way to the front of the group, producing a small buzz saw and a sample jar. “I’ve been reading up on geological gastronomy!”

”Uh, hey, Entrapta!” Adora intervened. “Did I ever tell you that Madame Razz knew some of the First Ones? Like, personally?”

“What? Really?” Entrapta turned toward Adora in surprise, and then back to the old woman with renewed interest. She peered through a pair of multi-lensed goggles and raised her eyebrows. “Though that would explain all the tachyons in here. Quick, how many temporal causalities am I holding up?”

“Ah! You’re a sharp one, deary!” Razz laughed.

Entrapta shook her hands and pulled a recorder from her pocket. “Aah! You — you’re a walking quantum event! Tell me everything!”

And in her own way, Razz did. As they chattered back and forth, Adora looked between the old witch and the scientist and wondered why she hadn’t introduced the two of them sooner.

“That’s a handsome, strapping lad you’ve got there!” Razz whispered conspiratorially to Entrapta. “Does he have a brother?”

Entrapta smirked.

“You have a brain that could warm my heart,” Skeletor said. “If I had a heart!”

Much to Catra’s consternation, their next stop did not take them out of the Whispering Woods. While Entrapta and Skeletor tuned up the tank, George and Lance cheerfully embarrassed their youngest son in front of his friends.

“We’re delighted by your presents!” George punned as his husband passed out mugs of hot cocoa. Hordak took two and carefully decanted the extra into several tiny thermoses.

Bow handed his fathers a huge stack of neatly handwritten pages. “We brought these for you — Adora’s been helping me translate some of the First Ones records you found at the ruins!”

“It’s… not very exciting,” Adora admitted. “There’s a lot of complaining about this one guy who just sold really terrible etherium.”

Despite this, George and Lance seized upon the pages and flipped through them eagerly, talking over each other in excitement. While they sat and chatted energetically with Adora about what the writings contained, Glimmer dragged Catra away to show off her increasing knowledge of the expansive library.

This left Bow standing alone with Hordak for the first time in the night. The archer and the ex-lord looked at one another, the former desperately searching for something to say while the latter gently nursed his cocoa. They both seemed to sense that some sort of social interaction would be appropriate, but were entirely unsure of what that ought to be.

“Excuses, excuses! I’m tired of all your excuses!” Skeletor yelled from outside. “Fix the problem and go!”

Hordak cleared his throat. “Entrapta tells me you are the one who gave my brother his rather... derivative name,” he tried after a moment.

Bow made a noise.

“He thanks you for it,” Hordak said sincerely.

“I’m sorry! I mean, what?” Bow cautiously opened his eyes.

“He considers it an essential part of his journey to freedom from Prime’s grasp.” Hordak studied his claws with a careful expression. “Many have encouraged him to take on a more singular moniker. I am among them. Perhaps someday he will. But for now, it is as beloved to him as that theatrical lizard seems to be.”

“You’re… welcome?” Bow ventured.

“You are a highly competent engineer,” Hordak stated. “I once mistook your work for Entrapta’s. When we were still enemies, that is.” He hesitated. “I… am pleased that we are not enemies any longer.”

“Thank you?”

Hordak bowed.

Skeletor popped his head around the door.

“Get a move on, you slugs!” he called. “Hurry! Faster, faster!”

Eventually, the Wrapper Tank rolled to a stop at the front gates of Bright Moon palace, precisely where it had begun. There was only one visit left to make.

“Micah! It’s so good to see you!” Entrapta chirped. “How have things been since we both lived at the mercy of techno-organic island monstrosities?”

“Quieter,” Micah remarked. “And my food doesn’t get stolen nearly as often.” He smiled. “It’s good to see you, too.”

“I made you She-Ra Day crackers!” Entrapta exulted, holding out a pile of shiny paper cylinders. “They’re an old Dryl tradition, ever since last year. When you pull the ends, tiny snacks come out! And I’ve improved these ones with twenty percent more explosives!”

“It should be quite a blast!” Skeletor chuckled. “Enjoy the fireworks!”

Gingerly taking the armload of gifts and setting them down as carefully as she possibly could, Castaspella welcomed everyone into a warm and cozy den. She and Micah had lit a roaring fire in the fireplace and were decorating a fir tree with glowing light-charms. A small table held a large platter of cookies, which Adora immediately set about devouring.

Skeletor paused at the door. “Tell me a riddle!” he demanded.

Castaspella looked confused. “Excuse me?”

“He thinks it’s what sorceresses do,” Entrapta told her. “You gotta humor him!”

“Oh.” Castaspella tapped her chin. “Well, in that case, um… why did the twigget cross the road?”

Skeletor considered this for a great deal of time before surrendering. “Oh, I’m horrible at riddles,” he groused. “Who’s good at riddles here?”

However, everyone else had already settled in around the fire, tired from a long night of bauble bombardment.

“What do you think of our She-Ra Day decorations?” Castaspella asked proddingly. “Micah wanted a fake tree, but I set him straight on that. Honestly, I don’t know how my brother survived on Beast Island without me.”

“You certainly would have helped scare the monsters away,” said Micah.

“Y’know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a sibling,” Adora thought out loud. “Could you imagine me with, like, a long-lost First Ones twin? We’d kick so much butt!”

Hordak, Bow, Micah, and Castaspella all shared a look that spoke to something universal.

“It’s a mixed bag. Casta used to trick me into stealing food for her,” Micah complained. “Pretended it was a game and I got more points if our parents didn’t see me sneak into the kitchen.”

“He hit me with a tree branch once, you know,” Castaspella responded.

“I did no such thing!” Micah argued. “All I did was lead your horse under a tree. It’s not my fault it had remarkably low hanging branches. Or that you didn’t duck in time.”

“Anyway,” Bow cut in, “I think what Micah and Castaspella are trying to say is that despite their differences they get along now and they’re glad to still have each other after all this time.” He glanced at Hordak. “...Even if they used to be enemies.”

Micah nodded sagely. “That is precisely what I meant,” he lied.

While they continued with their conversation, Glimmer noticed that Catra was standing alone at the far side of the room, her back to the others, staring at a small portrait of Angella hung above the door.

“Fascinating,” Skeletor said. “That little insect is feeling sorry for itself!”

Glimmer whispered something to her father and stood up to approach the fretting feline. “Hey, everything okay?” she asked. “You’ve seemed off a lot tonight. You didn’t even laugh when I showed you that book of dirty First Ones jokes in George and Lance’s library.”

“Huh?” Catra looked up, surprised to have company. “I guess so. Maybe. I don’t know. I mean… are you really sure I should be here?”

“Well, it’s all Adora has been talking about for the past week, so yeah, pretty sure.”

Catra shook her head. “No, I mean here at all. Being happy, instead of rotting in a dungeon somewhere.” She scowled. “I know we’ve talked about it, but I just… I did so much bad stuff, back in the Horde. I hurt people. I was awful to Adora. I’m even the reason your mom…”

Catra trailed off. A deep gulf of silence stretched between her and Glimmer. The queen appeared pensive.

“I’ve done some really bad things too,” Glimmer said eventually. “So I guess maybe I’m the wrong person to ask?” She gave a lopsided smile.

“But what do you do when people hate you? And you deserve it?”

Glimmer looked concerned. “I don’t think anyone here hates you. Not currently, anyway. Where’s all this coming from?”

“I’d hate me if I were you,” Catra quietly admitted.

“Maybe. But I’m not you, and you’re not me.” Glimmer turned away and hugged herself. “I’m always going to miss my mom. And it’s always going to hurt. But… I don’t think it’s much use to make that hurt worse by hating you.” She looked back up. “I think anyone can make up for a mistake, as long as they really know it was a mistake. I hope so, anyway.”

Catra scratched her head. “So, what, feeling bad means that I’m good?”

“Something like that,” Glimmer giggled. “Seriously though, there’s responsibility in this. We never stop working on it.”

“Was that a royal ‘we’?” Catra quipped.

“No, it goes for both of us. All of us. I mean it.” Glimmer gazed around the room. “Mistakes… never really get completely fixed, you know. It took me a long time to get that. But we can grow something better and stronger with the lessons we learn from them.”

The queen smiled again. “Besides, I’m happier being friends. Look at us all!”

Catra did.

Everyone, in one form or another, was relaxing around the glow of the fireplace. Entrapta and Imp knelt by the hearth, doing something with chestnuts and an acetylene torch. Hordak and Micah sat on the couch, swapping horror stories about Shadow Weaver. Bow watched closely as Castaspella instructed him in a new knitting pattern. And Adora appeared to be trading pleasantries with Skeletor as though they were age-old friends.

“Here, She-Ra! A gift!” Skeletor said. He held out a freshly-baked doomberry pie.

Catra laughed. Suddenly feeling lighter, she went to join them. Glimmer followed. And the great world spun on.

Entrapta clapped her hair. “Thanks for coming, Catra! This was loads of fun!”

It was early morning and they were all going their separate ways again. Glimmer had already dragged a dozing Bow back to the palace, while Catra and Adora disembarked in front of the small home they shared together.

“The mission was a great success,” Hordak agreed as Entrapta leaned into his side. “You showed exemplary courage in the field.”

“Thank you,” Catra said, and meant it.

Adora, gazing at the sky in contemplation next to her, suddenly realized that the stars weren’t the only things twinkling.

“Entrapta?” she asked. “You know the space tree?”

“The large plant growth that overtook Horde Prime’s flagship when She-Ra defeated him and which remains in low Etheria orbit as a constant reminder of the power of love and healing? Yes, I’m familiar with it.”

“Did you put lights on it?”

Entrapta beamed. “Yeah, little blinky ones! Or at least they look little from here. They actually have a diameter of about one Darla each. Alternating current, naturally. Aren’t they great?”

“You know,” Adora smiled, “I really think they are.” Catra concurred.

They turned and went home together, which left Entrapta and Hordak to return to the Wrapper Tank hand in hand, relaxing into each other’s arms as they sat and shared a tiny thermos of hot cocoa. Under Emily’s supervision, Skeletor and Imp drove the tank back to Entrapta’s Bright Moon lab, and only argued over the steering wheel once along the way.

As soon as they returned, Hordak sought out their bed and fell gratefully into the soft sheets. Entrapta made to follow him, but before she did so she pulled Skeletor aside with one ponytail, hands hiding something behind her back.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Skeletor questioned.

“Skeletor, you’ve been a big help over the past year,” Entrapta said to the spindly robot. “And I wanted to say thank you. So, I made you another present. You deserve to have a helper too!”

She pulled her hands from behind her back and revealed a lop-eared robot puppy with wide and innocent eyes. It sat up in her arms and fixed Skeletor with a curious gaze.

“His name is Relay! What do you think?”

Skeletor gasped in surprise, reaching out to take the robotic canine. “Even Hordak doesn’t have anything like this!” he gushed in a joyous tone.

The puppy wagged its tail and let out a tiny synthesized bark. It licked Skeletor’s face.

Skeletor hummed happily. “This is perfect!”

Above them, the stars and the lights shone brightly. And even Skeletor, despite his better instincts, was merry. The world was at peace.

“A season of love? Caring? Joy? Ugh! Very clever, you muscle-bound moron,” Skeletor conceded. He patted Relay on the head. “Another time, She-Ra! Another time!”

#She-Ra #fan fiction #skeletor #catra #adora #entrapta #hordak #glimmer #bow #madame razz #bow's dads #micah #castaspella #entrapdak #catradora

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angelbittyabuse · 3 years

Text

A flock of crows, part one

Behind the curtain: Wooops we had a coding glitch! So sorry, here’s the corrected version! There’s no trigger warning for this part, but there will be for the next one! Please don’t get too attached to the characters.

...

« Please don’t give me away! I’ll be a good bitty! Better! » He flails, hits the ground with his feets in his tantrum. His owner raises an eyebrow, his eyes lasting on the being, he seems to doubt... But no.

The pet creature was a cancer since day one. To the never-ending wailing had added hidden orders, reflexions and comments... Critics. On the way he was living, his way of clothing himself, the hour he was waking up on week-ends! He had took that baby blue as a good deed, since one of his friend was moving in where they weren’t allowed. But now? This good deed had been drown by months of hard feelings about this thing, high as two berrys but so irritating. Putting a flyer down in front of the bitty, the baby blue could clearly hear his owner tell…

« I’m bringing you where they will take care of you to your worth. » Blue was forced to take a few step back as the blow of the flyer nearly knocked him out of his feet. He bends to the paper, tries to read.

« Beaux Cieux Breeding ? » Stutters Blue, raising a questionning face to his human.

« You’ll end your days as a stallion. » His owner giggles. « I’m nearly jealous. »

...

The silence clearly didn’t came to the rendez-vous during the whole car ride. The pleading becomes thumping. Blue now yells to be heard, soiling the poor hamster cage he was carried away with tears and other colored fluids.

« HUMAN DON’T DO THAT !! » He bawls. « THIS IS THE WORST DECISION OF YOUR LIFE !! » The said human turns higher the radio volume but the screamings won’t stop anyway. What follows of the speech is the same refrain. ‘Not that you’re used to take good decisions ! / you’re gonna regret me / I’m your bitty and I love you ! / bring me home, I know you love me too !’. When Blue ends up understanding that he won’t have any answers, his words melt into a high-pitching wailing. The crys go on and on until the car stops in front of an adorable little farm, all that picturesque. At twenty minutes from town, the air there is pur. Half-feral cats hang out in the courtyard, rubbing themselves to the human legs as he slaps close his car’s door. This one used to be brand new, once there was a time, before that Blue idiot had this idea that a turquoise color will better fit a vehicule of his ‘magnificence’... And starts to repaint it with a colored pencil. The horrid cracks on his car painting would have finished convincing the human that his choice was for the best, if he had doubted it only a little.

« Welcome ! » A young girl, maybe forteen, comes running. Her full face and her lively eyes bring a smile to the human.

« Thanks! Are your parents here ? » He asks, this barely audible, drown by the bitty cries that came back stronger. The girl raises her shoulders.

« They’re busy. But they told me to take the bitty. You’re the person we had on the phone? » The human uses a small time to bring himself back together.

« Oh. Yes. Here’s Blue. Here... » He hands the cage and the girl takes it with a whole particular caution. The human goes away, missing by a second the glance of malice living in the girl’s eyes.

« So, Blue, we’re a lil grumpy? » She let away, gaining a truce in the cries. Blue raises his huge wet eyesockets to the teen. « Name’s Jessica and, you’ll see, you’ll have such a blast, here ! » Taking no care to the cats swarming to her feets whom were interested in the small rodent, she walks toward a small barn, a little far from the main house. Blue clumsily walks to the front of his cage, his cute lil hands holding the bars.

« You’re my new mommy ? » He ask, a shiver in his voice. Jessica softly laughs.

« Whatever. » She breaths, ignoring the dumb face of the bitty, falling apart to such an answer. Putting the cage to the ground, so she can push with both of her hands a door way too heavy, Blue see agglutinating around him the felides, meowing of hunger as if he was a can of tuna.

« Er... Jessica? » Squeals the scared bitty. But nobody answers him excepted the heavy creaking of the wood door. At last, the door had given up and opens on a dumping ground drown in darkness. Blue doesn’t have any time to prepare himself before his cage is balancing again at the end of the young girl arms. She dumps it in a CLANK that can’t be unheard on something that had metal on it- another cage? Then she rubs her hands.

« You’ll be fine, here, until the chirurgy. » Blue frozes to such speaking. Chirurgy? But wasn’t it...

Why would he needs chirurgy?

« I’m not ill ! » The bitty defends himself. « Chirurgy, it’s for people who’re really ill! » He whines but that does nothing if not amusing the teen. She doesn’t bother answering and goes away, having the same struggle to close the door after her. Just before the outside light dims into a stray of light, Blue has the time to see one of the cat slithers into the barn.

« Hey ! »

Then, the nothingness. Or it was what he belived. But as his eardrums get used to the lack of stimulis, he ends up earing way weaker sounds. The noise of one- no, hundreads of breathings, harshs, terrified, brokens. Mad laughing and wailing melted and- oh, the meowing develishly high-pitched of the cat, prowling through the aisles. The aisles... He eyesockets grows used to the darkness. There’s rows and rows... Is that cages? Blue let away a chocked breath.

« IS THERE SOMETHING HERE? » Yells the baby blue. He stands surprised not to have any answers and insists. « Please ! » The last word, a weak pleading.

« Shut the fuck up. » The blue’s eyesockets grows bigger.

« LANGUAGE !! » He spats, a reflex of when he was at the adoption center. One cage down, the red eyelights of what seems to be an edgy become sharper. He stares the maybe ennemi for a time before understanding what’s in front of his eyes.

« A baby blue. Tch. As if I needed that. » The voice sounds clear. The edgy have several months less than the baby blue.

« A JUNIOR! ALL FOR THE BETTER! MY MAGNIFICENT EXEMPLE WILL- »

« I don’t think that’s the time for that’. » White pupils shining in the cage in front of his calmly answer. Blue hesitates for a moment. A... Sansy ? « Just do what he says, we don’t really have the soul to have a chat. »

« Nonsense ! » Complains the little Blue. « I just arrived and I need answers ! » Useless to say that the tiny creature is deeply insulted. « At what time do we have a snack, here ? » There’s a silence, then the frenetical laughter of the edgy. Blue frowns. Did he... Missed snack time? It was so villain to laugh at him...! « Good, and what are we doing here? » He carrys on, a little less brave. « Oh, it’s for a birthday surprise, it is it? » His excited voice suddenly slips to the idea. « We are the gifts, aren’t we? » To whom will they be gifted? To a child who would play with them all day long? To a sweet human girl who would love cuddles? Or even to a monster, Blue wasn’t difficult! As long as the person would be willing to let them sleep in the bed...

« Fuck... » Laughs the red one. « I tell him ? »

« No ! » Yells the sansy in a panic. « Let him in his world. For now... » It was better to keep the eyesockets closed. It will always be time to stress out to the bone later one... But the edgy didn’t seem to want to hear such an answer. With a cruel smile, he blurted out.

« Eh, dumb-face... Look what’s over yout head! »

« UH ?? » Blue raises his face without thinking, suddenly noticing a glimpse of silver light hanging on the ceiling.

« It’s the ‘chirurgy chain’. » Continues the edgy, a sadistic tone ringing in his voice. « The shiny thingy, it’s a butcher hook~ >> He soft talks, exctatic, despite the whimperings of the sansy, trying his best to make him shut up. Blue’s bones grow paler as he registers the words.

« Ha... Haha? » He answers back. « YOU GOT ME WELL, EDGY, BUT I DID NOT FALL FOR THAT! THERE’S AN END TO ALL BAD JOKES! »

#Bitty whump #Bitty abuse #Bittybones abuse

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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years

Text

Bad Vegetarian | Feeding Habits #1

Hey People of Earth!

As you can see from the title, not only do we have a new series of writing updates, we have a new series of writing updates for a whole new novel that was! not! supposed! to! happen!

For any of my friends who miss Moth Work (aka myself), guess who started writing a sequel literally no one asked. :)

I’ve had ideas for spinoff stories for Moth Work (as if MW wasn’t enough of a spinoff) and was peer pressured into starting this novel by @sarahkelsiwrites and I’m really happy about it! I have yet to come up with a title, but the moment I do, shall inform you, but for now, we’re calling this MW2!

This book (if it even ends up being a book) starts with chapter one, Bad Vegetarian. Unlike MW, MW2 starts in Lonan’s POV (not sure I’ll switch but I’m sure it’ll be inevitable), and I’m here for it!

I’ve been wanting to explore Lonan and Eliza’s relationship in more detail since having them come together in MW by complete fluke, and oh! is the tea piping!

This chapter really illustrates how truly dysfunctional this relationship is on both sides. Here’s a break down by scene:

Scene A:

Lonan is paint shopping with Eliza who has just gone vegetarian (which is the def the most normal thing she’s spontaneously done lately). Eliza feels like celebrating by painting their entire kitchen red.

Lonan particularly is drawn to blues, but since this ain’t what Eliza wants, they go with a brilliant red.

Scene B:

Lonan lines the kitchen with painter’s tape as Eliza bothers their neighbours for paint rollers, while trying to convince himself this relationship is still somewhat okay.

While doing this, he gets his weekly call from Unknown Woman who he’s been in contact with for the last few weeks. What for? We don’t know! They talk in code, and he realizes Unknown Woman’s situation is getting worse, and impromptu, tries to do something about it.

Scene C:

Lonan and Eliza bump into each other as he’s exiting the apartment and she’s entering, and have a short, strained conversation about why he’s leaving (she’s not aware of top secret phone calls that make this book feel lowkey like the old dystopians!)

Scene D:

Lonan attempts to drive to Unknown Woman but only knows she lives in Arizona (not great for directions lol). While in the car, he realizes it’s essentially impossible to get there without knowing where he’s going, and eventually gives up and heads home.

Scene E:

TW: blood

Lonan re-enters the apartment only to find Eliza “bleeding” in the kitchen. She’s actually just being wild and this “blood” is wall paint.

Scene F:

If we haven’t already seen the dysfunction, oh does it get worse! As Lonan and Eliza try to have a *moment* Eliza has a conversation by herself and gets a lil gaslighty.

Halfway through this, Lonan gets a phone call from Unknown Woman who we finally find out is his ex-girlfriend Glenne. Sounds like tea but he’s genuinely only helping her out of her toxic situation (which will be clarified later) though Eliza’s skeptical.

This chapter was a lot of fun to write! I wrote a majority of it today, and am really happy to have a *chill* project. While I love my other books (the three I am apparently now working on at once), it’s nice to have a place to dump my ideas with characters I know very well in situations I’m comfortable in whenever I feel like writing but don’t have tons of time/ideas/energy.

Excerpts:

Here are the opening three paragraphs! The first sentence sets up the POV a little weirdly, but I think it works with a later sentence that sort of mimics this “reminder” kind of style:

There are no rules, just remember, Eliza is vegetarian. She’s into earth tones, neutral tones, leafy greens, root vegetables. It’s all new. The day she announced her diet change, she also announced a desire to repaint the kitchen, to fit the new aura, to fit the new ethics, but she wants to paint the kitchen blood red, and Lonan is still a meat-eater. He reminds himself: there are no rules, just remember, Eliza is vegetarian.

In the hardware store he thumbs paint chips. They’re set up in an array, almost like checkers, dissolving in a gradient from reds to purples. Eliza wants red, “Not necessarily earthy, but the root of organism, of life,” so Lonan looks at the blues. They’re all a variant of a seaside theme—Sea Breeze, a cloud-like blue, Beach Umbrella, a wispy aqua, Seafoam Serenade, muted like the soft side of a turquoise. Repainting the kitchen matters little to him, and so do the blues, but the red section, devilish, makes him shuffle his blue deck faster.

Radio from the store’s intercom tins through the speakers, dampened by the hustle of carts, the thud of bodies against the concrete flooring. He holds many cards up to the light, Secret Getaway and Parisian Summer almost the exact shade, but still he flicks through, until half the pile is indistinguishable, and the other half are blues he likes and not reds, like Eliza’s asked.

The next excerpt sort of highlights the last six months of Lonan’s life as he’s been on this whirlwind of keeping up with all the things Eliza has tried. I have added kudzu pudding and other kudzu food just for my pals @sarahkelsiwrites and @shaelinwrites (rlly want kudzu pudding):

Her sudden vegetarianism is not confusing to him. Eliza tries new things all the time, something he’s learned after living with her for half a year. One time, she brought home four different kinds of dried beans to make into tea, and together they drank it atop the balcony, the Vegas strip across them somehow tasting better. One time, they ate a variety of kudzu foods for a week because Eliza said invasive species had to be killed somehow, and so they spooned kudzu pudding into their mouths, kudzu root powder into their water, kudzu salads with salted almonds. One time, she put them on a warmth ban, and they ate only frozen peas, potatoes, raspberries, turned the thermostat down until every surface crackled. She liked the feeling of subtle frost on the countertops, how it jolted her when she touched it accidentally in the morning. He found her many mornings awake before him, transfixed to the table with both palms soldered to its surface, like she’d forgotten she wasn’t a part of it. One time, she paid to have the furniture in the house rearranged, not good enough for her spirit, and then reverted it two days later. “The couch doesn’t like being so close to the refrigerator,” and he could’ve asked “did you ask it?” but said, “Understandable. It shouldn’t be forced to catch a draft.” So her vegetarianism is normal. Already, she’s switched their meat supply to beetroots, chickpeas, tofu she rips apart bare-handed. For the last three mornings, they’ve both taken a shot of spinach and gingerroot, a liquid that burns to make you feel alive, as if you weren’t already.

The next excerpts kind of surprised me with their amount of humour! Not something I expect from Lonan, but I’m glad he has some sass back lol (CW: some upsetting animal imagery):

There is nothing wrong in this relationship. Everything is Eliza’s new favourite adjective—stunning. Everything is scrubbed with kitchen bleach, glittering like a plasticky pool float in the shallow end, stunning. Everything is planned, put in a calendar, a notebook, a flitter of receipts, but always planned, stunning. Everything is better, even better than better, a better that can only be described as stunning.

Lonan uses this word frequently now, rolling out a strip of blue painter’s tape and trying to find different ways it stuns. Sticks when he sticks, peels when he peels, keeps its edge when it needs to keep its edge, so it’s stunning. The bubble television is turned onto a channel about sheep, and as he lines the baseboards, outlets, catches glances of a sheer buzzing against skin, sometimes a hunting knife slicing until there’s blood.

Eliza is asking a neighbour for paint rollers because they bought four cans of wall paint, two paint trays, a box of garbage bags, three rolls of painter’s tape, and a small paintbrush each for both of them but forgot the rollers. Stunning.

The following excerpt highlights that Lonan has a cellphone! Is Fostered just a bizarre alternate reality of a time period that doesn’t exist? Perhaps! (CW: some upsetting animal imagery):

Today, they’ll prime the cabinets, the walls, and tomorrow, scroll a coat of red onto both. The kitchen will look more like the inside of an anatomical heart, the sinks and drawers like ventricles, but this is Eliza’s vision—her tastes come alive.

The sheep are being herded by a collie. As Lonan rips another strip of tape with his teeth, he stares at the screen mounted in the corner, at the almost-naked sheep dashing across a field. How many will be slaughtered, he doesn’t know. The narrator must’ve said that, but there is no plan, really, for death. Even for sheep.

He kneels toward the kitchen vent, the tape roll linked around his wrist, and smooths a line of tape down. Eliza doesn’t want to paint the vent—it wouldn’t complete her vision—and so it will remain the original wall colour, a square of cream so worn, it’s almost grey.

Here we have some hints at Eliza’s weirdness:

He straightens and looks at her. She’s bundled in her fur coat even though she has always insisted she’s good at even Vegas’ warm winter. Since going vegetarian, she’s insisted it’s fake, even though he’s read the lining tag—100% mink. He doesn’t know why she’s needed her coat when she’s only walked up a few flights of stairs but doesn’t care to ask.

She approaches him with her thumb out, and when that thumb presses into his eye socket, he flinches.

“What happened here?” she smooths the dip of his under eyes, her fingertips cold. He smells her perfume, different today, always different, a smell like cloves and lavender. “Are you sleeping?” She presses onto her toes, examines the other side, and her frown deepens. “This doesn’t look like eight hours.”

“I’m sleeping,” he says, though they both know this is a lie. It’s taken her two weeks to notice.

“I can run to the pharmacy,” she says. “If you need a refill.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“I didn’t notice this morning—I would’ve given you another energy shot.”

Here’s a line I like because of a) skin and b) sun:

Lonan goes nowhere. This is not his plan. Asphalt whips under the skin of each tire, the setting sun wringing him blind.

Fully sharing this for the verb zags (and also because I accidentally roast cities tho I love them I am one of these blink-less people):

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Arizona is the only thing he knows about her, doesn’t know if she lives in an apartment, a duplex, a house—fully detached, semi-detached. As he pulls into a residential neighbourhood somewhere along the vague line he’s drawn on the map from Las Vegas to Arizona, he watches for all these options. In the distance, a jogger zags across the street with her golden retriever, children play basketball on a driveway, still in their school uniforms, another woman clips the wilted stems off a magnolia bush.

It’s when he gets closer to the apartments that the sameness is noticeable. High-rises with pearlescent windows that go pinkish in the sunset—all of them identical. Each building evenly spaced, more like a board game than a place to live. Even the space around each building is the same—the same rose hedges, the same iron fence, the same people bustling in and out, all wearing some variation of the same pantsuit, all holding some other hand—child, partner, lover. The same haircuts, smiles, eyes like marbles, as if there’s a store somewhere that sells copies, a catalogue for eyes that don’t blink. He’s been looking into the sun for too long, there must be a difference, but the longer he looks, the more indistinguishable they become.

To get out of explaining where he wants to go when he and Eliza bump into each other, Lonan says he’s visiting his sister (Reeve), and because she’s iconic and must make an appearance, here’s a line ft. our queen:

He could make the lie true. Reeve is somewhere in the country, he imagines, dancing in a faceless city, living in a motel room, tipping everyone well.

(^^ all true)

Here we have Lonan identifying with the animals more than anything else for the second time in one chapter (TW for more blood imagery):

Lonan hooks the car keys onto the lanyard by the front door and slings his coat across the couch. The television is set to the same channel as before, though the program has switched from sheep slaughter to birdwatching. On screen, a heron perches by a riverbed, opalescent in the sunshine.

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asks, the heron now frisking up the white bark of a tree. He glances at the fluorescent red dripping between her fingers, pattering against the tile.

“I was opening the paint cans.”

“With a kitchen knife?”

He gestures to the blade on the counter, blood-free, newly sharpened.

“It’s all I had on hand.” She pulls her wrist closer to her, runs her index finger along the injured area.

“It’s clean.”

“I washed it, Lonan.”

This next one has some blood imagery so TW for that!

The heron has moved closer to the riverbed. It watches the water knowingly, its subtle simmer of movement, and after a moment of watching, strikes its beak down so it spears a trout. He misses the part where it eats. Eliza’s clicked off the TV from behind him.

She slams the remote onto the counter so hard, its back clatters off and onto the tile. “I cut my arm with a kitchen knife while opening paint cans. It happens.”

“I don’t see a cut.”

“Why would I make that up?”

“I don’t see a cut.”

She walks toward him. He expects her to shove her wrist in his face, but she doesn’t. She just holds it, some of the blood fluorescing pink, splashes onto her toes.

“You got to see your sister?” she asks.

“She cancelled.”

Eliza clucks her tongue, examining her wrist, and then she extends her arm, revealing the full patch of pale skin gone red.

Lonan takes it, and with his fingernail carves a line through the red to reveal the healthy patch of skin, painted, uncut.

And finally, here’s the last line of this excerpt that essentially explains where the title comes from ft. predator VS prey symbolism:

He’s reminded once more of the heron, how it plunged into the riverbed with ease, and the trout dangling in its beak, its commitment to life most fervent the moment before being consumed.

So that’s going to be it for this update! I don’t know how frequently I’ll be writing this, but it’s been a lot of fun so far. I’m excited to explore more relationships I haven’t turned over in a while as a little side project while I do other things! Hope y’all enjoyed!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #writingupdates #mothwork #fostered #feedinghabits

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infinitiesofbooks · 5 years

Text

Me rambling about S3 and being an emotional mess

Okay, I have feelings and I need to talk about them. This is not a constructive analysis or anything this is just me talking about SOME of my favorite clips from season 3 of Skam France because it's the end and i'm emotional.

I knew this season would be awesome from the second I saw the trailer.It was genius and I still watch it sometimes because wow.I love that we saw the I saw you the first day of school scene. I love that we were all fooled into believing it was Lucas. Because he's the main and i also think because of the clothes, that's something Isak could wear. But little did we know they were making their own thing.

"T'es pas comme les autres" + adding to this the minute par minute talk

Skam is a very emotional show, with very emotional scenes but I didn't cry cry as much as everyone did. And it's okay obviously. I teared up, thought I was going to die because of the pain, internally sobbed during the whole season. (For me it's 50/50 or I cry a LOT or I just can't because I just have too many emotions and my body is just dying, but it doesn't diminish the pain oh no) But the only two times where I really really really cried were during T'es pas comme les autres and the minute par minute talk. For mpm, I was expecting it. This is my favorite quote of the Skam universe, I use it everyday and it really helped me dealing with mental illness. I knew hearing it in my native language would wreck me. I was tearing up during the whole clip but I just bursted into tears when Lucas said it.

But I was not expecting the "T'es pas comme les autres" clip. I remember watching it, sobbing, thinking what the hell is happening to me. It's a mixture of Lucille's speech, the piano music (i tear up everytime i listen to it) and the images of Eliott. this.was.too.much.for.me. But I love this clip with all of my heart, and I cry as much everytime I rewatch it but I love it.

The piano scene

This scene. This freaking scene. It's unique,it's beautiful, it's a masterpiece. I have a thing with piano, it always gets me emotional and it's my favorite instrument, and I listen to piano music every day.But.this. this was incredible. And it's a scene nobody expected and wow it had so much impact. I can't find the words about how much I love this scene. And I won't ever be able to forget the T'es Suprenant. I remember not being able to sleep after this scene because I couldn't get over it.

Intervention

This is one of my favorite clip. First the acting, Axel how how how? I also love how it's as much as a sad clip as an hopeful one. Yes, it's sad but Mika and Manon are here for Lucas, he finally has support, and it's the clip where things are changing , Lucas starts accepting himself in the next clip and it's beautiful. And also some things that were said in this clip hit me so strongly and I think about them everyday.

Viens on en parle pas

god. Manon coming to Lucas? Her crying ? Him conforting her? And then when he started to cry my heart broke. This was powerful and I'm so glad this clip exists.

Also I didn't talk about Le premier, Combien de Lucas dans l'Univers, the painting/fucking, french o helga natt,not because I don't love them, because I freaking do, they're in my top 10,or even 5 clips (especially combien de lucas, if I did a top 3 it would be here with the piano scene and T'es pas comme les autres (this clip did something to me okay?) and the parallel universe talk with the music behind always get me so so so so emotional and tearing up) but because I've already talk so much about them and said pretty much everything I wanted to say.

Special mentions to Eliott following Lucas on instagram. So many of the instas udpdates are pure gold, so so so many, but I don't think I freaked out more in my entire life than the day Eliott followed Lucas. I literaly went home walking because I had too many feelings and needed to calm down.

Also a little list of my fav things from watching S3

-Lucas & the girl squad. Every. Single. Interaction.

-the millions french words the international fandom is now saying (please don't use them in french class)

-moi c'est Eliott + I can still remember Maxence and his chocolates bars on his insta story being so excited about the clip

-Lucas stalking Eliott

-the whole foyer subplot

-P. O. L. A. R. I. S

I got so emotional over a gifset the other day with the first kiss and O helga natt with the polaris quote

And the fandom becoming astronomers

-Alexia being a bisexual queen

-the dubstep is still making me laugh especially Lucas listening to it and saying he's into it to Chloé

-the unsubtleness. cf : how would you draw me

-Lucas and the marks on his cheeks during the foyer party

-i have an unhealthy obsession with the call your girlfriend scene, seriously, how many times can i watch a clip before it gets weird? Also when the music change when Eliott looks up ahhhhh

-Pas forcément une meuf (and the whole I want to be in a relationship thing ), I have a tattoo appointment to put this on my forehead.

-The whole Grillé clip was gold

-I love Pecholand too, it's so funny to rewatch because ahhh we knew it. Also just Lucas's voice when he's changing the subject from Eliott to something else. Everytime I watch it, I have this feeling, you know, when someone or something is brought up and you start panicking a little inside and you try to stay calm and like nothing is affecting but you're still trying to change the subject. It's a very specific feeling and he NAILED it, the tone of his voice is exactly exactly this.

-The beginning of Phase de Latence (ending ?? What ending?? This clip ends when Lucas steps out of the classroom)

-Emma and her lava lamp. Emma, my love. I see so much of me and my friends in Emma, and the more we have the more I love her. She just seems so real to me.

-The Isak reference

-Arthur&Basile + Daphné + Yann + Imane reaction and talk after Lucas coming out

-the J'ai tué ma mère ref. I knew it. I wanted it. They delivered. Thank you.

-the reaction to the mural monday morning omg. I really thought they were going to repaint it after. But these idiots didn't and they didn't even try denying anything. And I would have bet Daphné would have killed them but I'm glad she loved it.

-Eliott + Imane

-The boy squad Fangirl™ Moment to Elu. I wanna tattoo their faces on my face.

-Them hanging out in the park. This felt so nostalgic to me. It's exactly how I spent my 1ère afternoons in high school, lying in the grass with my friends, reading, talking and it's some of my best memories.

-Elu shotgunning omg

-Emma Manon and Lucas drunk = incredible

-Basile speechs and supporting Boy Squad

-Lucas and his mom AND THE FREAKING PIANO WHEN HE WROTE THE TEXT

-Him defending the mural, Imane being a queen and then Daphné after too

-Leave a light on hahahaha

-the realness of J'ai pas besoin de toi (just wanted to say, i'm still singing Joyce Jonathan every time, just because of the title, not any signification)

-Lucas and Eliott being THAT annoying couple

-All the drawings

-Raccons and hedgehog

-the acting. I just can't see Axel and Maxence, no matter how hard I try (i just tried it for the sake of this point and I just can't, they don't exist when filming)

-David making me cry with his instagram posts

-every single update from instagram

-David changing his profil pics and the fandom loosing it

-the scarf™

-Just everything the cast did. I could make a whole separate post for that.

-Wednesdays

-All the times we were fooled

-THE FREAKING JE T'AIME I'M STILL NOT OVER IT

-Eliott counting the minutes he's been appart from Lucas in the last clip, that dork

I feel like i'm forgetting so so many things, but I can't write down everything, especially the fandom stuffs and how much we freaked out over everything, and all the debates and theories but this has been my favorite part

I'm so glad for this season, and it had been an incredible ride. I also think i would not be this attached to it if I didn't discuss the clips with everybody on tumblr everyday. Thank you. You all made this special.

I wanted to start tagging people but the list was getting way way way too long and I'm afraid to forget someone and also the less people see my rambling the better it is. But if we talked even once,or if we’re mutuals, or If I liked your posts or you liked mine, i love you. So i'm just gonna thank my two friends I talk everyday with.

@praecise we've been talking since the beginning of the season and I'm so glad i was on that ride with you, you're the best

@aspewofnonsense we started really talking only after but i'm so so glad we did and i can't wait to meet you in may

I'm a really nostalgic person and I hate endings, and even if it's also a beginning because you bet i'm gonna follow S4 with the same energy ( I was already so hyped just by seeing Imane at the end of the last clip) , it's the end of Lucas pov and I will forever miss him. And seeing everybody in the tag saying goodbye and thank you to our boy ahhhh. Watching this season was an unique experience and it was so special. But i can't believe this is over. This morning i was listening to music when Remember attacked me without my consent and i started full on sobbing. The whole day i felt almost sick because i knew it was the end, in my last class i was really really feeling bad i couldn't do anything. But after the clip i was sad but also so much happy. I'm so thankful for this season and for Lucas's story.

(Also after the last clip, i was sitting on the ground in the train watching the landscape through the windows as the sun was setting, thinking about everything ,poetic cinema right there)

This afternoon I was like I should be less dramatic. But fuck it, I like being 300% invested in this. Being inside a fandom is my favorite thing.

I feel like I could never say everything I want to say, but (i was listening to music and my song just say i just wanna say thank you as I was writing this yes that's exactly this song) I just wanna say thank you. <3

#skam france #skam france season 3 #lucas lallemant #Eliott demaury #Elu #Me rambling

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bottled-bliss · 5 years

Text

AOP

This can be read as a kind of sequel to "Walking Back Home In The Mud" but it's fine on its own too. Enjoy! Or not, I can’t force you.

A peculiar smell drifts in through the open windows- dewberry. It’s sweet and light and totally out of place. She shouldn’t be able to smell it at all, not with the overpowering stench of fresh paint burning her nostrils. She hasn’t caught a sniff of it since Vermont, except maybe in some perfume shop at one point or another, but artificial smells are different. They don’t have the same time traveling abilities, the power of launching you back into your childhood bedroom like you never left. It makes her think of her mother, how much she misses her and how she’d love to have her here, to help with the alien being that she’s growing inside her, just under her heart.

“Frank,” she shouts and hears him promptly stomp down the stairs. “Can you smell that?”

“Can’t smell anything but the goddamn paint. I left the windows open, hope it helps,” he grumbles. “What is it? Something burning?”

“No, nothing like that.” She eases herself down onto the couch and twists just enough to stretch her legs on it as well. Movement is becoming increasingly difficult these days, as her belly keeps expanding. “Maybe I imagined it,” she shrugs.

“Like the garlic bread last week?” Frank chuckles. He gently grips her ankles, lifts up her legs and sits down beside her, as he grabs a throw pillow to place on his lap, under her feet. “Gotta keep them elevated,” he reminds her and starts giving her feet a much needed massage, smiling when she lets out a moan. He looks a bit silly with the mint green smudges on his face, on his clothes -all over him actually. Silly and laid-back and gorgeous. The past month has taught her she shouldn’t even try to bend forward, but if she could, she would be kissing him right now.

“You don’t know how good this feels,” Karen purrs before getting down to business. “So, are you finished painting the nursery? I want to have the crib set up by the end of the week. The changing table too and it wouldn’t hurt to have some drawers in there and-”

“Slow down,” Frank says, his thumb kneading the arch of her left foot as she wiggles her toes. “I’ll set up everything, stop being so stressed. You didn’t take the week off so you could nag me the whole time, did you?”

Karen gives him a snort full of disapproval. “I don’t nag.”

He raises one eyebrow and cocks his head, lips curling into an amused smile. “Baby, you nag.”

She kicks his hand away playfully while trying to hide her own smile. “If I do, it’s because this little hell spawn of yours is giving me a hard time,” she huffs and places a protective hand on her belly. “Would it kill you to sit still for one moment?” she addresses the baby and then turns to Frank. “I could swear it already hates me.”

“Might be because you’re still calling it ‘it’,” he says, running his palm over her leg.

“It’s mine, I’ll call it what I like,” she tells him.

Frank leans to the side, lowering his head towards her stomach and rubbing his cheek against it. “What are you doing in there that’s got her so mad, kid?” he says in a low voice, like he and the baby are having a private conversation, and then jolts up, surprised. “Christ, that was one mean kick!”

“No kidding.” Karen exhales slowly. “I’ve developed this theory that the baby is actually trying to kick its way out of me. And at this rate, it will probably succeed.”

He places a tender hand over hers, worry obvious in his eyes. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really, but I’m not enjoying it either.” She hisses as the imprint of a tiny foot appears, pushing against the stretched flesh of her belly. She’s about to start telling the kid off, when she notices Frank’s hypnotized stare. Without saying a word, she takes his hand and presses it down, hoping her estimation of the baby’s next target is correct. “There,” she says when the kick lands. “You felt that, right?”

“Yeah,” he gives her a teary-eyed look. “Yeah, I felt it.”

Her fingers wrap around his in an affectionate squeeze as he pretends to examine the living room walls. “You’ve already painted those,” Karen remarks kindly.

Not bothering to deny he got caught, Frank lets out a quiet, soft laugh. “Can’t hide from you, can I?” He continues rubbing her leg lazily, his eyes rolling to the side as he tries either to recall something or avoid her gaze.

“Frank.”

“Hmm?”

“What did you do?”

When he turns to her, he’s holding a breath that he lets out slowly, very slowly, buying time for himself. “What makes you think I did anything?” he says finally. It’s just a game they play. He likes to tease her but he always spills the beans without much effort from her part. Karen’s brow shoots up and he knows that he shouldn’t drag it out this time. “I may or may not have called your doctor while you were in the bathroom earlier.”

“Frank, come on,” she whines. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“And it will be, for you,” he assures her. Her disbelieving glare makes him want to laugh, but he manages to stifle it. “You don’t trust me to keep my mouth shut? I will, cross my heart and all that.”

Karen moves forward with a grunt and slaps his arm. “Why couldn’t you wait?”

“Because I hate surprises, you know,” he says. “And I was thinking about that form you showed me the other day. Child’s name goes on top. We haven’t even started talking about names yet. What are we going to tell the notary public? Give us a week to decide?”

“I have half a mind to call it Matthew even if it’s a girl, just to annoy you,” she grumbles and Frank roars with laughter.

“Don’t you dare.” He grabs her hand and brings it to his lips.

“Matthew David has a nice ring to it too,” she smirks.

“You wouldn’t be that cruel to the father of your child,” he says before kissing her palm and placing it on his cheek. “I’ll be good from now on, I swear.”

The baby delivers a little pop of a kick, as though asking her to take pity on daddy, and Karen rubs the stubbly cheek under her palm. “I could do worse but I’m going to let this one slide. It seems that you two are teaming up against me.”

“It,” he stresses the word, “knows what’s right.”

“Oh, getting cocky, are we?” She leans closer to her belly and casts him a smile that is all threat, as she whispers to the baby. “Are you comfortable in there, Matthew David?” Frank raises his hands in surrender and the baby stays suspiciously still. She counts that as a win. “Both are good names though.”

“No way in hell,” he laughs again. “I can’t handle more than one David and one Matthew in our life. We’re covered on that front.”

“So it’s a boy,” Karen exclaims. She expected to be a bit disappointed at finding out now instead of later, but she really isn’t. A little nervous, maybe, because she doesn’t know the first thing about raising a boy. But also excited.

“Didn’t say that,” Frank cuts her excitement short.

“A girl?” She realizes she doesn’t know the first thing about raising a girl either. What was she thinking, that she would magically have all the insight necessary to bring up a person, simply because they happened to be of the same gender? Frank presses his lips together in response, refusing to give up the secret. “That’s not fair,” Karen frowns.

“I thought you didn’t want to know,” he quirks an eyebrow. “If you’ve changed your mind…”

“I haven’t,” says Karen and turns her head away, pouting in mock annoyance.

“Okay then.”

Placing an arm behind her knees, Frank lifts up her legs and gets up, setting the pillow on a different angle, making sure the position is up to his standards before gently laying her feet on it. As he stands there rubbing the back of his neck, Karen follows his gaze across the room, to the kitchen table where the printed AOP form lies. She wonders if the same thing that bothers her, bothers him too. “Have you thought of any names?” she asks.

“Don’t expect anything creative from me,” he chuckles, distracted momentarily. “Jane and John are the first names that came to mind.”

“Jane Castiglione,” she says, inclining her head to the side as though seriously considering it. “It doesn’t sound bad.”

“It sounds terrible. Same goes for John Castiglione,” he replies as he bends down to kiss her forehead. “We could go with Penelope, if it’s a girl. If you…”

Karen reaches up to stroke his cheek. “It’s very sweet of you to suggest it, but as much as I loved my mom, I don’t want to force that name on a child. It’s not very… us, don’t you think?” Her eyes widen, sparkling with an idea. “What about your mom’s name?”

“Louisa? You like that?”

Yes, she really does and the more she thinks about it, the more fitting it seems. “Louisa Castiglione. Yeah, I like it. Do you? Or is it too much like…”

“A little bit,” Frank admits with a tightness in his tone. “We have time to come up with something. No rush.”

Karen nods. “And if it’s a boy?”

He hesitates for a split second, maybe even less than that, looking confused, which tells Karen a lot more than he’d planned. “Uh, I don’t know,” he replies. “We agree that both Paxton and Mario are shit names, right?”

“Oh, definitely.” A bright smile starts forming on her lips, as something like joy stirs in her stomach, prompting the baby to begin moving again as well. Joy, she thinks and puts the name down in the mental list of potential names for their daughter. “But we won’t be needing any boys’ names, I take it?”

Frank throws his hands up and then cradles her face in them, leaning in to kiss her. “How the hell do you do that?”

“You’re too easy to read, Castle,” Karen giggles and throws her arm over the back of the couch, slanting backwards. “A little girl, huh?”

“Yeah,” he beams at her, taking a deep breath.

“Well, I hope she likes green because that room isn’t getting repainted for a long time.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t mind doing it all over again, if she doesn’t like it,” Frank tells her, eyes narrowed with a smile.

Great, Karen thinks, the kid isn’t even out yet and he’s already set on spoiling her. “Jane Castiglione is really not a bad name.” Frank pulls a seriously displeased face. “Is it the Castiglione part that bothers you?”

“No, why would it? I’ll sign the paper as Pete Castiglione and I’ll be proud to do it. But it bothers you.”

“Just a tiny little bit,” she confesses.

“It’s just a name, Karen.” He shrugs and his eyes gleam with mischief. “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“You know, continuing to quote Shakespeare in spite of me asking you to stop, is grounds for divorce,” Karen says, tapping her finger on the couch while holding his gaze.

“You’ll have to marry me before you can file for divorce,” he chuckles as he makes his way towards the stairs, probably going to add some finishing touches to the nursery before jumping in the shower.

“Well, you haven’t asked me yet.”

Frank freezes in his tracks and for a moment, Karen considers if that’s too much pressure for him. There’s no reason why it should be; they’ve been living together for some time, they’re expecting a baby, for god’s sake, and while she doesn’t need a ring on her finger to feel secure in her relationship, she’s going to smack him if he freaks out on her. When he turns around to face her, his features are soft and calm and Karen is glad that she doesn’t have to resort to violence, especially because she’d have to get up to do it. “I will,” he tells her simply and goes off to finish his chores.

Frank planted two large rose bushes in the flower beds of their front yard just last week, but despite their size, they haven’t made their presence known until now, as a mild breeze carries their scent inside the house and spreads it around the living room. Karen inhales deeply, not letting the smell drag her back to the past, but have her glimpse into the future instead. She knows enough about genetics to understand the chances of the kid looking like her are slim, but she’s perfectly okay with that. The only flaw she can imagine in a child that looks like Frank is that she’ll have two sets of those dark, puppy eyes melting her heart. “I won’t allow you to be spoiled, you hear me?” she speaks softly, rubbing her belly. ‘Your father will be a constant foil to my plans, but you’re not going to become some obnoxious brat that nobody likes. And you’d better love mint green, we’re done with painting for at least five years. Well, maybe if you’d like a bit of yellow, I’d consider it. I don’t know, stop being so spoiled already,” she smiles as her daughter finally settles down to sleep.

AO3

#a thing I wrote #kastle #kastle ff #kastle fic #basically just Frank and Karen being domestic and cute #nothing but pointless fluff

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statusquoergo · 5 years

Text

Part II

Deposition, take two.

Harvey and Mike run into each other on their way into the conference room and Harvey informs Mike that this case is never going to make it in front of a jury, thanks to their decision to waive a jury trial. Mike is aghast but refuses Harvey’s suggestion to terminate the deposition, because “while a jury might never hear it, [he’s] gonna make that motherfucker answer for what he’s doing.”

Here’s the thing about that: As long as he does it in a timely fashion, the plaintiff has the right to demand a jury trial. So Mike can goad Haskins (the CEO of Brick Street Athletics, I guess) into saying whatever he wants in the deposition, but none of this finitely precludes the case from appearing before a jury.

During questioning, Mike lays out the working conditions at the factory—2000 people working “twice what they’re supposed to” (however this is supposed to be quantified), employee salaries of less than twenty cents per hour compared to Haskins’ salary of $20,000,000 per year, “building an empire on the backs of women and children” (Haskins denies that they employ children and Mike challenges that “it’s just women, then”)—and Haskins repeats the defense that they’re not breaking any local or international laws. Mike argues that conditions are so bad that two people have killed themselves in as many years, and Haskins bursts out with the key phrase: “God dammit, I don’t care how many people have killed themselves! This has nothing to do with my company!”

Real friendly. Appearing quite weary of this whole charade, Harvey asks if Mike is done, “Because [Mike] can get emotional, and [Haskins] can get emotional, but [Mike] still [has] no jury, and no case.” Not to mention “this testimony isn’t to be revealed outside this room.”

Actually I can think of at least one instance in which the deposition testimony would be admissible at trial, or in front of a judge: If Haskins testifies to anything contrary to what he said in deposition, Mike could introduce it to contradict or impeach the testimony given by the deponent as a witness, i.e., prove he lied.

But who cares about the law, this is Suits.

Louis and Sheila go to Lipschitz for therapy, and it’s nice that they’re trying to work out their problems, and the dialogue feels honest, and Sheila never wanted kids but now that she’s pregnant she’s embracing the idea of becoming a mother, and Louis supports her 1000%, and she loves him, and it’s no wonder Lipschitz is always so busy if this is how quickly he’s able to fix his clients’ problems.

Alex fills Katrina in on Faye’s request that he oversee Mike and Harvey, and Katrina tells him not to tell them about it because “Have you ever seen either one of them react well to an authority figure telling them not to do something?” It’s a pretty inconsequential scene, but I like the reminder that Mike and Harvey used to be, like. Marvey.

Harvey swings by Mike’s place to make sure they’re still on good terms after Mike got his ass kicked at the deposition, but Mike drops the bomb that Jeremy had a televised interview that day and wore a t-shirt to said interview printed with the quote: “I don’t care how many people kill themselves, we abide by the law,” attributed to Haskins. Harvey angrily charges that “Dammit, Mike, that deposition was under seal,” and Mike retorts, “So sue me.”

Excuse me, gentlemen, I just want to point something out here:

“Anything that could get us disbarred or put in prison is off limits.”

You know what two of the several qualifiers for disbarment are in New York State? Crimes and misdemeanors featuring interference with the administration of justice, and misappropriation.

Mike, that was your fucking ground rule.

Mike then argues that if Harvey does sue him, “it won’t be a countersuit anymore” (it’s not a countersuit now), “which means there will be a jury” (he can still demand a jury trial). Harvey threatens to have him sanctioned, and Mike says that’s fine since the video is already going viral; Brick Street’s best option is to give in to Jeremy’s demands and let him out of his contract with full pay so, wait for it, he can start his own competing and much more ethical apparel company, using the contract salary as seed money and the suit as free publicity.

This is bullshit. This is total bullshit.

Forget the part where it’s legal nonsense, let’s just focus on what an underhanded move this was for Mike. Harvey, for some ungodly reason, seems proud of him for pulling this off, guessing that Mike “helped [Jeremy] plan this thing from the beginning”; Mike says it was easy to pull off, since he knew Harvey would try to play the man, “but the thing is, the version of [Mike who Harvey] thought [he] was playing, he doesn’t exist anymore. The new Mike cares more about results than he does about playing the violin.”

Great. That’s great. But what the fuck does Korsh think he’s doing? Why send Mike off to Seattle to take on class action suits against Fortune 500s, why highly publicize Mike’s return, why bring him back at all to turn him into some unrecognizable version of himself who’s not even doing the work he supposedly left New York, the firm, and Harvey to follow his heart for in the first place? If anything, this episode is a tragedy, a stab directly into Harvey’s already fragile heart; Mike, his protégé, his best friend, his comrade in arms, abandoned him to fight for the greater good and has made a triumphant return to once again do battle, to show how much he’s learned from Harvey, how much he’s grown since they parted ways, but instead of playing on an even field, or joining forces to accomplish something actually meaningful, Mike uses the fact that Harvey’s usual tactics of skirting the law are hampered by Faye’s oversight in order to give himself a huge (and illegal) advantage which he started this case by promising not to use.

So I guess that when it comes right down to it, all Mike has really learned by setting out on his own is how to walk past the bodies he piles up in his wake. The ends justify the means, and that’s all there is to that.

God dammit.

Oh, but we’re not even out of the woods yet, because after some cute but logically unsound banter (“Are you actually taking credit for my win when you lost? Let’s be very clear about something here, Harvey, right now you are the governor of Loserville, and I am the mayor of Winnertown.” “You know mayor’s below governor, right?” “Not in Winnertown, he isn’t.”) Harvey invites Mike for drinks, which after this catastrophe of an episode would’ve been a nice Moment for the two of them, except that he goes on to invite Donna along for absolutely no reason whatsoever except to keep repainting every hint of Marvey that this show has ever had with a big old brush of Darvey.

Before drinks happen, though, Katrina stops by to inform Donna that she’s taken her advice to focus more on herself, signing up for a ballet class to follow up on an interest she had when she was younger and piggybacking on Alex’s interest in tap by showcasing Amanda Schull’s history as a professional ballet dancer. And one more thing: Brian called her back and left a message, but she “deleted it without even listening,” which Donna cites as “amazing,” for…some reason. Seems kind of rude to me, but alright, sure, whatever. Donna then invites her over for drinks with Mike and Harvey (not that this was supposed to be an intimate personal affair or anything), which she refuses because “Tonight’s the first night of class,” so, good for her.

Samantha, unsurprisingly, has become aware of Mike’s little stunt with Jeremy’s interview attire and declares to Harvey that she’s not going to let him get away with it. Harvey bleakly submits that “he beat us fair and square” (no, he didn’t) but Samantha says that’s bullshit, that he planned this in advance and it’s a clear violation of Jeremy’s contract. (Is it? I wouldn’t know, the specific contract details have been kept very under-the-table. Plausible deniability, I suppose.) Harvey doesn’t want to fight this because “knowing Mike, [they’ll] never prove it”; Samantha accuses him of being proud of Mike (why), and Harvey asks so what if he is (why), and Samantha says that if they can’t find proof, she’ll make it. Shockingly, Harvey orders her not to do that (what, because it’s illegal? Or because it reminds him too much of Cameron Dennis?), and she storms out.

Remember when Louis asked Benjamin for help with the whole donation thing? Benjamin’s finally getting his just reward for all the shit he pulls for these people as Louis promotes him to Vice President (the benefits of such a thing being utterly unclear, but I suppose it’s the thought that counts) and gives him a thirty percent raise. So, uh. That’s nice.

Now about those drinks. At Harvey’s place, Donna prepares a cheese plate, and Harvey tries to greet Mike with a somewhat excessively enthusiastic “Hey! You want some cheese?” Mike, however, is not interested in any cheese, because it seems Samantha went ahead and fabricated that evidence after all; Mike accuses Harvey of bribing Charles Hu to say Mike contacted him eighteen months ago with the scheme to get Jeremy out of his contract, which he can’t dispute because “[he’s] on the record saying the guy’s a saint.” (What record, what is he talking about?) Harvey says he had nothing to do with it, Mike calls bullshit, and Donna steps in to say, in a slightly creepy tone of voice, that “It’s not bullshit, Mike. He’s telling the truth.” For some stupid fucking reason, Mike didn’t believe Harvey but he does believe Donna, so he determines it must have been Samantha who lied about him, and asks Harvey what he intends to do about it. Harvey says there’s nothing he can do about it, and when Mike points out that he can say she fabricated evidence, Harvey pulls his loyalty card at the worst possible time:

“Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what would happen to her?” “I don’t care! She is cheating my client out of a company that could change people’s lives!” “And I’m not gonna sell her out! Just like I’d do for you if you were still here.” “I don’t believe this. You’re pissed that I left!” ��No, Mike, I’m glad that you left, and you could have come back to visit any fucking time, but you came back to pick a fight with me that you rigged six months ago.” “Oh, so it’s not that I left. It’s just that I beat you.”

Oh boy.

First of all, we get out of the way the hint that Mike really was taking this case on to make a difference in the world, but I dunno, man, feels to me like this is too little, too late.

Then, finally, after a full season and a half of no resolution, we finally get Harvey’s admission that he’s upset Mike left. Yeah, no shit; their goodbye, as I’ve lamented to the point of tear-inducing monotony, was terrible and inconclusive, and Harvey’s behavior afterwards has not been that of a man who’s at peace with the change in his life (s08e01-04, 13). And finally, he acknowledges out loud that he’s angry (yes, angry) that Mike hasn’t come back to visit, and now that he has, it’s just to pick a fight with Harvey that he secretly rigged far in advance. That doesn’t seem to me like a fight Mike should be particularly proud to tout as a win; the odds were artificially weighted in his favor, and he went out of his way to tip them even further by making them both promise not to do anything illegal and then breaking that promise himself when he knew Harvey would be in no position to follow suit.

That is a dick move.

But we’re not done yet:

“No, you almost did. I was gonna let you get away with it, but she didn’t. And I might want to kill her, but I’m not gonna betray her.” “I don’t care about her! I care about you. You gave me your word, and the Harvey I know wouldn’t break his word and screw over a bunch of innocent people in the process. You lost yourself, Harvey. And you know it.”

Fuck.

Not only should Mike not be proud of this win he achieved illegally, but it was only his to take because Harvey made the conscious decision not to turn him in for those illegal activities.

You know what’s the real gut punch here?

“I care about you.”

You sure about that, Mike? Because you could stand to fucking act like it.

He goes on to as much as admit that Samantha’s involvement—not her fabrication of evidence, just the fact that she was there, was the thing that ruined this for him, because “the Harvey [he knows]” would have acted predictably, and he would have been able to manipulate him. “I always have time for an old friend”? He always has time to use an old friend for his own advantage, maybe. I agree that Harvey hasn’t been acting like himself of late, but my rationale for that has always been that Mike’s rapid departure broke him and he’s been unable to recover, and if this is what Mike’s return means, well, maybe Harvey’s better off.

(Harvey would be better off leaving the firm and going into intensive therapy, but I’m trying to keep my goals achievable for the time being.)

Harvey then returns to the firm to confront Samantha and yell at her for lying to him, and she says she didn’t lie, she just changed her mind, so that’s mature. She asks if he’s really mad at her crossing a line or because she beat “[his] little adopted son” (did you catch that? "Adopted son," i.e., "definitely not a love interest thank you very much"), and Harvey tells her that he defended her to Mike, but that’s over now because he doesn’t trust her anymore, and I guess he’s taking his ball and going home and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Spoiler alert, Faye happened to observe this whole exchange, and now has some mulling to do.

This whole episode has been one giant offense to the memory of Mike and Harvey’s relationship, but this part might just take the cake: Louis arrives at Mike’s apartment while Mike is packing to go to the airport, because Donna sent him, and she would’ve come herself but “she’s with Harvey now” and “she didn’t want [Mike] to hold it against her.” Mike says he’s not holding anything against her, and Louis asks him not to hold anything against Harvey, either. Bringing up the story he told Mike back in “Blood in the Water” (s02e12) about himself and Harvey being Ralph Wolf and Sam Sheepdog, he says that he and Harvey “were rivals at work. But no matter how much [they] fought, at the end of the day, [they] didn’t let it get in the way of [their] friendship.” Kindly permitting Mike to be furious at Harvey for defending Samantha’s actions, Louis asks that he nevertheless not let this be the end of him and Harvey. Rather than comment on the request, or their relationship, Mike says that he has a plane to catch.

As Louis bids his farewell, Mike calls him back to give him the last of the “You Just Got Spitt Up” onesies that he had made up in Season 8, which Rachel apparently took to save for him. Louis tells Mike to thank Rachel for him, he agrees to do so, and Mike and Louis, of all people, get the heavily emotional hug I was hoping Mike and Harvey would get when I saw that bullshit reunion in the teaser.

Then Faye goes into Samantha’s office and finagles her into tacitly admitting that she’s the one who fabricated the evidence, not Harvey, and Faye fires her, so at least some good came out of all this.

Part IV

#suits usa #s09e05 #season 9 #marvey #analysis

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shreddedparchment · 6 years

Text

The End of the World Pt.12

Thor Is Gone and Variant X

Pairing: Thor x Reader

Word Count: 2,453

Warnings: No Thor! *GASP*

Masterpost

A/N: Because of the direction that this story is moving, there will be a few chapters without Thor. Hopefully no more than two or three. You know when authors talk about how a story kinda becomes its own thing and characters do things that you weren’t expecting them to do? Well this is one of those times. All I can say is I hope you all stick with me through it all. I love y’all! xoxo Thanks for reading!

It seems almost impossible to have known Bruce for almost two months now and never have seen him this excited. He was always so calm. He had his epiphany moments often but never like this.

“Okay, you sit here, Y/N and Cap you just stand to the side.”

Bruce takes you by the shoulders and steers you towards a single stool. It's tall so you climb up, using the back as leverage to get your leg up.

“You good?” Bruce asks you, his hands held out towards you as he removes them from your shoulders.

“Yeah. Bruce, when I said I’d do anything, I didn’t really mean anything.” Bring out the Hulk?!

“Good?” He asks again, ignoring you and lowering one hand to point at you.

“Yes.” You assure him feeling slightly annoyed but also curious. You are very hungry and eating pizza with Steve had been something you were looking forward to.

You look for him and find him standing to your left about ten feet away and slightly behind you by the edge of Bruce's work station. He smiles at you, arms crossed over his hard chest.

As you look back at Bruce you notice that he’s standing where the donut table had been. Where was it now?

He rolls up his sleeves to the elbow then clicks a button on a remote and the lights suddenly dim. The large windows that line the top border of the outer lab wall suddenly grow dark as blackout technology obscures the light. He clicks another button and the large monitor you'd noticed when you first saw the lab lowers from overhead and then bursts to life.

For a moment there is nothing but white light and then suddenly the room is bathed in soft blue as the screen is filled with the moving image of a blue, thick, but opaque liquid.

“What do you see?” Bruce asks, his right arm extends towards the screen as he keeps his eyes on you and probably Steve.

You examine the image, seeing the small bubbles and perfect composition of the liquid.

“It's Super Soldier serum.” Steve states. His voice is hard, all business. So much different from the soft tone he’s been using with you. It makes you look at him.

“Right.” Bruce agrees. He points at Steve and adjusts his glasses. “This is the same serum that was used on you, Cap, or a very well imitated one. All the original serum was lost, right?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, moving a few steps closer so that when he speaks again, he's almost standing beside you. “Did you try to imitate that formula?”

Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t mess with that stuff anymore." He looks to Steve with a grimace. “This is only a simulation based off of old catalogued descriptions.”

He clicks the small black clicker in his hand and the image changes. This one is a video. It moves, never ending, perhaps on a loop. The screen is suddenly filled with a slightly lighter colored liquid, slightly too thick to be opaque, but still blue. In the liquid are tiny veins that flow in complicated patterns, orange in color. A shining, bright orange.

“Alright, so what is this one?” Bruce stares at the video, watching it with fascination on his face and sounding very much like the teacher you used to be.

“That one is mine.” You say, eyes narrowed as you stare at the serum that had put a rift between you and Thor.

“That's what you injected yourself with?” Steve uncrosses his right arm to point at the video while his eyes find you for confirmation.

“Yeah?” You’re confused by his surprise and don’t understand it.

He stares at you, his brow furrowed in a worried focus, for only a few seconds then he turns his eyes back onto the video.

“What are those orange lines?” Steve asks. You want to know more about your serum but you would also rather not think about it.

“They're proof of tampering. Someone messed with this serum, mixing it with something else. Some other serum or chemical. I don't know.”

“So it’s been altered.” Steve agrees.

“Alright, so, now what?” You wonder as irritably you shift on your perch.

Bruce clicks the button again and the lights come back on, the windows clear, and the screen retracts back into the ceiling.

“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of why Thor would suddenly go off on you.”

Steve looks at you and you frown at Bruce. This conversation was headed in a direction you did not want to go. Steve senses your distress and tries to steer the conversation.

“Do we know what the serum is called? The one Y/N used?”

Bruce is successfully distracted. He moves to a pile of papers on his desk and rifles through them as you turn a grateful gaze on Steve. He gives you a soft, knowing smile and is close enough that he reaches out and places his right hand on your left shoulder to comfort you. To give you strength.

“Uh, the vials are all labeled with the name Variant X. I’ve been calling it Serum VX. What I can surmise from that is that whoever made Serum VX tried a whole bunch of times before they came upon this one. Assuming that they chose to go down the alphabet to name their experiments.”

“Bruce, I’m sorry, but I’m starving.” You admit and turn away from Steve to look at Bruce. “What exactly does Serum VX do?”

“Well, if I make the explanation as short as possible, it takes latent abilities and enhances them. Or activates them.” He waves his hand as if saying ‘either or’.

“Are you saying that Y/N is not only a Super Soldier now but also an enhanced?”

“Well, yeah. And I think I've got a pretty good idea as to what your enhancement might be.”

You watch as Bruce removes his glasses then hurries to put them aside before running back to the center spot in the room. His face is alight, his hands excited, but there is also the faintest amount of fear in his eyes. He suddenly looks at Steve and nods.

“Protect her, Cap, I don't know what he'll do. He’s still not-I still can’t get him to work with me. He only wanted to see Thor and won't come out again no matter how much I try.”

Steve doesn’t hesitate as he moves around to stand before you. He leaves a few feet between the two of you and your eyes explore his wide shoulders. It makes you feel safe.

You lean to the right to peek at Bruce who sighs and then finds your face. “Okay. Y/N, tell me to change into the Hulk.”

“What? Why?”

“Just tell me, please. I want to show you.”

“Can't we do something smaller like, tell you to jump or something?” You ask slightly desperate. You can’t help but be a little afraid at the prospect of facing the Hulk again.

“I need it to be something that I can't fake. That no one can fake.” Bruce explains. When he speaks again, his voice is more mellow. “Y/N, trust me. You'll be safe. Steve is just a precaution.”

“Are you sure about this Bruce?” Steve turns to give you a glance and seems to get taller as he glues himself to the space in front of you protectively.

“Positive.”

“Just, do what he says, Y/N.” Steve says only loud enough for you to hear.

“Fine, Bruce, change into the Hulk.” You say, offhand, just throwing the words out not caring if they work.

Steve tenses up in front of you, but nothing happens.

“Y/N, you have to mean it. You need to want it. Make me change.” Bruce explains.

You’re not sure how you’re supposed to want to make him change when you really don’t want him to.

“Bruce, change into the Hulk.” You say with slightly more authority.

Nothing.

“This isn’t working.” You gripe. “I’m hungry.”

Steve suddenly turns and closes the space between you. He places his hands on your shoulders giving them a gentle squeeze.

His sudden closeness surprises you and you stare up at him in stunned silence.

“You remember when we were up on the roof and you were so annoyed with me you told me to jump, and I did?”

Your mind races as it tries to repaint the picture in your head, the moment you yelled at him in frustration. “Yes.”

“Channel that. Don't try and convince yourself to mean it, just say it so that we believe you do.” His expression is resolute, stern, and his chin is set and clenched as he waits for your response.

“Wait, is that why you jumped?” You realize.

“I think so.”

As you look up into his eyes, blue like the distant storm clouds of an approaching storm—you think of Thor and the sharp pain in your chest makes you sigh—you see kindness and faith?

“You can do this.” He says.

You nod and Steve returns to his spot. You look over his shoulder at Bruce. You take a moment to gather all of your focus and channel the annoyance and frustration you’re feeling in the moment into your words as you speak again. “Bruce…change into the Hulk.”

Your words are even, your voice stern, and though your fear is great, there's no trace of it in them.

Bruce, whose eyes were glued to yours, is rigid. His hands suddenly clench into fists as his body explodes. He falls back, half falling half throwing himself as parts of him grow large and green. He seems to flicker between himself and the hulk as he shouts and groans, filling the room up with his voice.

Your eyes are wide as you watch Bruce struggle between forms. You slowly slide yourself off of your stool until your feet are on the ground. Your fear guides you forward and you take hold of Steve's shirt at the curve of his back where it meets his hips. He steals a quick glance at you then turns his tactical gaze back on Bruce who finally, with one final shout and two furious pounding fists on the floor which crack the concrete—“That's what it was. I forgot to Hulkproof the lab." Tony says from somewhere behind you.—he becomes the Hulk.

For a very tense moment the room is absolutely still. Hulk's hulking body rises and falls slowly with his massive breaths. He lifts his head and looks around then slowly turns to look the room over.

His eyes find you and there’s the clear illumination of recognition in them. He takes a step in your direction, his face converted into a frightening, teeth baring, grimace.

“Hulk want Thor!” What was it with him and Thor.

He looks over you at whoever is back behind you.

“Tony friend?”

“Hey buddy, yeah. Of course I’m your friend.” Tony still sounds far enough away that he must be by the outer wall, way behind Bruce’s workspace. “How've you been? Not gonna lie, Hulk, we could a used you against Thanos.”

Hearing Thanos's name does something to Hulk. He turns his shoulders away, shouts angrily, and then looks back at you.

“Where Thor?!”

“I don’t know.” You reply quickly, eager to appease him.

He growls.

“I’m sorry.” You realize that Thor is gone because of you. Thinking back on your fight, you remember you told him not to come back until he was ready to really commit to the two of you. Again, your mind races. What if he never comes back? Your hand tightens around Steve's shirt.

“Why?” Hulk paces, shoving objects out of his way as he does. “Why girl sorry?”

“Because…” You sigh, realizing that maybe you lost the reason you took the serum for. What was the point of it all without Thor? “I told him to leave. He left because of me.”

You can hear the despair in your own voice. Steve’s hand is suddenly around yours, the one holding onto your shirt, giving you comfort but in the same second Hulk erupts into a deafening bellow of rage.

You hear his heavy feet falling on the floor as he races towards you. Steve uses the same hand he reached back with to push you, hard. You go crashing over the stool and fall onto the trembling floor.

You look up, pushing yourself up onto your elbows in time to see Steve race forward to meet Hulk but Hulk merely swats him away with his right hand. Steve goes flying through the wall leaving a large hole—"Damn it.” Tony grumbles. where he hit and fell through to the next room.

You rise to your feet quickly and realize that you’re standing right in front of Bruce's workspace. Behind you is the beep,beep,beep, of Thor's scanner. Your heart drops as you realize that Hulk will probably destroy it.

No! That can’t happen. If There doesn't find his people this time he'll need the scanner to keep looking. Desperation fills you as your fear of the Hulk falls away for fear of failing Thor. You have to save his scanner.

You turn to watch as Hulk closes the distance between you and without any forethought you scream, as loud as you can, “STOP!”

Hulk freezes. He skids to a stop, looking confused for a second but then stands with his enormous hands balled into fists. He continues to glare at you. Blaming you.

“I said I was sorry.” You hear him growl at you but shake your head. If this is how it really works then maybe you can learn to control it. You’ll have to learn to control it. “Hulk, change back into Bruce Banner.”

Hulk growls angrily but slowly begins to shrink, restoring the pretty light olive skin tone Bruce has. He stumbles as he falls onto his hands and knees and you turn away as you begin to notice the clothes issue.

As you turn towards the door you notice Tony at the far wall, sitting in a stool of his own as he casually munches on a bag of grapes. “Good going.”

You glare at him. The door to the lab suddenly opens and in runs Steve at full speed. He slows as he notices Bruce and walk the rest of the way to you before he looks down at you. “Looks like you didn’t need my protection after all.”

“Can we go get some pizza now?” You ask desperately.

“I second that.” From behind you.

Steve looks at Bruce then turns those storm blue eyes back on you and smiles.

“Pizza it is.”

@bionic-buckyb, @mdgrdians, @ulired, @biawol, @markusstraya, @queenof-wakanda

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liskantope · 6 years

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (AU version) -- Chapter 1: McGonagall and the Muggles

This is the first chapter of a Harry Potter fanfic I wrote in college, back in spring and early summer of 2007. It contains 8 chapters and an epilogue which I finished just prior to the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, which was 11 years ago today. I believe I rewrote chapter 8 in the weeks afterwards (and maybe changed the epilogue accordingly?) in response to a (valid) criticism that its dramatic tone didn’t fit with the rest of the chapters, but I tried not to let that rewrite be influenced by my knowledge of what happened in book 7.

I call this Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows (AU version). I don’t mean “AU version” in the sense that this is an AU fic but in the sense that this is the final book in the Harry Potter series that could have come out in an alternate universe where Rowling for some reason abruptly stopped taking her work seriously.

My idea was that in the months preceding the release of book 7, I wanted to write a sort of silly parody version of what could follow from the first six books (I was inspired by such a fanfic that had come out preceding book 6, don’t know where to find this now), one which technically satisfied every bit of information we knew about the upcoming book 7 and which sort of lampooned a lot of the hype over the mysteries that would presumably be resolved in book 7. I was deliberately trying to imitate the narration style of the actual Harry Potter books (turns out I’m pretty decent at imitating other people’s styles, just not as good as I’d like to be at cultivating my own style of fiction prose.) To the best of my memory of pre-July-21st-2007, here were some things on many HP fans’ minds:

The title would be Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, but what the heck could “deathly hollows” be?!

There would be an epilogue, and the very last word of it (hence of the whole Harry Potter series) would be “scar”. (This turned out not to quite be the case, but I can’t remember if we found out that she had changed this prior to the book actually coming out.)

There was “more to Aunt Petunia than meets the eye” (or JKR said something to that effect in some interview), and we would be finding out what it was.

Of course the biggest question on everyone’s mind was on the true nature of Snape. I remember signs and posters going around that blared, “SEVERUS SNAPE: GOOD OR EVIL?”

Fan theories were rampant that Dumbledore wasn’t really dead at the end of book 6; some of them were pretty wild and didn’t die even after JKR said “Dumbledore is definitely dead.”

We were finally going to be introduced properly to Aberforth Dumbledore.

We were all pretty sure that the initials RAB on the fake locket referred to Sirius’ brother Regulus Black, but who knew, JKR might surprise us.

Many relentless Harry-Hermione shippers were still holding out hopes for the Harry/Ginny and Hermione/Ron pairings that seemed pretty established by the end of book 6 to not work out, still trying to argue that JKR herself dropped hints that Harry and Hermione actually belonged together.

So without further ado, here’s chapter 1 (I’ll post the rest of the chapters one by one over the next few hours).

The menacing form of Lord Voldemort was standing over the thin, bespectacled boy, aiming a long, threatening wand at him. Harry Potter, whose muscles were aching fit to burst, once again pointed his own wand at Voldemort and shouted the only spell he could think of.

“Expelliarmus!”

Voldemort’s wand went flying out of his long, thin hand. Voldemort himself, however, didn’t flinch. He merely reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out another identical wand.

“Bet you didn’t realize how many tail feathers that phoenix gave away, did you?” sneered Voldemort in his high, icy voice. “You shouldn’t have believed what Ollivander said about there being only two, you silly, naïve child.”

Harry, much as his arm muscles were screaming in pain, raised his wand again and shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Once again – it seemed like for the hundredth time – Voldemort’s wand went flying. And once again, Voldemort calmly pulled a new one out of his pocket.

Harry feebly raised his own wand and croaked, “Expelliarmus!”

A second later, Voldemort’s latest wand was long gone, and Voldemort grabbed his next wand out of his pocket. “You cannot defeat me, Potter!” he shrieked gleefully. “There is not even any need for the Avada Kedavra curse! I have exactly twelve thousand five hundred and nine wands with me here, and long before I get to the last one, you will have died a slow, agonizing death of pure boredom, and I will be able to rule the world!”

Harry raised his wand, struggling to draw the breath to disarm Voldemort again, and woke up screaming. “AAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!”

He tried to calm down, take deep breaths, and let his eyes adjust to the dark. It was just one of the usual nightmares. A few seconds later, his eyes focused on his Uncle Vernon’s nose, which was inches from his own.

“What the ruddy hell are you screaming about?!” whispered Uncle Vernon. Harry could actually feel his bushy moustache bristling with rage. “This had better be something good! You woke me up from my favorite golfing dream again!”

“Just another nightmare,” Harry muttered. “Get out of my personal space, will you?”

“Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” growled Uncle Vernon. “I’m not the one who keeps waking up at night shouting for no reason.”

“I’ve got a lot of pent-up stress at the moment,” Harry said exasperatedly. He knew it was unlikely to do any good, but it seemed that he might as well try once again to reason with his uncle. “You see, I know that one of these days, maybe very soon, I’ll have to meet up with Voldemort again. And seeing as neither of us can live while the other survives, there seems to be a good chance that I’ll die. After all, normally there are four possibilities: that we both live, that he lives and I die, that I die and he lives, or that we both die. As I’ve explained to you before, the possibility that we both live is eliminated. So only one out of the three remaining possibilities involves – “

“DON’T YOU GET SMART WITH ME, BOY!” Uncle Vernon shouted. “You spend all your time sitting around feeling so damn sorry for yourself! Last summer it was that axe-murderer godfather of yours that you were moping over, and this year it’s one of your paranoid ideas about some guy you think is going to kill you! Doesn’t it occur to you that I might be under pressure as well? Last night I dreamt that I didn’t get the pay rise I wanted, and did I wake up the entire household because of it? One more nighttime scream out of you, boy, and you’ll be scrubbing the bathrooms twice a day for the rest of the summer! And I’ll know that you won’t use that… that thing of yours to help you, because you keep getting expelled every time you do use it!”

“I guess my only hope for cleaning the bathrooms will be that you don’t overeat at that drill thingy anniversary buffet again,” said Harry coolly.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon silkily, although the veins in his forehead looked ready to burst more violently than a mimbulus mimbultonia. “I’m locking you up again!” He was getting more excited now, breathing more heavily, and talking more and more rapidly. “I’m hiring someone to watch your window this time so that no Weasley loonies can come up with some freakish flying car! And I’m taking your… thing! So that even if you do decide to use you-know-what again and risk getting in trouble with your people’s wretched, incompetent government, at least I won’t have to deal with a peck, I mean a pack of owls nearly flying straight into my eyeballs!” He took a tissue out of his pocket and, holding it in his right hand, gingerly picked up Harry’s wand from his nightstand. Harry saw no way to resist.

Aunt Petunia came in. “What’s going on here?” she snapped.

“Oh, I’m just trying to teach the boy a lesson about getting clever with me,” said Uncle Vernon smugly. “Aren’t you impressed by my assertiveness, Petunia?”

“Actually, I’m not sure that punishing the boy is such a good idea, Vernon,” said Aunt Petunia, her thin, horsy face looking nervous. “Remember those people who threatened us when we picked Harry up last summer? If they come marching into the house, I’ll die of shame, especially if we haven’t had a chance to repaint the porch yet.”

“I’ll hire a guard to watch over the front door, too!” said Uncle Vernon. “I don’t care what it takes! Nobody makes fun of Vernon Dursley!” And with that, he walked out of the room with Harry’s wand, locked Harry in, and proceeded to barricade his room so that there was no way he could get out.

Harry could see no way out of his imprisonment this time without getting in trouble once again with the Ministry of Magic. He knew that members of the Order of the Phoenix would try to come for him sooner or later, but he had no way of knowing when, or how. He didn’t even have his owl Hedwig, as she was out hunting and now could not get back in. He lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, alternating between fantasies of wringing the necks of his aunt and uncle, then of Severus Snape, then of Dolores Umbridge, and occasionally of Voldemort.

Then, halfway through the second day of this confinement, Harry had an idea. There was a way of getting himself out of this situation without resorting to magic or even using a wand. He sat up in bed and whispered, “Kreacher? Dobby?”

There were two simultaneous cracks.

“Harry Potter, sir!” squeaked Dobby, his eyes staring up at Harry in admiration.

“Harry Potter, sir!” croaked Kreacher, his eyes staring up at Harry in revultion.

“I have a job for the two of you,” said Harry.

“Dobby will be glad to do anything for Harry Potter!” cried Dobby enthusiastically.

“Kreacher will also do anything for Harry Potter,” said Kreacher, not so enthusiastically, “but Kreacher really does not know what the world is coming to. Everywhere he goes is still full of mudbloods and half-breeds and other random pieces of filth. What is the point in living any longer?”

“If I don’t get out of here soon and get to work, there really won’t be any point in living any longer,” said Harry briskly, “so I want you two to help me get out of here. I want you to inform the Order of where I am and how impatient I am to destroy the Horcruxes and rid the world of the darkest wizard who ever existed. Well, don’t say anything about Horcruxes. And don’t make too big of a point of how impatient I am, or they won’t trust me. And don’t mention defeating the darkest wizard who ever existed, or they’ll think I’m full of myself. Just tell them that I really need to get out, because I’m slowly starving to death!”

“Right you are, Harry Potter sir!” squeaked Dobby, and he vanished with a loud crack.

Kreacher was not so prompt at disappearing. “Hmm, to whom from the Order shall Kreacher speak first, he wonders… perhaps Severus?”

“Don’t you dare even think about it!” shouted Harry, suddenly angry. “You know perfectly well that Snape isn’t part of the Order anymore, you numbskull! From now on, I forbid you to mention his name without putting a four-letter word in the same sentence! Now clear off!”

“Most unfortunately, Kreacher must do as he is told,” muttered the filthy house-elf, and with another loud crack, he disappeared.

Harry sat fuming. Any mention of Snape nowadays was likely to make his blood pressure rise, even more violently than it had ever done before. He decided to mentally play through his favorite fantasy of cursing Snape so that his greasy, hooked nose swelled exponentially. He was just getting to the part where his entire body was weighed down by the nose, which was scraping along a hot sidewalk baking in the July sun, when his thoughts were interrupted by Minerva McGonogall abruptly appearing in the room.

“Hello, Professor,” he said, grateful to finally see a wizard or witch again.

“Good afternoon, Potter,” said Professor McGonogall curtly, as she peered around the disorganized mess in the room through her square spectacles. “Don’t you ever clean up in here?”

“Could you skip the lecture please, Professor?” said Harry politely.

“Oh, very well,” sighed McGonogall. “Let’s see what I can do about getting you out of here.” She raised her wand and pointed it at the door. It swung open so quickly and easily that it looked like it might fly off its hinges. There was a stifled cry of pain from behind it, and Dudley’s porky face came into view. Dudley rubbed a rapidly swelling bruise on his head and let out a swear word.

“You go and wash your mouth out with soap, young Dursley,” said Professor McGonogall sternly. Dudley took one look at her and ran downstairs, shouting for his parents. A minute later, he came shuffling back upstairs with Aunt Petunia half-carrying him and Uncle Vernon bringing up the rear.

“What did she do to you, Diddy?” crooned Aunt Petunia. “Poor diddy Duddikins! Poor duddy Diddikins! Poor little dinky doddle Dookidins!”

“Have you hurt my son?” roared Uncle Vernon. “I’ll tear you limb from limb! I warn you, I’ve been trained in wrestling, and my son here is a Junior Inter-School Boxing Champion! You don’t want to go around messing with us!”

“I have no time for any funny business, Mr. Dursley,” said McGonogall coldly, over Dudley’s soft sobs as he leaned his head on his mother’s bosom. “The evil wizard He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is at large, wreaking havoc upon both our world and the Muggle world. His especial target is Mr. Potter here, but not even such uber-Muggles as yourselves are safe in these dark times.”

Dudley wailed even more loudly. “I don’t want some evil you-know-what to attack us! I d-don’t want to d-d-die! I h-haven’t even g-gotten to try out my new Nintendo game y-y-yet!”

“Don’t worry, my darling diddle Dudderfus!” cried Aunt Petunia tearfully. “Mummy won’t let him destroy you!”

“I’m not really supposed to use magic on you,” said McGonogall, who was clearly becoming more and more impatient, “and I’m not as good at side-along Apparition as Dumbledore was, and Harry can’t legally Apparate by himself yet. So it would be most considerate of you to cooperate. Kindly step aside and allow myself and Mr. Potter to pass.”

Aunt Petunia and Dudley stepped aside, but Uncle Vernon stood his ground. “I will not let that boy get away so easily!” he barked. “I’m afraid it is time that he paid the consequences for his actions!”

Just then, there was a crack like a whip, and an anxious-looking Mrs. Weasley Apparated into the room, wearing an apron. “What’s keeping you two?” she said. “Supper is getting stone cold, you know.”

“Sorry, Molly,” sighed McGonogall, looking over at her. “It’s just that these Muggles are having trouble with the concept of common courtesy. They’re just as Albus described them. I bet they wouldn’t invite me in or offer me refreshments if I surprised them at eleven in the evening, either.”

“What a sloppy room,” remarked Mrs. Weasley.

“Will you all give it a rest about the room!” cried Harry in exasperation as he started to pack.

“Come on, Vernon,” wheedled Aunt Petunia to Uncle Vernon, who was still standing in the way of McGonogall and Harry, swelled up indignantly. “Wouldn’t it be better to let him go? After all, we’ll never have to see him again. He turns seventeen in a week or two, remember? And think on the bright side. At least these people haven’t wrecked our fireplace or blown up any members of our family this time.”

Harry could see the usual inner conflict within Uncle Vernon, who was clearly fighting between the desire to oppose whatever Harry wanted and the desire to be rid of him forever at last. Finally, Uncle Vernon began to say, in a rather choked voice, “True, they haven’t even so much as exploded a pudding.” Just as he said it, however, there was a huge crunching sound, and the window shattered.

“Uh-oh,” said Harry to himself, although he couldn’t help grinning at the same time.

“What’s takin’ yeh so long?” grunted the voice of Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant Hogwarts gamekeeper from outside the window. “Come on, let me carry yeh outta here!”

Uncle Vernon muttered, “Mimblewimble!” and ran out of the room. Aunt Petunia and Dudley followed suit. McGonogall and Mrs. Weasley both glared at Hagrid, looked at each other with raised eyebrows, and Disapparated. Harry jumped out of the window and didn’t fall far before landing in Hagrid’s arms. A second later, Harry’s wand went flying out the window, thrown out, no doubt, in disgust by Uncle Vernon, and Harry caught it.

“There, take your thing!” came Uncle Vernon’s voice from out of the broken window. “And don’t ever show your disorderly-looking head at our doorstep again!”

“I’ll miss you too, Uncle Vernon,” said Harry gleefully, waving up at him.

Hagrid started walking briskly down Privet Drive, trampling a few squirrels in the process.

“How’ve yeh bin, Harry?” said Hagrid. “Seriously, yeh should talk to Grawp, yeh wouldn’ believe how smart he’s gettin’ nowadays. He’s studyin’ second-year calculus now, although he still has a little trouble remembering the dif’rence between sines and cosines.”

“Thanks for everything, Hagrid,” said Harry gratefully as Hagrid bore him across the street to where a grouchy-looking Auror stood waiting to escort him back to the Burrow at last.

#Harry Potter #harry potter and the deathly hollows #harry potter and the deathly hollows (my fanfic version)#not sure what to tag for in content #blast from the past #Might delete this

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hazbinextgeneration · 3 years

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Down The Rabbithole Ch4

It was....good to have someone around to talk to again wouldn't you agree? Someone who didn't expect a lot out of her, someone who she could laugh with, sing silly songs with, and ...be herself around again. Now don't get her wrong. It certainly didn't happen overnight now. She still was grasping at the sudden and huge concept that her old memories weren't just childish adventures of an imaginary friend and a whole bunch of the fairy tales and nursery rythmes she grew up with were actually real..or well WERE real, Chesire did mention that most of them were ancient history just repeated and long ago over, but I digress. She was expecting one of these days to just wake up and everything be gone and back to her normal life, but then she'd find breakfast made and waiting for her or finding Chesire all curled up beside her sleeping. He was kinda like a pet cat of her own that doubled as a best friend she could talk to and let reveal about her life. But some things were a little frustrating. One day she stacked books neatly on a shelf- Only to rush back into the room by the sounds of books falling down one by one and saw the site of Chesire looking wide eyed at the books and like a cat in those videos, was pawing the books off one by one. He seemed to snap out of it when she shouted at him to stop and apologized before snapping his powers and having them fly back into place. She told him he didn't have to use all this magic and cook for here but in his own words:

"You fed me. You gave me a home. You became my friend and showed me kindness when a lot of people wouldn't. I could have easily died. This is the very least I could do and it'll still be never enough in my opinion. Now hush and help me decide which scones looks better with this tea. I like macaroons. So sweet and delicious!"

He wasn't there sometimes and a few days he didn't show up, when asked he simply told her he had to spend some time in his world too, which she respected. He wasn't obligated to stay around if he didn't feel up to it and she certainly knew that she would be ok-ish without him. There was plenty of things to keep her busy, she still had the whole yard and fence to recover, and a job to find, didn't she? Which went about well as you think. Said fence was old and rusty and leaned in odd places, she had to REALLY put her back into it to push the awkward rusty poles into place, which left her pretty sore for the rest of the day. But the next day she stepped out to the smell of freshly cut grass and the sight of a tamed lawn and new white painted fence had taken it's place. When questioned he admitted to it, but only because she looked really hurt and tired trying to do it herself. It took a moment to explain to a confused talking cat that she REALLY DID appreciate his help but sometimes she WANTED to endorse the hard labor and he just tilted his head confused and blinked at her.

"I don't understand your human logistics. You could just as easily have me snap my fingers and everything you desire done will be finished in due time."

"It's not that! I mean it WOULD be nice to have everything fixed back up to the way it was, but humans, well most humans anyways, enjoy working for something. It makes us feel better getting it."....He cocked his head more and rose a brow obviously still confused and she face palmed, how does she explain this in a more simpler terms so a fairytale otherworldly cat would understand??...She looked back up at him dragging a hand down her face. "....OK! Lets go with one example. Uh...Um...Y-You know the story of Cinderella right?"

"Absolutely! Her glass slippers are still passed down in her family! Her great great niece looks so nice in them."

She rose a brow but shook her head and held up her hands. "Ok! Well you know how her fairy godmother granted her wish of going to the ball and meeting her future husband?" He nodded his head, of course he knew that. "Ok. Well you know why the fairy godmother did that right? It's because Cinderella worked hard everyday of her life and made an effort to be kind all the time, which with a step family like hers, it must've been hard. It's the same with most humans. Getting everything just handed to us on a silver platter without having to work for it just seems wrong, like there was no real effort to put into it to actually earn it. It's not about getting it done fast, it's just about that feeling of earning something." She pointed to herself. "I want to fix up the house and while I appreciate your attempts, and not in anyway discrediting you for what you've already done for me or for wanting to help, I want to be able to stand on my own two feet and show I can fix up the whole place."

He stood(Floated in the air-) and stared at her as she explained to him her feelings on the matter and hummed after a few seconds of it being done. "So....In order for humans to in their opinion earn something and be worthy of it they must work hard for it?"

She smiled and nodded. "Now you're getting it! After all an easy reward wouldn't be very good." She wracked her mind for another example. "Uh...Like let's say a princess has a whole bunch of suitors, and then she gets kidnapped by a dragon, and then a knight finds her, defeats the dragon, and worked very hard to rescue her. Wouldn't that make the knight more worthy to marry her than all the others?"

He looked at her thoughtfully, before nodding with a smile. ''Now that you mention it, it does seem you humans have more noble qualities than I thought.~"

She chuckled. "Now you get it. Besides wouldn't it get a bit annoying if everyone just asks you to use your magic to fix all their problems?"

He hummed, "I never thought of it like that before. Yes. I suppose it would get very annoying, I have other things to do with my magic than play life savior all the time."

"There you go! Now you're getting it! You can still help if you want to and I won't make you, but leave some stuff for me to do. Ok?"

He nodded and now that they had a better understanding she had less surprises. In fact she was made to make her own meals now, which she didn't mind cuz y'know independence in all, but now she could also show Chesire some of the recipes she picked up. He never even heard of a lemon marange pie until she made it for him and he puckered from the lemon flavor. Understandable. Not everyone enjoyed lemon, but things got a bit confusion when she tried to make pineapple upside down cake. She made it all the way and turned her back away from it for a second when she turned back and almost had a heart attack from Chesire using his magic to hold in place upside-down.

"What are you doing?!"

"Helping you with the recipe. I don't think you'll be able to make it stay upside down on your own will you?"

"T-That's not...Wait." She blinked. "Your Upside down cakes are ACTUALLY upside down?"

"Of course they are! It wouldn't make sense for it NOT to be. What's the point of having an upside-down cake if it's not made properly?"

"Huh. You'll have to show me your world sometime."

"Really?!" His tone radiated excitement as that idea was thrown at him and he giggled. "What a splendidly marvelous idea!! You could take my portal but...perhaps it would be better if not. There is dangers still left to be undangered."

"What do you mean?"

''Hopefully you'll never find out. Now let's cut this open! Im starving so to speak."

She let that one slide since no real harm was done. But he was still asking a few questions about her world that still didn't make much sense to her but it seemed he was used to different forms of things which was all but fine. The real things she was concerned with was the restoration of the garden and repainting the house. She didn't know if the roof was ok after all this time, but she guessed she was finally gonna find out wasn't she? She had been working on the back of the house for a few days now. As well as one could with old rusty garden tools and a small cat who found more fun in playing with the tossed weeds than helping her, but she didn't ask for his help and like before he was being more considerate in wanting to let her do her thing. She wasn't sure how many times she fell down on her behind trying to pull weeds out or tripped over another giant root in her granny's old flower bed. But all of that was put on hold when the first giant black storm clouds appeared and thunder gave out a warning of what was to come. Which came in the form of rain just a few seconds after. Chesire bristled and gave a startled meow as he jumped into her arms, and she ran like a bear chasing bees back into the safety of the house. Barging in just in time as the speed was starting to pick up the pace and rain down harder. Which left them now in this situation. Curled up on the couch, warm fuzzy blanket around her shoulder, and a purring magical cat curled up in her lap. And phone in hand. Her unlimited data plan was great for unlimited internet, though it was a little glitchy. One of the better things she did in her life. Might as well search for a job. I mean. She didn't have a car, and she couldn't just walk all the way to and from town everyday...And she already felt guilty for everything Chesire already done. If she found an online job then that meant she didn't have to walk all that way and could save up for a car and maybe get a job in the nearest town or something. After a while of surfing the web, a blue head popped back up and smiled at the strange blue screen.

"And what is this I wonder?"

"Hm?" She blinked and looked at him as he stared at the phone. "Oh. It's my phone. Im trying to find an online job but so far no luck. If my luck runs out I'll just try to open art commissions I guess."

....He blinked. "A...'phone'? What is that?"

"Oh, well it's a..Uh.." How do you explain to fairytale cat what a electronic phone is?....Maybe she should use another fairytale reference as an example? "Well...You know how magic mirrors or crystal balls show us stuff like other people and answer questions? L-Like the mirror in the Snow White story? You know how she would ask it every day 'Who's the fairest in the land?'''

"OH! So you have a small hand held magical mirror!"

She shrugged. "Sort of. It lets me talk to people, watch things, see fair away places, answer questions-"

"So it's more of a fortune teller's ball?" He nodded with a thoughtful look. "I understand now. I know of a great fortune teller where I am from! The descendent of the oh so wise Mr. Caterpillar!"

"That's one way of putting it."

That was probably the best she was ever going to get to explaining what a phone was to him- A flash of lightning flashed outside lit up the entire room along with a roar of thunder that shook the glass of the windows. Chesire bristled more and leaned back further into her blankets shielding the two from the cold air. She comfortly reached out to pat the poor slightly shaking fellows back and sighed. She didn't blame him for being scared of rain. After all she wasn't enjoying this anymore than him....Then she got an idea. She smiled and tapped the top of his head to get him to look up at her.

"Hey. You like tea right? How about I go make you a cup?"

He blinked slightly surprised up at her. "Really? Y-You'd do that for me? In this dire time? ...Oh, no, no, no. I couldn't ask you to do that for me. I'll be fine."

Her brow rose. "It would be the least I could do for all the things you've done for me. Here." She gently put her arms around him, enough to lift him off the couch and picked him up just as she stood up.Blanket falling of Allison's shoulder as she turned back around and placed the small cat back to where she was sitting just a moment ago. He blinked as said fuzzy blankets was drapped the top of his head and around him. Almost like a swaddled baby. She straightened back up and glanced back down at him. "There! Now don't you go anywhere. It'll only take like ten minutes tops." She slipped her phone into her back pocket. "Besides. I know I could use a warm drink right now."

He chuckled. But it was short lived by another loud thunder that shook the windows again and Chesire gave a startled 'Mmmrowl' and ducked under the blanket turning into a shaking lump under it. But that's not what made her stop and pause. A loud clanking sound itself heard before stopping after a bit. What was that? ANother loud thunder sound shaking the windows another soft but loud metal tapping noise and she snapped her head in the direction the sound was coming from...Sure enough ANOTHER thunder clapping. Another shaking. AND ANOTHER METAL NOISE!

"H-Hey. Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?! I hear nothing but the sound of absolutely silence u-under here!"

Well he wasn't going to be much help was he? She rolled her eyes and looked- BOOM!! Another shaking. What was up with this giant storm!? Seriously?! And another tapping sound. This time DEFINATELY from her Granny's old meditation room. Raising a brow, she cautiously began slowly walking her way over there. The dimly lit room and rain outside wasn't helping her whole horror movie scenario running through her head as she got closer and closer. When she was finally in there...She saw nothing. Lightning lit up the entire room as ran still poured buckets outside. ....Then where was- Another thunder slammed the skies and shook the windows. Which also shook another thing. The giant mirror hanging on the wall tapped against it swaying violently and made the same tapping sound she had heard before. She gasped and ran to it. Not actually touching it when she got there but holding her arms out as if ready to catch this thing. It looked too big and heavy to lift by her tiny self, but it looked so freely hanging from the wall that it could fall and shatter into a million pieces at any moment. Which is what scared her.

Her head snapped over her shoulder. "Chesire!! The mirror's about to fall! Help me put it back into place will ya?!"

The shaking lump stopped shaking in an instant. All fear of ran and thunder and lightning pushed aside and that blue head snapped up and out of the blanket wide eyed. "THE MIRROR?! ALLISON, NO!!" He leapt from the couch and zoomed towards the tiny room. "WHATEVR YOU DO, DONT TOUCH THE MIRROR!!"

The rest of his warning was drowned out as thunder once again rang out and shook the house, this time there was no tapping as the mirror jumped off the nail and as she watched in horror as he fell on her, she thought she could hear Chesire shout 'Allison!!'. As it consumed her. A giant shattering of glass was heard as shiny shards spilt to the floor in the place the girl once stood, and shined when lightning struck the entrance way. A heavily breathing cat was floating there for a moment staring in absolute horror at the mess on the floor. He snapped two it. Little paws pushing around a few pieced before lifting up the mirror and still seeing no strawberry blonde woman. His paws went to clutch his head as the realization hit him harder than any lightning.

"By tea and biscuits...WHAT HAVE I DONE?!"

0 notes

humanityinahandbag · 7 years

Text

Five More Minutes: DWD Drabble

A Darkwing Duck fanfiction for squidsfeather and (sort of) for sonichearts (you requested a self doubt fic, and I realized while writing this that there was some of that here, but honestly I’ve already got another one going that’s just all self doubt so you’re getting two… Fun times!)

Anywho…

Let’s get into this!

Five More Minutes: In which Darkwing Duck hates clocks, time, and the general boredom and insufferable anxiety that they provide.

Drake Mallard was not a duck known for his patience. Nor was he known for his exceeding talent at waiting while the clock ticked on without him. His years alone, living in a spacious and barren room on the very top of a hollowed out bridge, had allowed him to use the available space to scream at any pitch he’d wanted whenever frustrations ran high. And he’d done that.

Quite a lot.

It was so much easier than venting to a too expensive shrink about his inability to handle boredom. Or anxiety. Or frustration. Or much anything at all that impeded his ability to run smoothly and rapidly and on his own singular schedule.

If anyone asked what Darkwing Duck’s weakness was, he’d say it was the passing of time. For the boredom it brought, and the chances it took away. He was rarely standing still, rarely giving himself a moment to breathe.

He preferred it that way..

(All the time)

(Most of the time)

(Some of the time)

Stillness was for suckers and losers and people who wandered aimlessly through their mundane and meaningless lives. Not for superheroes. And certainly not for terrors who flapped in the night.

So when he’d thought about making a change in his life-

“You’re kidding.” He had few friends outside of work -actually, scratch that, he had no friends outside of work- and so it wasn’t the best day when the only one he considered something of an acquaintance had decided to test those very thin bonds by snorting at him. “You’re doing what?”

Eddie Egbberta wasn’t even really an acquaintance. He was the man who handed Drake Mallard his coffee three times a week over the counter of the local cafe. They exchanged occasional conversation and kept personal information to a minimum. Which was fine with Drake.

He knew exactly three things about Eddie; he enjoyed coffee, he was constantly pondering upon the state of his gayness, and his least favorite color was magenta because, as he’d put it, the word was created by the very rich to paint their own walls and tie up our tongues.

Eddie, in return, knew three things about Drake; he was irritable, he took his coffee black, and he had the patience for exactly nothing.

It was the latter that had Eddie clutching to the counter for support.

Drake sniffed, pushing down the already secured coffee lid. “I told you-”

“You’re adopting!” Eddie drew back, grabbing another cup and filling it halfway with skim. The cashier shouted back something about a pumkin spiced something and Eddie nodded their way before setting to work. “I just…” he jammed the cup under the foamer and switched on the nozzle. The air was clogged with the whrrrr. “You do know that kids take like… time, right?”

“I sort of guessed.”

“And you have to like… stand still for two fucking seconds-”

“Uh huh-”

“And you need patience-”

“Is there something you’d like to say?” the sweater vested duck shot back, his tone gone sour. “Please do.”

“It’s just…” Eddie drew the cup away and poured decaf into the cup before sprinkling it with something that smelled like a candle. “You don’t seem like the type. You know?”

For a moment, it isn’t Drake Mallard standing there. It’s Darkwing Duck. And he’s holding his coffee cup tight enough to burst. “What’s the type.”

“You know…” Eddie doesn’t notice the tension between writing a name on the newest coffee. “Someone who has an actual house. And who isn’t a total hot head who brings back his coffee if his goddamn name is spelled wrong.” Apparently he hadn’t forgotten the incident from a month ago, for which he’d been totally justified. Names were important things and his wasn’t Blake. Eddie finished scribbling and capped his pen. He called out “CHARLOTTE” before picking up a new cup. “You’d also have to be someone who buys juice boxes,”

“I hate juice boxes. They’re just sugar in a container.”

“You hate everything.” He poured in whole milk and started up the steamer. “How’s that gonna work for a kid.”

Drake Mallard looked down at his cup again. There was no sleeve, and it was beginning to sting his hand. Darkwing Duck recedes. “Yeah,” said Drake, who was in almost no mood to fight. Maybe because yelling at a barista in the middle of a crowded coffee shop sounded like his own personal nightmare.

Maybe because, in a way, the barista was kind of, sort of, definitely right.

“Hey man,” Eddie handed the candle coffee off to another customer, who looked between them curiously before dragging themselves slowly away, an ear still half glued to their conversation, “let me know what you do. But like… my sister just had a kid, dude, and you gotta be ready to just sort of… sit there. You know? Just sort of listen to the clock and let things happen.”

“Right…” said Drake. And then; “Uh… see you next week.”

Eddie waved him away.

Drake would not be returning the next week. Instead, he’d use it to wallow in his own self deprecation while the clocks around him tortured the silence with their awful tick tick tick and Drake followed along with them, knowing full well that if this was to be his life, then maybe he’d end up just scarring some poor child and being the worst father to ever grace the earth. He was becoming everything he ever hated. Everything that frightened him. Everything that he’d always promised himself he’d never become. He was too good for the mundane, for the adequate, for the dreadful normalcy that some people settled with.

This was settling.

Yet, somehow, the paperwork managed to be filed and the interviews managed to get done, and he stood in front of the orphanage doors, feeling his wrist watch ticking away, and wishing he had just five more minutes-

(just)

(just five more)

-to make this decision before he dove into what might have been the worst choice he’d ever made. But he was notoriously bad at waiting for things. And so it may have been merely his fear of boredom and time that drove him to cross the threshold and stand in the office and catch a little girl who ran towards him.

(I’ve gotta take care of myself)

(now that I’m going to have a new adopted daughter to worry about)

She calls him Mr. Mallard for a month. And he hates it, but he says little towards it. Whatever makes her happy. She’s been in and out of homes, lost a grandfather, and god knows who her parents were. The last thing she needs is to look at him as a replacement father. If she wants to call him Mr. Mallard for the rest of her life-

“Dad…” she says one night, so shyly it might have just broken his heart and made a home in the cracks, “can we repaint my room… I hate pink…” He’d gotten the room ready for a little girl and might have gone overboard and he’s so deep in the middle of regretting it that he barely notices what she’s called him until he’s catching on and remembering just how breathing worked.

Drake Mallard finds it odd that he suddenly wishes the clocks would stop. That they’d tick on, but time wouldn’t, and that he could have five more minutes with his new title burrowing its way down and infecting every exploding cell in his chest.

He corals her to the car and they buy green paint that day. Soon there are baseball posters and a blue duvet and stacks of comic books, and she’s clinging to his waist looking around her new little hovel and squealing thanks dad into his shirt and he’s looking around with her and deciding that, yes, this was much more suitable.

This was all more suitable.

“No problem, honey,” he says.

He tries those names on his tongue a few more times.

His parents never called him that. Sweetheart, sweetie, honey, dearest. He hadn’t cared then. There was barely any love lost, and he hadn’t thought it was important when he’d lived under their roof. The history has them feeling a little clunky coming out of his mouth, so he practices them often. Like it would erase the lack of them from his own pithy youth.

He matches them against the ticking of the clocks on the stove, and he uses them as often as he can, revealing in the little ways it makes her face light up just so until she looks less like a duckling in a new and scary environment and more like someone he’d lived there long enough to acclimate into the idea of nicknames and bedtime stories and juice boxes in the cupboard.

Drake Mallard sort of loves that he can call someone sweetheart.

And he sort of also loves the grape juice boxes, too.

She tells him that she loves him first. Mostly because he forgot to say it. Or rather, thought that he had. He had sort of assumed that his fast paced caregiving was the same as love. That his never-ending movement (cook, clean, dress, bathe, repeat) would be sufficient.

He was a man of action, after all. And movement to him meant everything. Meant that not a moment was wasted. Wasn’t that just enough? To know that not a second was wasted on you? To know that-

“Night, dad,” she says, tugging at the hem of her pajamas. There’s a spot of toothpaste on the edge of her bill and her soft feathers are still a little wet and warm from the bath. He’s on the couch, and she’s supposed to already be asleep, but she had gotten up and snuck down the stairs and flopped down to reach her arms as far around his waist as they could go. In the background, the newscaster talked about Darkwing Duck before switching to a story on a car wash shutting down after its money laundering was caught by a pizza boy on an afternoon run.

He almost doesn’t hear her over the interview of Pizza Boy who’s name was Todd and who’s appearance was just as Todd-ish as you’d expect, from the swept bangs to the smacking of his stale gum.

Still, somehow, he catches it.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

Except he does.

“Love you too, Gos.” And then: “aren’t you supposed to already be in bed, Little Miss!” because the first rule about being a superhero is not letting them know when you’ve been broken. Or stunned. Or when you’re so positively drowning in love and you can’t seem to speak.

He watches her scamper back up the stairs and hears her shuffle around before all is quiet and he can mute the television and just sort of listen to the clocks turn around him.

He could have had five more minutes of that. Just to hear her voice say it again.

It hits him sometime after midnight while he stares at the ceiling.

He’s a father.

The mundane becomes the one thing that sets his heart hammering.

He tells her good morning over breakfast and tells her he loves her just after he finishes buttering the toast, just so he can hear her say it back and know that it wasn’t just a dream.

“Love you too, dad,” she calls back, mouth full of jam and toast, feet already out the door. Honker was no doubt waiting for her, ready to watch her crash and burn from a distance, and equally as prepared to console her once the punishment of a long, worthy grounding was provided.

He had someone to ground. Which he shouldn’t love as much as he did. But…

She sounds like she’s practically done with him. Like she’s already exasperated with her father over something he’d said or done.

He loves that, too.

He adds a few more clocks to his house. And one to his lair.

He’s not as afraid of them anymore.

He brings her to the coffee shop. Sort of to show off, and sort of because she had been nagging him for hot chocolate and they had the most mediocre cup around. Which just meant one less thing he had to make when he was feeling particularly lazy.

Eddie is still there. And he’s still making coffee. And when he looks over at the counter, shouting out the name on the cup -GOSALYN MALLARD- he catches Drakes eye and nearly drops the cup. “Oh my god!” he smiles. “He returns!”

“He returns,” Drake agrees. “So… can I take-” he motioned to the cup.

Eddie squinted at him. “This is yours…?” He checked the name again.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Wow, they got your name really wrong.”

“No, it’s not-”

“It’s mine! Mine! Right here!” The girl had gone off to harass someone while she scoured for napkins, and is back in full force, clinging to his vest and popping up over the counter to grab at the treat.

“Gosalyn, what do we say?”

She has the good sense to look mildly shame faced before muttering “please” and Eddie hands it over and down to her, eyes looking more and more like those knots you found on trees.

“Oh…” said Eddie. “Oh-”

“This is Gosalyn.” Her scarf was slipping and Drake leaned down to fix it. “Gosalyn. This is Eddie. He makes coffee.”

“Hi Eddie who makes Coffee,” said Gosalyn, who was about as interested in all of this as she could bear to manage. “I’m going to find cinnamon.”

“Just stay close!” She scampered away and Drake sighed. “If she breaks anything, I’m not paying for it.” It didn’t sound like a joke.

Still, there were more important things than the implication of a ruined store. Eddie looked at the red headed girl, and back to the duck in front of him. “So that’s your-”

“Uh huh.”

“You actually-”

“I did.”

“You did.” Eddie looked over at the girl again, who had gotten a good deal of cinnamon into her cup, and an even greater deal onto the floor and into the purse of some lady who’d been foolish enough to look away. “Oh holy shit. You did. You actually-” Eddie smiled, huge. “You’re a dad!” He blinked. “Oh man. You’re a dad.”

Drake tries to keep the sourness at bay, but he’s almost too giddy with the declaration and whatever bitterness sat there got up and left. “I’m a dad.”

“Hows it feel.”

“Weird.” Drake said. “Different. Terrifying.”

“I mean… I didn’t think you’d actually…” he shook his head. “Hows the old Drake Mallard patience keeping up.”

Drake snorted into his coffee, dragging back a long gulp. “You’d be surprised.” He saluted the barista before whipping his head around and barking “Gosalyn, what have we talked about” and the old Drake Mallard patience roared into view again.

Some things never changed.

But, as Eddie recalled, the single bachelor hadn’t been able to stay in the coffee shop for long. The tables by the windows and the few chairs by the promotional coffee stands were never things he used, and he’d rushed out right after his hand had touched the cup- out to do god knows what.

Now he sits at the table and jokes with the little girl and lights up when he’s able to make her laugh. She makes faces and every so often there’s a mention of a zombie or alien or something that he rolls his eyes at but plays along with enough that she keeps going, unswayed and encouraged.

The clocks tick on around them, and the old stereos blast some awful acoustic songs, and the smell of artificial pumpkin is thick in the air, and the daughter and father sit by the window an hour after they’ve finished their coffee, and time just keeps ticking on.

There are new socks in the laundry and shoes by the door, and as the months pass his orderly life is disrupted in every which way. He has calendars now, hanging in the kitchen, and marked with school functions and baseball games.

His time in the cape has to be given certain hours, and he has to learn how to back away and let the police actually do something because yes, he’d love to help out, but his Gosalyn (his Gosalyn) had made the semi finals and was basically carrying her entire soccer team on her back, and he needed to be in those stands to watch.

So he was.

She scored three goals and only got into two fights, which made up for a success.

He remembers once that he’d promised himself that his life would be anything but mundane.

While he’s busy picking up shoes and vacuuming the rug, and packing apple slices in little baggies for the morning, he wonders how he let himself think something so ridiculously stupid.

Launchpad thinks it all fate. “I’m telling you, DW,” he says, drying dishes and putting them on the rack by the sink, “you were meant to be a father!”

“Eh,” says Drake.

“No! Really! My nan used to say that, you know. That we’re all just sort of meant to be things.”

Drake seals another baggie of apples. “Eh,” he says again.

He doesn’t think anyones meant to be anything. He was meant to be a father as much as he was meant to be a hero. He fought for the latter until he’d made his mark.

As he climbs the stairs and pokes his head into her room, he sort of realizes that he might have fought for this, too.

Drake sees that there’s nothing settling about coming home to a noisy house. And that there’s nothing dreadful about using this newly formed dad voice that he saves for commands about room cleaning and vegetable consuming. And that there’s nothing awful about stacking folded clothes on a bed only to have them be unfolded and scattered everywhere.

Or being caught up in a hug.

There are mornings -rare mornings- where nothing happens. Where it’s maybe just too rainy outside, or there’s no soccer games on television, or Darkwing Duck hasn’t been needed in a week or two, so the news is glossing over the usual soft stories, and their house finds itself quiet.

An odd occurrence. But not an unwelcome one.

He’s gotten very good at spotting them.

Opening his eyes, Drake Mallard looks up at his ceiling, hears the pit-pit-pit on the window, and sinks further back into the pillow.

The doorknob is jiggled softly, ticking as its turned, and the red pigtails appear first, before the rest of the face finds itself peering round the corner. She doesn’t say anything, but she’s dragging her blanket behind her and slides carefully into the rain darkened room. They both know he’s not asleep. Or, at least, he assumes she knows by the way she jostles his mattress climbing up it.

He doesn’t mind. Every once in a while, he doesn’t mind.

She (quietly, carefully) tries to wrestle with her own blanket and is (mostly) successful until there’s a foot in his side and a hand sort of pinching his arm, and she gives up completely and lets the blanket flump to the floor before delicately (or as delicate as a thirty pound gosling with a clumsy streak could manage) lifted up his blankets and burrowed beneath with him. There wasn’t much room. He had a King bed coming along, but had never had much need for it since before he’d had a child and had spent most his time outside.

And yes, an entire year in might have been a little long to wait but sue him, old habits died hard.

She pushed herself all the way under the covers until only the top of her head poked out. Her feet -which were freezing and he’d have to enforce some fascistic mandatory sockwear after this- stuck against his knees before she settled back. It didn’t escape him that she left a great deal of room between them.

Or as much as she could leave without her feet shoved against his knees.

He should have kicked her out. There wasn’t much room. And old him, the I’m-Not-a-Father-I’m-an-Eternal-Bachelor him, the one-year-prior him who still sort of lived in his brain and occasionally came out on especially foul days, might have found any reason to. And the exasperated father who’d bloomed overtime was just as absolutely peeved by the loss of his stretching space.

This was a rainy morning though. A tired, slow morning. And the tiny thing in front of him, so absolutely small compared to the hugeness of her importance which never ceased to amaze him-

he had a child

he, Drake Mallard, had a child

a living, breathing, dependent child

a real life, absolutely adoring, loved him to pieces child

-had crawled out of her bed on a Saturday, ignoring every comic most likely stacked in a messy pile on her nightstand, just to be with him. There was something so effortlessly wonderful about that.

A year. A whole year. And he still marveled.

He moved. She stiffened, thinking she’d woken him. As if that mattered. His arms, thick with sleep, wound around her and pulled her farther under the covers with him, clutching her to his chest. The bottom of his bill rested on the top of her head. “Hey, Slugger,”

She wiggled, bumping into him, leaving what might have been a nice bruise for later, before twisting around and pushing her face into his chest. He felt her yawn before snuggling more securely against him. “It’s raining.”

“It is.” She smelled like coconut shampoo from the bath he’d practically thrown her into the night before. Her downy feathers, still so soft at her age, were fluffed, and he dragged his fingers through the ones at her neck. He remembered when he’d lost his downy finally at the age of eight. The pediatricians he’d taken Gosalyn to for her annual boosters all said that hers would fall out eventually, and it wasn’t unusual for some children to hold onto theirs longer than others, and he didn’t let them know that he secretly wished she never would, because oh god, he’d only had her for a year and she was already going on ten, and there was so much he’d missed at the hands of those who’d raised her before he had-

“Can we have pancakes?”

His mind paused. “What?”

“Can we have rainy day pancakes?” her mouth sounds like its full of sleep. She pushed her face against his pajama shirt. “You smell like smoke.”

“Fire last night.”

She regarded it with a casual nod. And then: “So can we have pancakes?”

He thought for a moment. Thought a moment more. And then he grabbed her up quickly and blew a raspberry in the fold of her neck. Gosalyn shrieked, laughed, and batted at his face between her cackles of uncle uncle! “Yes, we can make pancakes,” he pulled her close again, feeling her tiny body vibrate with little continuing giggles. “Just… five more minutes.”

“Daaaad.”

“Five more minutes, Gos.”

He wanted to tell that to time. Look it in the face and hold onto his little downy child and say five more minutes over and over again until this moment stuck a permanent tac in itself and let them be.

There’s a defeated sadness in the reality that it can’t be.

By some miracle, though, she at least settles. Groaning and complaining, but wiggling closer and sighing deep. Her ear is over his chest. He wonders what his heart must sound like to her. Wonders if she used to do this with her grandfather- sitting on the couch with her ear just over his heart. Wonders if its a kid thing. Or just a her thing.

Old Drake Mallard wags a finger at him from somewhere far, far back in his mind, motioning to the smallness of the twin bed and the ticking away of the time. Not acceptable! Spoling her! Martial rule! You’re Darkwing Duck, not a mundane suburban parent! There are things to do! People to save! Time is wasting! Time! Time is wasting!

Oh hush, says the new part of his brain. Father Drake, which evolves a little more each day, and who has started sprouting a pink apron over his daily ensemble, leans on an imaginary wall and crosses his arms, and ignores the clock. What’s five more minutes. Right?

Which was true enough.

Gosalyn wasn’t off trying to destroy something. There was no sound of breaking china or the screams of furious neighbors. No teacher calls about baseball in the hallways. No screaming matches between the two of them about the absolute parental rule he had over their home.

She’s falling back asleep, pancakes temporarily forgotten. Her breathing was soft, staggered with little snores. Her chest rising and falling between beats, and her legs twitching out every so often. He didn’t want to call it peaceful. God knows he hated the word.

It was… still.

That was the word he’d use.

Everything was just… still.

The flicker of the clock ticking, the careful and steady rain and the smothered sunlight through he shutters, the yowling of a siren farther off, and the soft, soft, soft breathing of the little girl.

He pulled her close and drew her in and matched his breathing to hers.

Five more minutes.

What was five more minutes.

#darkwing duck #darkwing dad #TAKE THIS #two down #sort of???#Darkwing Duck fic #it's sort of... all over the place #but you can have it #:)

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junker-town · 3 years

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20020: Questions and answers

The world of 20020 is a very strange one, and people are right to have questions. Jon answers some of them here.

I don’t know if I’ve ever had more fun working on a project than I did with 20020. It was a long time in the making, as was this website, Secret Base. We intend this to be a place where we tell stories, whether they happened last night, a hundred years ago, 18,000 years from now, or some nightmarish video game realm that exists outside of time. In that sense, 20020 doesn’t define this place. Secret Base is the place where something like 20020 can actually live. I don’t want to get too overdramatic; Secret Base is a website where me and a bunch of of other jerks make shit we hope you’ll like. It’s a place I love nonetheless.

I started planning 20020 about three years ago, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t just writing a sequel to 17776 for its own sake. This time I wanted to piece together a single, cohesive story, rather than a series of loose vignettes. I also wanted to explore certain themes more specifically. What happens to the concept of time if time becomes infinite? What defines a “good game,” and can it be laid out completely by accident? Who are Americans – specifically, these Americans, us? What the Hell is this place, and what was it? What would we do with ourselves if we actually got everything we wanted?

I tried to make something bigger and better than 17776, rather than just bolting on another installment. Personally, I feel like I did, but ultimately, those of you who have read it can be the judge of that. At any rate, thank you so much for reading. I know it was a big ask of you – not only is it roughly as long as a book, it’s a mashup of two things that typically don’t go together. A lot of you came in with zero interest in American football, and a lot of you came in without any particular inclination to read a work of science fiction where humankind never explored space because it was too boring.

A couple of people deserve an extra-special thanks here. Graham MacAree edited the piece from start to finish, and help me close as many logical loopholes as we could, picking out every time a player broke a rule, or one rule was inconsistent with another rule. Throughout the whole process, Graham was totally bought in, and was always in favor of making it more weird over less weird.

Meanwhile, Frank Bi engineered the entire thing so it could actually exist on the Internet. I’m still amazed that some of these pages weigh upwards of 50 megabytes, and yet they scroll completely smoothly without glitching out and slowing down. Frank also built an app on the back end that allowed us to easily format things like dialogue.

Anyway. Earlier this week, I solicited any questions you might have had about 20020 – why I made it, how I made it, how the game works, or literally anything else about it. I received a few hundred of those, and while I couldn’t get to all of them, I’ve answered as many as I could. Thanks so much for sending them in.

* * *

I haven’t read it yet - is it good?

– Anonymous

yeah

20020 feels a lot lighter than 17776. Why did you decide to go with that tone?

– hali

It’s interesting to me that it struck that tone with you, and I’m actually glad it did, because at some points the story actually felt slightly darker to me than 17776 did. I had a couple of priorities this time around.

The first was to continue to avoid what I hopefully avoided in 17776, which was writing some kind of morality play. I am tired of reading stories and watching shows that are trying to teach me some kind of lesson. I’m a grown adult! You’re a television, I don’t want to learn concepts like “right and wrong” from you! Fuck off, loser!

Instead, I mean 17776 and 20020 as open-ended explorations of themes and concepts. It’s so great to see people walk away from them with different ideas. Some people see this post-scarcity eternal playpen as Heaven, some see it as a completely nightmarish existence, and some see it as a sometimes-promising, sometimes-unsettling in-between. Far be it from me to call it one way or the other.

when designing The Bowl Game, how bogged down did you get in rules/technicalities? a game of this scale seems so hard to effectively govern, and many readers seemed to get stuck on rules technicalities that didn’t affect the plot much. i guess a better way to phrase this question is: did you develop the rules of the game first and then write a plot around them, or did the rules emerge naturally as you wrote?

– Victoria (@dirtbagqueer)

This was by far the toughest part of the whole thing. The field itself actually inspired the entire story.

Early in 2018, a few months after finishing 17776, I had a little bit of time in between major projects, and that’s when I started drawing up the fields. The geometry and weird aesthetic of it fascinated me. At the same time, I had absolutely no fucking idea what to do with it. I wanted it to make some sort of sense somehow. I wanted to design actual good, solid gameplay within it, but I just could not figure out how to do it. Over the course of two years, I would occasionally open it up and stare at it, practically begging for some kind of solution to present itself.

It never did, and my stupid ass finally got the point: this thing is a tribute to chaotic, senseless institutions. It’s a monument of the absolute nonsense that spews forth from ostensibly rational architecture. Like, imagine the most grating, insulting, senseless corporate drivel you’ve ever heard. To me, this that in the form of a football field.

It all clicked from there. Who would come up with such a bewildering and obnoxious thing? Obviously, Juice would. He’s amused by the literal interpretations of things and he delights in inanity and chaos. I needed Ten to hibernate, because she loves well-considered, intelligent gameplay, and she would have shot him down at every opportunity.

From there, I just wrote the rules in accordance with what I felt would be the most interesting story. After looking at San Diego State’s sad little field, I realized I wanted them to star in the A-plot, and I’ll admit to writing some of the rules in service of their story.

Chapter 4’s Georgia Quarterback is introduced to us by screaming into a phone for a pizza that never gets to him. It’s the funniest thing I’ve read in a long time and I have to know, was there something or some things that inspired it?

– @Kay_N_B

That guy’s ripped straight out of real life. I used to work at a call center doing tech support for an Internet service provider. Legend has it that if you simply yell REPRESENTATIVE or SUPERVISOR to an automated system enough times, it will get you off hold and talking to someone more quickly. This was definitely not true, but it didn’t stop people from trying.

On one occasion, I picked up the phone to a woman yelling SUPERVISOR! SUPERVISOR! SUPERVISOR! SUPERVISOR! over and over and over. She was yelling it so loud that she couldn’t hear me. Or, more likely, she was just holding the receiver to her mouth without actually holding the speaker to her ear. At any rate, I just could not get through to her. After about two minutes of that, I hung up. Sometimes I wonder how much longer she sat there yelling like that.

Is Lori from the Illinois chess chapter the same Lori who talked to the Durabos in the Koy Detmer chapter in 17776?

– Ale

She is! Not for any particular reason, other than that I liked the idea of bringing someone back. She’s named after my fourth-grade teacher and ninth-grade science teacher.

Why do trains still run on diesel fuel and how does this not affect the climate/environment?

– Vince

In this universe, humans have learned how to perfectly synthesize fossil fuels that are environmentally harmless. (That’s why I was fine with Nick just carelessly pouring gallons of diesel fuel on the ground while he was fueling the train.) In my optimistic view of the real-life future, I’m sure we’ll opt to solar power or some other environmentally benign solution, but these peoples’ insistence on fossil fuels reflects what does and doesn’t change about you if you live for thousands of years. If there are no coming generations to prod you along and find solutions of their own, how much would we really be compelled to change?

That’s a foundational theory of this story, however right or wrong: change happens generationally far more than it does internally. Once we grow up, the cake’s baked. With no generations to come, there are no more agents of change, and we’re the same old slobs. I’m going to want to smell gasoline when I mow the lawn.

What would happen if a team relocated its stadium? Or repainted the field within their existing stadium at a slight angle?

– Dave

Another fundamental theme of this story is that humanity, or at least America, is very, very preservationist. Architecturally, very little has changed, because there’s a sense that if things change, they’ll never truly get back what they once had. Whether or not that’s healthy is entirely up for debate.

Someone in the 20020 thread (apologies, can’t find the comment and don’t remember who it was!) had the idea of one school building an apparatus underneath their field that would allow it to rotate. This would be both fascinating and an absolute nightmare to calculate/write, but I loved that.

How did you create the animations and videos and such with Google Earth?

– @xyleb_

Google Earth allows you to import image overlays and slap them over the terrain. It took me a long time to figure out how to get 111 image files to stretch all across the country without the frame rate slowing to like three frames per second. In the end, it was a matter of making the field image files just about as small as possible (20x1 pixels) and stretching them from coast to coast. Given that Google Earth was never intended to do anything like this, I’m kind of stunned by how well it worked.

How do you choose the names for the players? Are they based off people you know or do you just make up names you think sound cool?

– Arp1033

When it comes to naming characters, my biggest screwup was naming the Georgia Tech quarterback Connor O’Malley. Conner is a very, very college football quarterback name, so I just bullshitted a last name that I thought would fit. Not only is Connor O’Malley an actual public figure, he’s actually a guy I’m a fan of and have been aware of for some time, and yet I somehow never connected those dots until a reader pointed it out.

I tried to give lot of consideration to the naming of characters. Since I prioritized representation, I did want to signal that certain characters were Black, or Hispanic, or Asian. Sometimes this was because I felt it was essential to their character, and sometimes it was just for the sake of representation.

In a couple of circumstances, such as the UAB Steamroller poster in which I named literally 125 characters, I partially relied on name generators. Even with those, you have to be careful. At first, I used one that allowed you to generate names that are traditionally women’s names, or more typically Black names, or Asian names. So I was like, all right, give me 50 women’s names, and it returned a bunch of names like Heather and Sally and et cetera. Yes, of course there are Black women named Sally and Asian women named Heather, but if they all have such names, that doesn’t feel entirely representative. So I requested 20 typically Black women’s names, and like six of them were Keisha. All right, cool, thanks! In that case and a few others, I just ditched name generators entirely and took first names from people I’ve known personally.

If I recall correctly, in the 17776 q+a, you talked about Nines identity a little bit and how you wanted to include an NB character in your stories. In this story, is Nine using they/them pronouns a decision they have made to identify as NB?

– Anonymous

Yep, Nine is non-binary. In 17776, Nine was non-binary simply by virtue of only having been conscious for a few days and not even having the time to examine or consider it. But now it’s been a while, and they actively identify as NB.

do you plan on bringing back any other space probes, like hubble in ‘76?

– scotty

Yes! I’ll spill the beans on that now. Hubble was originally going to appear in 20020, but there was just too much other stuff to get to. He’ll be seen in 20021.

how do you manage to find the “non-dull” part of each of the stories you write? like how do you find the newspaper clippings, names, etc?

– Carter Briggs (@carter1137)

Before I started writing, I spent two whole months just scrolling across every single field. If I hit a town, a lake, a mountain, or even a road with a weird name, I’d stop and search the newspaper archives to see if I could find anything interesting. This was definitely a test of Nancy’s sentiment in 17776 that you can’t walk ten feet in American without running into a story.

Technically speaking, it turns out that this is more or less true, but the vast majority of these stories are UNBELIEVABLY FUCKING BORING. As far as a lot of town are concerned, if anything interesting ever happened there, it sure as Hell didn’t make the papers. I’d say a good 10 percent of old newspapers are just, “Mrs. Hubbard took a trip here to visit her sons.” Just a 19th-century proto-Facebook check-in app. But one time out of a hundred, I’d find out about the James gang’s forgotten stash, or the Stannard Rock Lighthouse, or the escapes of Eugene Jennings, and it was all worth it.

I feel really, really gratified by those. I’m not so sure anyone has explored American history the way I did – by literally drawing lines across it and following those lines. It’s a very silly, stupid way to do it, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found some of these things that would otherwise have been lost to history.

What do the probe’s voices sound like over the phone? Synthesized? Uncannily human? Like a Siri kind of thing?

– Anonymous

They sound human, yeah. How exactly they sound, I can’t say, but I can kinda hear Juice. Despite being French, I hear him as a fast-talking, hyper-charismatic, high-energy Southern dude, like some guys I grew up around. Think some weird amalgamation that’s reminiscent of Matthew McConaughey and Chris Tucker.

what is the answer to nines postscript(what happens when a ball is on a intersection)

– Anonymous

So when a ball is on Field A, and it crosses Field B at an intersection, the scoreboard doesn’t change. It still belongs to Field A, and only transfers to Field B if the player makes a turn.

What do video games look like in the year 20020? Do they still make new games or do they just kind of permanently update the old ones, like an MMO or something?

– Ben

This is not necessarily canon, and is just my real-world feeling on the matter seeping out: the real frontiers in gaming aren’t about graphics or technical ability or anything like that, they’re about creativity and art. Like, Breath of the Wild? That plays at 720p on my Switch, and while it’s artistically breathtaking, I think that strictly from a technical perspective, it could have been made 10 or 15 years ago. And yet it’s probably the greatest video game ever made.

Was there always an intention to do multiple parts (17776, 20020, 20021), or did that evolve as you wrote? What does the idea generation stage look like for a story as massive and out there as this one?

– @stxnmxn

When I finished 17776, I knew I wanted to write a sequel at some point, but didn’t always imagine it in two parts. As recently as this summer, I’d planned on writing it all at once before Graham and I decided to break it up. I’d just found too much stuff to condense it into one thing.

Did you have fun writing it?

– benfrosh

yeah

ballground & ballplay — how did you think to link them to this story? were you looking for them? when did you make the connection to the fields?

– @heysihui

That was an unbelievable coincidence! Clemson’s field just ran across both of them. I knew for sure I wanted to talk some about indigenous peoples, and I’ve long been fascinated with the seemingly far-flung concept of replacing war with sports. It was just the perfect opportunity.

I loved how in 20020 there are so many smaller stories being retold, some of which even affect the larger story. Of all the places big and small visited over the course of 20020, which location had your favorite historical event? I think mine was the 1910 Emory Gap runaway train.

– @jj_jjjjj_jjjjjj

The story of Eugene Jennings takes it for me. I was so profoundly touched by the story of a guy who had an incredible gift for escaping. He wasn’t an evil person, he was just born into a world he wasn’t compatible with. I think lots and lots of people like him have lived and died, and I hope we don’t forget them. You can barely find anything about Jennings on the Internet; his story could only be found in old newspapers. I’m honored I got to tell his story. I sure as Hell won’t ever forget him.

first of all, thanks for making an explicitly lgbt couple, one where the romance is directly shown, part of your main cast for 20020. did you really give much thought to it, or was it a decision that felt natural?

– jijo, @optikalcrow

Part of the reason I wrote 17776 in the first place was to take football, which I view to be this spectacular, fascinating thing, and imagine a world where it’s opened up to every single type of person. A long while back, a friend and I were talking about football. He’s gay, and he supposed that while football seemed like the sort of thing he’d like, he never got into it growing up because he “never got the invite.”

So I did that as a means of sending an invite. More generally, I really liked the idea of making a gay couple the main characters because I almost never see that anywhere, and if I do, it’s probably a story about them being gay.

As I did last time, I wanted to represent people completely matter-of-factly. I don’t delve into the experience of being gay, because I don’t have valuable perspective to offer there, but I did want to establish Nick and Manny as fleshed-out, imperfect, warts-and-all human beings. Sometimes they argue, sometimes they make a bad call, sometimes they say stupid things, and sometimes they’re unsure of themselves, just like everybody else.

who is your favorite character to write for?

– @mwuffie

It was a lot of fun writing Nick and Manny’s pointless arguments. Mimi was great too, since she was inspired by a few people who are very close to me. But Bryce, the new Troy recruit from Chapter 10, might be my favorite.

I grew up around so many guys exactly like Bryce. A young guy who’s not sad, really, just mopey. He’s an asshole in a mostly benign way. He seems to want to do nothing but just sit in a parking lot smoking menthols and leaning against his Nissan, and mumble something about wanting to challenge someone to a street race but never, ever actually doing it. He doesn’t seem to actually like or dislike or want anything. You have absolutely no clue what makes him tick or what ever motivates him to do anything, or whether he likes you. He’s just kinda there, but you get the sense that he’s perfectly content. He fucking rules.

I also enjoyed hate-writing Chess Guy. I never bothered to give him a name because he didn’t deserve one. When Graham first read that chapter, the first thing he told me was, “I fucking hate chess guy.” Mission accomplished.

juice mentions in ch 7 that he worked with indigenous tribes to get permission for fields/players to cross native land (which, of course, all of america is native land). some tribes said no — are these tribal lands OOB and/or handled in the rules?

– lily b.

Yep, for the indigenous peoples who did not grant permission, those portions of the field are out of bounds. Some also have special conditions – for instance, a limit on how many players can be on the field at the same time. These changes aren’t reflected visually on the map for two reasons: first, I couldn’t quite figure out how to do it from a technical sense, and second, I didn’t think it was particularly important or appropriate for me to guess which tribes would and wouldn’t grant permission.

Why hasn’t technology really developed that much? Besides the nanobots, there really isn’t anything else. They still watch/follow games through normal tv’s/radios. Just wondering how boring this must be for anyone not involved in the football games.

– permian triassic extinction event

I think old people just like what they like and don’t need much more, and these are the oldest people in history. Just like folks from decades ago were perfectly fine with their three TV channels and crossword puzzle, I think we’d be okay with an eternity of, I don’t know, online gaming.

Not to be a downer but at times I felt almost guilty about this future with nothing left that needs to be done while we live in this society that’s a total hell-hole for so many. Did you have any feelings like that while writing? Is there a message here linking our harsh reality with the immortal 20020 world that went over my head?

– Anonymous

These times are full of struggle and defeat. The thing I want most and believe in most for this country and this world are things I might never get to see for myself. But god damn it, I will imagine them. It’s practice for the real thing. I believe that one day we’ll actually have the world we want, and we’d better have a plan when that day comes. What are we gonna do with it?

Is it pronounced 20020 or 20020

– Mylograms

20020, yeah.

Any other questions? Graham and I will be hanging out in the comments sections for a while, so feel free to yell at us down there.

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