#maybe somewhere on ao3 people are writing missing scenes that will satisfy me more but the movie left me wanting

[thegirlwholied]

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my biggest disappointment in Wonder Woman 1984 was... Steve. 

Yes he’s the perfect Wonder Woman boyfriend; yes I love how he backs her up in the fight scenes; yes I love Chris Pine; yes they have great chemistry and are adorable...

and yes the scene in the movie that most hit for me was their goodbye. 

But uh. I get that maybe the creative team wanted to avoid the complicated stuff and just have fun? But Wonder Woman (2017) showed you can have both fun & address the complicated stuff. 

And Steve Trevor, in that movie, bearing the weight of war, was part of the complicated stuff:

You don't think I get it, after what I've seen out there? You don't think I wish I could tell you that it was one bad guy to blame? It's not! We're all to blame! (I’m not). But maybe I am.

My father told me once, he said, "If you see something wrong happening in the world, you can either do nothing, or you can do something". And I already tried nothing.

1984!Steve is not complicated. He’s delicious. He eats Pop-Tarts. He is a Pop-Tart.

There’s a reason, when plots with time travel involve World War I, there’s usually That Moment. You know, the what do you mean, World War I. It’s probably a trope by now. But tropes exist for a reason and that one exists because it is one HELL of an emotional beat. You sent this man to the National Air & Space Museum, founded after World War II with an initial collection of mostly post WWI & WWII aircraft, and had him in DC within walking distance of war memorials, and had him in Diana’s apartment where she had a concentration camp photo... and you’re not even going to spend a beat on that?

The guy who we were introduced to, who drew Diana away from her island, talking about the ‘war to end all wars’, and we don’t get a beat? Who was worried about ‘weapons far deadlier than you can imagine’ and how ‘every kind’ of weapon now kills innocents, and the plot is set amid the specter of Cold War nuclear annihilation...and not a beat? 

I’m not saying it’s a plot-hole; you can handwave it with off-screen conversations or the lack of PTSD as ‘well, he did just come from heaven’. I’m not saying everything needs to be on-screen: we don’t need to know the details of Steve ‘trying nothing’, for example. 

But the movie is lesser for ignoring it, and Steve’s character is shallower. Hello, Pop-Tart. A perfect boyfriend, but one who, when he’s insisting any other guy could do for her (not exactly sounding like the guy who pointed out he was ‘above average’, and I’d buy he feels he’s not worthy but I’m not sure I buy his faith in other men being automatically more worthy?)... is not exactly demonstrating a lot of depth beyond, well, being charming Chris Pine, making crumbs in bed look appealing. He’s a dream! 

...honestly he almost felt to me like not-real Steve, versus the Steve who argued with Diana, who, yes, things were good with but also difficult with, but since the movie neither explored a) the question of ‘is dreamstone!Steve real’, pretty much just running with ‘yes’ rather than making us wonder if he was more conjured from Diana’s wish/memory versus his true self, but that is a whole different plot or b) how it’s a lot easier to love the memory of someone than the more-complicated real deal, but real is also better... that’s all moot.  

Yes, there should have been joy at more time with Diana and modern marvels (...though, uh, I question the choices of subway and escalator; they were in 1918 London, which would already have had escalators in its Underground). But in the first movie, for all Diana’s delight at babies & ice cream & snow, it’s balanced with recognition of the horrors of the world, which when seen through fresh eyes are so much worse than those taking them for granted, just as the joys are made new again. And so the echo aimed for, of Steve taking in 1984 with fresh eyes, was muddled for me, by its lack of depth. The movie reaches at commenting on ’80s greed & materialism & Cold War threats, but it almost doesn’t matter we’re in 1984, because it doesn’t use that right-there tool - the perspective from the past, with values pulled straight out of a more-despairing time - to add any color. It’s all pop, no tart. 

When I find myself dwelling on media it’s always because a) it was just that good, b) it was just that terrible, or, most often, c) it just missed being better, being great, and sometimes I’m not sure how they missed it - Wonder Woman 1984 just missed, for me, and this is the central reason why. Did I enjoy watching it? Do I love an Indiana Jones callback, and the Diana/Steve chemistry, and Kristin Wiig and Pedro Pascal? You bet. I enjoy eating a Pop-Tart, too. 

But it leaves me still wanting something with more substance. 

#wonder woman #wonder woman 1984 #ww1984 #steve trevor #diana x steve #wonder woman 1984 spoilers #ww1984 spoilers #wonder woman meta #...i can't believe i'm writing wonder woman meta but I hadn't seen any articulation on this and this is where i'm at #maybe somewhere on ao3 people are writing missing scenes that will satisfy me more but the movie left me wanting #so much cuteness! fun moments! #but goddammit #i have rewatched and many times again will rewatch wonder woman or scenes thereof #this I enjoyed while watching but it kind of left me with the 'eh once was enough' feeling #i just felt the script was kind of careless for as long as this seemed to be in development? #diana spent the first part of the movie missing first-movie steve #and as much as i enjoy seeing chris pine on screen - i kept missing first-movie steve #except for 'well shit diana' and the fight scenes where he felt on point #the goodbye hit for me mostly because of my emotions already being engaged from the first movie #not anything this movie itself did #i also don't love the other-guy's-body storyline which I assume is sort of a Heaven Can Wait callback #missed opportunity to have Steve show up in his WWI uniform against the DC backdrop and have Diana stare unsure if he's a mirage #and I don't mean the big furry coat look in the first movie #i mean the straight-out-of-the-picture-she-keeps WWI uniform we and she never actually saw him #because would that not just lead right into the is-he-real dilemma (which I would have preferred to instant acceptance) #as well as be cinematically A Moment #i'm sorry Hallmark Handsome Man your running up to Diana repeating Steve's last words did not impress me on a cinematic level #the happy few

[tundrainafrica]

Note: Instead of posting a meta or a fic today, allow me to take a quick break from that because I think I really need to appreciate some people here and the fandom overall.  

February 7, 2021. 

Today, I turned 24 and my boyfriend surprised me with a gift I think I’ll be taking to heart for a very long time. 

The story behind the gift was as precious (or even more precious) as the gift itself and I thought I’d share it since it turned out some content creators were involved in this gift and I very much want to express how much this gift has defined this day for me and will place my 24th birthday as one of those birthdays I don’t think I’ll ever forget. 

Apparently, I had casually dropped both my tumblr and my ao3 account during one of our conversations and somewhere around November he had started looking through my bookmarks, my posts on tumblr and some of my interactions with people in the fandom.

I should have seen it coming. It had started with my boyfriend suddenly asking about my hyperfixation with Levihan.

Sav? Shipping? Sav? Binge reading ships and meta posts? Sav? Gushing about a fictional ship?

And I remember gushing about this with my seemingly uninterested boyfriend a long night after explaining what was oddly the most out of character thing for someone like me. 

I was sharing with him my metas and hcs and maybe, I was dropping a few of my favorite quotes along the way and it turned out he was interested. Suddenly he was asking me about my favorite fics, my favorite scenes. Suddenly, he was rereading my favorite fics with me and a few times, he was quoting those same scenes. I did find out he was looking through my blog when I got a random message from a really sketchy tumblr telling me to open my facebook. 

I suspected a few times that he could be planning something. December passed with nothing and eventually he stopped asking so I clocked that as a fevered dream or unnecessary assuming on my end and didn’t think too much of it after. 

It turned out my boyfriend had messaged my favorite authors about their fics and he commissioned one of my favorite artists (if not my favorite) to draw a few photos and bound them into a Levihan Anthology 

And it feels fucking amazing to receive something like this. To get Levihan which helped me through the worst of 2020, bound forever as a book I can just open up and read anytime. And I guess tearing up at receiving such a gift had me thinking of a lot of things at once (which were always at the back of mind) but I thought of sharing now. 

The past year wasn’t easy. Actually. don’t think it’s an understatement to say this past year was dog shit. With the covid pandemic and all plans after that cancelled, I’m sure we can all agree we had our ups and downs. 

I had a lot of my own plans completely thrown out the window for numerous reasons. I had plans of going to law school part time while building a career. And, I got a job right after college to make these plans come true. In September the law school I got accepted to (after working so damn hard the past year to get accepted) denied my appeal for night classes. I decided to drop my enrollment to focus on my career. A week later, my job laid me off. 

And for once in my life, I wasn’t going anywhere. And I lived in a house where everyone was always doing something and as soon as I lost my job I was pressured to find another one. But as we all know, searching for a job during this pandemic isn’t easy. I was still reeling after having dropped my enrollment just to focus on my job only to lose that job the week after with no prior notice. Everyone around me was busy doing their own thing. I had no one to talk to and for a while, I was falling into this pit of depression. 

My days consisted of me hiding under the covers of my bed in between the few interviews I would take day to day. Around that time, I decided to binge watch Attack on Titan as well 

I was never one to get hyper fixated in ships. In fact, this was the first ship since Royai and Victuuri which I have been so passionate. And this is a whole new level of passion. I think this is the first time I’ve ever written so much in this small amount of time. It was slow going. Just like Levi and Hange’s relationship, my fixation with this ship was a slowburn. 

Those days alone, I was reading fanfiction by the bundle, I was scrolling through the Levihan tag like a simp, leaving kudos in ao3 on a throwaway account and just scrolling through random people’s tumblr accounts. 

What happened during the one month? And when I was alone, sad, lonely and stagnant with no one to talk to, when everyone around me was living their own lives, all I had alone in the bedroom was Levi and Hange’s stories to keep me company between interviews. 

And the meta analyses and headcanons I had about their relationship were teaching me things. They were teaching me that life was never about how quickly you progress or how far you go. Maybe the real winners in life are the ones who can build good relationships, build relationships so mutually satisfying they keep each other growing and in those few moments reading, headcanoning ships, I did realize, maybe even as stagnant as I was at that moment, my life wasn’t dogshit. 

No one’s life is dogshit for a few small bumps along the way. Sometimes it just is part of the process of growing, learning to get past the worse, learning to manage relationships. And maybe it’s these relationships which make life worth living. Maybe it’s these struggles depicted in these stories and the bounce back. Maybe it’s the love, the life, the emotions so carefully described and depicted in every single story which makes life, life. 

With every single fic I read and every single fan art I scrolled through. Levihan was teaching my things about love, loss and life. 

Sometimes, these fandoms are the things which can catch people before they fall too low into something. These works and stories authors and artists shared so generously were what pulled me out of this state and are what inspired me to explore this relationship for all the potential its worth and maybe share my own stories and headcanons which people may learn a thing or two from or maybe just find some comfort and hope in.  

And these inspirations eventually evolved to writing. Writing 10,000 words in a day in between three interviews? I never was a writer but somehow, I found myself spending hours exploring the themes of love, loss and life with our favorite pairing 

I didn’t start writing out of nowhere. I didn’t start making metas out of nowhere. I needed the right inspiration, the right content to get me into this point where I could continue writing, reading, meta-ing, appreciating, headcanoning and everything in between.

And I just wanted to express my gratefulness to every single person in the fandom who had made it possible for me to pull out of that blackhole. Fandoms are underrated and I believe there are so many lessons which can be learned from the right content and from the right people. 

To the people who so willingly went along with my boyfriend’s little project: 

@faerielleart​ I saved A LOT of your art and they’re sitting in my google photos under a folder called Levihan and maybe I did share a few of your photos (the cheeks one and the beast titan one and the les miserables) ones to my boyfriend unsolicited just to show him how beautiful Levihan can be. Thank you so much for these beautiful drawings.

@lizaloveslevihan​ You were one of the first people I talked with in this fandom and dreams really was one of those stories that fucked me up a little bit, had me make a few misses on the commute on the way home one day but maybe it did have me explore the angst genre a little more, maybe it did have me explore Levi’s character a little more. 

@ariadneamare​ YELLOW. OH GOD. You know those letters? The ones which Hange left Levi at the end of the story? I ended up copying and pasting them and sending them to my boyfriend right after reading and I remember talking to him about this. We might be facing that same type of story in the future and I guess that ended up becoming a lot of foundation of our discussion and I guess, it’s just proof that there is so much to learn from fanfiction. There’s just so much to explore and fanfiction as a genre just does not get the credit it deserves.

@fanmoose12​​ I was exploring your works even before I started this tumblr up again. Maybe it was even your works which got me building my own headcanons from Levihan and writing from there. And I think I did leave a few anonymous messages telling you how I started exploring other genres because of your fics. Your works got my out of my dark place, it got me exploring a lot of other genres and for that I’m eternally grateful.

And somehow, my boyfriend picked that all up from late night discussions and one-on-one metas. Surprisingly, he wasn’t just playing along to humor his girlfriend. He was exploring the themes of love, life, loss and Levihan right along with me. (And got spoiled about Hange’s death along the way… Oops.) 

And I am eternally grateful for that and I made sure to shower him with a lot of kisses after he kept me in the loop with what has been going on these past few months with his sudden interest in Levihan.

And this huge thank you goes out to all content creators (authors, artists, gif creators, shitposters alike). Sometimes you never know who’s thinking about your work, who’s shoehorning your works and quoting them to their best friends. Sometimes, you never will find out but your work had pulled someone out of a blackhole which they’ve been stuck in and sometimes you never know that your work has been that seemingly small thing that had taught them a lesson in love, life or relationships. Sometimes, that one work turned out to be an inspiration which got them writing and sharing their own stories or making their own drawings

And I guess, the point is, keep writing. Keep drawing. Keep sharing pouring your love, passion and emotions into works of art because you never really know whose heart you touched or whose life you changed.

I have a job now. I decided to push law school a few years back and maybe take the time to work on myself now and maybe spend the next months or maybe years writing metas and fanfictions. I was pulled out of my hole. I was inspired. I have my own stories to tell and I don’t think I would have been here if I hadn’t spent the last few months reading fic after fic, meta after meta, appreciating art after art, 

So anyway, I just wanted to share some pics of my favortie fics, immortalized in one anthology, all organized by my boyfriend. And I think he made some great decisions with these.

(Bookbinding credits to @mayerwien)

#levihan #levi x hange #levi x hanji #lyf #life post

[reidology]

One last time, teach me how to say goodbye (Hotch x Reid)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Hotch sacrificed himself to Foyet in order to save Haley and Jack. Spencer lays in bed one night, plagued by the memories of Hotch’s death over the phone and missing the feeling of laying next to him. 

Word count: 1.3k

Content Warning: Hotch is dead, crying, agony (can I tag agony? I’m going to bc that’s what I felt while writing it), death

One last time, teach me how to say goodbye (AO3)

Spencer knew this was coming. He was no stranger to trauma or sleepless nights. Nor was he a stranger to losing the people he loves. After all, he is Spencer Reid and everyone eventually leaves without a goodbye. It’s just, he was hoping to have a few more days of blissful numbness.

But tonight the pain hits him like a meteor punching a hole straight through his heart.

Another silent sob wracks through his body as he tosses on the bed, pulling the sheets that had once smelled like his lover closer to his face, almost suffocating. He hadn’t dared change the sheets or even pick up Hotch’s dirty socks and sweats from the floor. For a second he panics, fumbling around the mess of sheets for Hotch’s sleep shirt. It had to be here somewhere, where is it— his shaking hand wrapped around the soft fabric at the foot of the bed.

Feeling the soft cloth between his fingers and bringing the shirt to his cheek, he remembers what it was like to lay his head against Aaron’s chest. He used to trace patterns on his stomach as he counted the older man’s heartbeats until sleep caught up to him. Sometimes Hotch would wrap him up tightly in his arms and tuck his chin in Spencer’s warm neck. Spencer used to complain that his breath tickled his neck and push him away, but now he would do anything to have Hotch curled around him, breathing evenly, safe in his arms.

“Please. Let my family go. You have me.” Hotch’s voice was ragged, calculated. Always calculated.

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that, Aaron? Then they won’t see what I’m about to do to you.”

At the first gunshot Reid’s lungs collapse. Everyone in the SUV holds their breath, there is a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Then, “RUN! GET OUT OF HE—” And the unmistakable sound of Hotch crying out in agony. He’s been tackled, the sounds of their grunts indicating a physical fight.

Spencer’s mind was absent, but his ears picked up everything. Every. Single. Sound. The sound of Aaron and Foyet tumbling down the stairs. The sound of Hotch knocking Foyet’s head into the ground over and over, screaming like a monster. An animalistic sound he’d never heard from his boss before. Then, the heavy panting of a broken man exhausted beyond relief. The whispered “He’s dead… He’s dead. Jack… Haley…” The sound of pained shuffling, Aaron getting up to find his son. Then… Then...

Spencer’s body ached with the loss of his soulmate. The only person he’s ever loved. The man with a heart of gold and unwavering loyalty. There was nothing left for him. He had been on autopilot for a week, hadn’t shed a tear since the attack. Until today. He crawled into bed soon as he got home from the funeral, not even taking his shoes off, and began crying.

The sun had now set, he must have been there for hours. He whimpers in the dark, curled around himself and Hotch’s old shirt. How is he meant to fill this hole? How is he meant to accept that Aaron is gone forever? How is he supposed to keep going when the light of his life has been extinguished?

Just one kiss, just one more touch to his cheek, just one more goodbye. All he needs is one more hug, to feel the reassurance of his warmth. His runny nose and tears mix on the sheets, Spencer closes his eyes and remembers.

The smell of coffee and pancakes wafting through the air, the faint tune of jazz playing in the kitchen. Aaron always loves coming home to breakfast after his weekend morning runs. Well, that’s what Aaron says, but Spencer knows it’s really the sight of him in only boxers and an apron that Aaron loves.

Like clockwork, Aaron bursts through the door at 9am and makes a beeline for the kitchen. He takes in the sight of his boyfriend cooking away and slips his arms around his narrow hips, placing a sweet sweaty kiss to the back of his neck.

“Mmm pancakes,” he mumbles into his skin, willing Spencer to turn his head for a kiss, but the hazel-eyed man just giggles, “What? Too sweaty?”

This time Spencer turns around and leans up to peck his lovers lips sweetly, “No, you just do the same thing every week, haven’t you noticed?”

Aaron grins his breathtaking grin, showcasing his irresistible dimples and soft gaze.

“Maybe I’m trying to Groundhog Day you, ever thought of that?”

He pulls Spencer softly into a longer kiss, one that says ‘I know I’m ridiculous, please still love me’. One hand caressing his cheek, one cheeky hand slithering its way under the apron. Spencer pulls away, smiling giddy, “Okay now you’re stinky, go shower. Pancakes are almost ready.”

With a final peck to his lips, Hotch is off to the bedroom and Spencer is a little bit more in love than he was 5 minutes ago.

The happy memory burns sour in his mind. Thinking about the good times almost hurts more than thinking about the emptiness of the bed. A bed suddenly overflowing with old memories. Their first time sleeping next to one another, first time waking up in each other’s arms, first time discovering each other’s bodies like eager teenagers. He would never feel Aaron kissing down his chest again, the scruff of his stubble scratching and leaving irritation marks between his thighs. He’d never experience the feeling of Aaron on top and inside of him, hot above his body and intense gaze directed straight at his soul. He’ll never hear him moan Spencer’s name again.

He will never hear Aaron say ‘I love you’ again. He will never be able to tell Aaron he loves him again.    

Then… The single most agonizing sound Spencer had the misfortune to commit to memory. The excruciating wails of his one true love being stabbed in the back repeatedly. Seventeen times, Spencer would later find out. Seventeen deep, violent, fatal stabs to the back. Aaron, who had been too weak to get away from Foyet. Who had cried out in agony for two minutes before going silent. But the sound of a knife plunging into flesh has persisted, accompanying Foyet’s tired grunts. The sound only stopped when they finally arrived on the scene, Spencer running as fast as his feet would take him but still seemingly in slow motion into the house. He shot one, two, three, four, five, six, seven— until Morgan knocked the gun out of his hands and pulled him to his chest.

“He’s gone! He’s gone, Spencer! He’s dead!”

But Spencer couldn’t hear anymore. He could only see Aaron’s lifeless body. He was too late.

It’s too quiet now… not even the sound of Aaron’s breathing fills the space of the room. He can hear the buzzing of the refrigerator, and if he focuses he can hear Foyet’s taunting voice, his satisfied sigh as he killed and killed and killed.

He tosses to the other side of the bed again. Sniffing and breathing harshly, but the sobs have stopped. He’s tired enough to fall into a restless sleep. Soon he will lose the smell of sawdust and leather. One day he’ll forget just how deep the browns of his irises were. He’ll forget the touches, the gruff voice, the timid laughter, and eventually he’ll forget every memory they ever made together.

So for one last time Spencer closes his eyes and clenches his fists around Aaron’s shirt. He will dream of his lover where he can say goodbye for the rest of time.

#spencer reid x aaron hotchner #hotchreid #spencer reid #aaron hotchner #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #hotchreid whump #angst #my fic #my writing #yes i have 100 wips and shit but #i'm lonely and sad so let me be lonely and sad #wooow maeve wrote something sad with no happy ending #i'm sorry #people change i guess #any mistakes im sorry #low effort lol

[veliseraptor]

Post- Xuanwu Cave whump and rescue. Plot optional. I think there's a lot of potential in that missing scene. One minute WWX is passing out to LWJ telling him he wrote and named a song for him and the next LWJ is gone (and still injured), WWX rescued (and still holding that sword(!) why? someone pls take that away), JC is kind of pretending not to care, LXC is missing/presumed dead. LWJ and JC must have interacted during the rescue! Thx for all you write!

punctuated on all sides

[READ ON AO3]

Good thing you said plot optional because it isn’t here! instead have 4,000 words of Jiang Cheng fretting, also featuring a very awkward Jin Zixuan and a Lan Wangji disinclined to explain himself, thank you. Thanks to @ameliarating​ as usual for the betaing job. She’s very tolerant and we’re all (I’m all) grateful.

Wei Wuxian did not emerge from the tunnel behind him.

Jiang Cheng insisted on waiting, for hours, pacing back and forth and staring into the pool of water they’d surfaced from, but nothing came through.

“They’re not coming,” one of the Yao disciples said bluntly. “They’re probably dead,” and Jiang Cheng rounded on him.

“Shut up,” he snapped. “I’m going to go back-”

“No,” Jin Zixuan said. He looked a lot less peacock-like with his hair and fine Jin robes drenched. It was sort of funny, or it would have been, but Jiang Cheng couldn’t help but think that Wei Wuxian would find it hilarious and satisfying and Wei Wuxian wasn’t here.

(Or Lan Wangji, but Jiang Cheng cared a lot less about that.)

“What do you mean, no,” Jiang Cheng said.

Jin Zixuan shook his head. “You’ll just get yourself killed. We need to get away from here.”

“That’s right,” said one of the Jin disciples. “What if Wen Chao comes back?”

“He won’t,” Jiang Cheng said. “He’s a coward.” He stripped off his outer robe and glared directly at Jin Zixuan. “Go ahead and run away if you want. I’m not leaving without him.”

He dove in before anyone else could try to argue, and swam down.

The tunnel was blocked. Some kind of rockfall triggered during the fight? Or maybe that creature was smarter than it’d looked and had done it on purpose. It didn’t really matter. The fact was: Wei Wuxian wasn’t coming out this way.

Jiang Cheng had known. He’d known, Wei Wuxian had said I’ll be right behind you but then he’d also said bring back help for us and of course, of course he pulled this kind of stunt, had to stay back and be the hero-

His distracting that thing was the only reason the rest of you got out.

(You should’ve stayed back with him.)

Jiang Cheng swam back and climbed out of the pool.

“The tunnel’s collapsed,” he said shortly. “There’s no getting back in that way.”

Jin Zixuan’s expression flickered and Jiang Cheng wanted to punch him. If he said anything like sorry he thought he probably would. Fortunately, he didn’t. Instead after a moment he just said, “Jinlintai is closer than anywhere else. Let’s go there and bring back help to rescue Lan-er-gongzi and Wei Wuxian. My father will have to step in after this outrage.”

Someone - Jiang Cheng didn’t see who - squawked loudly. “What? Come back? Don’t be ridiculous. That’ll be days and by then they’ll be dead for sure.”

Jiang Cheng glared even as his stomach lurched up into his throat. No, he thought violently. No. That’s not going to happen.

“Yes,” he made himself grind out. “That would - thank you, Jin-gongzi.”

Jin Zixuan looked away. “You’re welcome, Jiang-gongzi,” he said stiffly. “Let’s go, then. Sooner better than later.” He seemed to be ignoring the objection as though it hadn’t been made, which was probably the best way to deal with it, really.

“What about the rest of us?” someone else asked.

“You’re welcome to stay here and wait around,” Mianmian said, her voice just skirting the edge of snappish. “Or try to make it back to your families on your own. That’s up to you.”

Jiang Cheng glanced back at the pool one last time before they left. The surface was still, utterly undisturbed. Somewhere down there Wei Wuxian was trapped with a monster.

He’d be fine, Jiang Cheng told himself. His shixiong was strong and frustratingly capable. Lan Wangji’s cultivation was high. Wei Wuxian wouldn’t try anything stupid like trying to take on that thing with just the two of them, without their swords.

Wei Wuxian would absolutely try something stupid exactly like that.

Jiang Cheng shoved all of that aside and made himself turn and start walking. Wei Wuxian would be fine. And when he dug him out of there he was going to punch him for trying to be a big hero and getting himself stuck in the first place.

Yes, he told himself firmly. That was exactly how it was going to be.

**

Without their swords, they had to walk to Jinlintai. And it was a long way to Jinlintai.

Jiang Cheng was beginning to have some sympathy for ordinary people who had to do this all the time.

He would have liked to move faster - too acutely aware of time passing, of how long it had been since they’d left the cave behind, how long it would take to cover the rest of the distance that was left. But there was only so fast they could go.

He expected Jin Zixuan to be a pain in the ass the whole way. He braced himself for bitching and moaning or at least arrogant and disdainful silence, but while he didn’t talk much, he was significantly less intolerable than Jiang Cheng had expected and he didn’t complain.

His respect for Jin-gongzi crept up one or two notches. Barely.

The third night, only another half-day’s journey from Jinlintai (finally, and please let Jin-zongzhu be willing to help, then they could get back to the cave and open it up and he’d drag Wei Wuxian back to Lotus Pier and beat him within an inch of his life for being such an idiot), and Jin Zixuan walked over to the fire he and the Jiang Sect disciples were huddled around. Then he proceeded to just stand there in silence.

“What,” Jiang Cheng said, when he got tired of waiting.

Jin Zixuan glanced at the Jiang disciples and cleared his throat. “I,” he said, and then stopped. He frowned, and then said, even more stiffly than usual, “I’d like a word with you, Jiang-gongzi.”

Jiang Cheng pressed his lips together and stared at him for several seconds, then jerked his head in a nod and stood up. “All right,” he said. “What about?”

Jin Zixuan turned and walked a little away from the fire, clearly expecting Jiang Cheng to follow. He scowled at his back but after a moment did.

“What is it,” he said when Jin Zixuan stopped, out of earshot of the others.

“We’ll reach Jinlintai tomorrow,” Jin Zixuan said after a long silence.

“Yes,” Jiang Cheng said. “I know.”

Jin Zixuan wasn’t quite looking straight at him, hands tucked behind his back. “My father may be...reluctant to get involved,” he said. Jiang Cheng squinted at him, feeling as though a bucket of water had been dumped on his head.

“What?”

“He doesn’t want a quarrel with Qishan Wen.”

“Doesn’t want - Qishan Wen was using us all as hostages!” Jiang Cheng burst out, his voice rising. “Wen Chao would’ve had us be monster bait and shut us all up in a cave without our weapons! The Wens attacked Cloud Recesses and burned it down, and attacked the Unclean Realm as well-”

“I know,” Jin Zixuan said, looking briefly alarmed but still not directly at Jiang Cheng. “I am just - saying.”

Jiang Cheng tried not to grind his teeth. “You’re saying he might not want to send help back to Dusk Creek Mountain for Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji.”

“It’s...possible.” Was that shame on Jin Zixuan’s face? It looked weird on him. Jiang Cheng’s chest rose and fell rapidly and he thought you’re telling me this could all have been a waste of time, that you Jins are just going to sit back and do nothing, gutless, chicken-hearted-

Jiang Cheng’s hands balled into fists. “Right,” he said through his teeth. “Well. If he doesn’t want to send anyone-”

He choked on saying I’ll go back and do it myself. What was he going to do alone?

Dread sunk into his stomach like a rock.

“I’ll try to convince him that we can’t let this disgrace stand,” Jin Zixuan said. And then, “I will convince him.”

You’d better, Jiang Cheng thought. Or I’ll, but there wasn’t much he could do, was there? Wasn’t like he could fight Jin-zongzhu. He couldn’t do anything. Just - helpless. Useless.

He could hear that in a-niang’s voice.

“The Wen Sect is just going to keep pushing forward until someone stops them,” Jiang Cheng said. “After what happened to Lan Sect, and Qinghe Nie…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jin Zixuan said, and his voice was suddenly much harder. “Mianmian says-” He stopped. And looked embarrassed again. He cleared his throat. “I know what the situation is.”

Jiang Cheng wondered what Mianmian said, but he doubted asking was going to get him anywhere.

Jin Zixuan said nothing for several very long moments, and then said, “Wei Wuxian.”

Jiang Cheng tensed. “What about him,” he said tightly, because there were a lot of ways that conversations starting with Wei Wuxian could go, and given previous interactions between Wei Wuxian and Jin Zixuan, it seemed unlikely it would be good.

Jin Zixuan’s pause was even longer this time. He seemed to be struggling with something. “The way you treat him,” he said. “It’s very…”

Jiang Cheng glared at him, hackles continuing to rise.

“...familiar,” Jin Zixuan said.

“How should I treat him,” Jiang Cheng said aggressively. Jin Zixuan looked like he was beginning to regret starting this conversation. He shook his head.

“Never mind.”

“I don’t think,” Jiang Cheng said icily, “that Wei Wuxian’s place in Jiang Sect is a matter for Jin Sect to concern themselves with.”

Jin Zixuan flushed. Then turned on his heel and marched back over to the Jin disciples. Jiang Cheng glared at his back, then huffed and went back to the other Jiang disciples, taking a stick and poking at the fire.

It’s not that hard to understand, he wanted to snap at Jin Zixuan. He’s basically my brother.

And I left him behind.

Jiang Cheng shoved that away. It wasn’t his fault. And he was going back. He was not going back to Jiang Yanli without her a-Xian in tow.

And Jin Zixuan could shove his opinions where the sun didn’t shine.

**

Jin Zixuan had been right. Jin Guangyao did not want to get involved.

Not that anyone said as much. They were all welcomed, of course, provided food and water and guest rooms and sympathy, but no one said anything about the Wens, let alone going back to Dusk Creek Mountain.

“What are we going to do,” Jia Zian asked. “Should we just go back to Lotus Pier?”

Jiang Cheng clenched his jaw and shook his head. It’d take too long. By the time they got there and back - even if the monster hadn’t killed Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, starvation or thirst would. Time was short and running out.

He went looking for Jin Zixuan, and found him lurking outside Fragrant Palace looking disgruntled.

“Jin-gongzi,” he said loudly. He turned toward Jiang Cheng, the disgruntled look wiped off his face between one moment and the next. Jiang Cheng sort of wondered how he managed to give off that air of looking down his nose even when he wasn’t.

“Jiang-gongzi,” Jin Zixuan said stiffly.

“What has Jin-zongzhu said he’s going to do about all of this?”

Jin Zixuan’s expression pinched like he’d smelled something bad. “He is considering the matter.”

Jiang Cheng was briefly overwhelmed with the temptation to grab Jin Zixuan by the shoulders and shake him. “Considering?” he said. “How long is he going to be considering for?”

He knew he was being rude, but his head was full of the words my brother is dying. My brother might already be dead. He wasn’t going to say it.

“He didn’t say,” Jin Zixuan said. “It is - a grave matter. We’d be rebelling against the Chief Cultivator. He has to consider the welfare of the sect.” He didn’t sound happy about it, at least. Jiang Cheng’s right hand clenched into a fist and he wished, badly, that he had Sandu with him. It wouldn’t fix anything, or wouldn’t fix much, but he thought he might feel at least a little better.

“I know,” he managed, grudgingly. “I was just - wondering.”

Jin Zixuan gave him a sideways look and then said, “I asked if he would be willing to send a small group to Wang Feng to investigate.”

Jiang Cheng tried not to look too surprised. “And?”

Jin Zixuan looked away with a flick of his sleeves and said nothing, which Jiang Cheng supposed was answer enough. Maybe he was supposed to give him credit for asking. He did, sort of. But that still didn’t get them any closer to returning to that cave and getting Wei Wuxian out of it.

“I’m going to ask him again,” Jin Zixuan said abruptly. He turned his gaze more directly to Jiang Cheng, and Jiang Cheng had the feeling that he was attempting to communicate something, but he had no idea what.

“All right,” he said after a few beats of silence. “You...do that.”

And left him to it, his mind in turmoil, the horrible feeling of helplessness knocking against him like an unwelcome guest on a door, again, again, again.

**

Jiang Cheng had no idea what changed Jin-zongzhu’s mind. He knew it was a good thing for many reasons, that the Wen Sect was going too far and needed to be stopped, that they’d attacked Nie Sect and Lan Sect and definitely wouldn’t stop there, but his first thought was, shamefully, thank the heavens, now we can go back for my brother.

To his mild surprise, Jin Zixuan joined him. Jiang Cheng was willing to acknowledge that he was not, perhaps, entirely without redeeming qualities. He’d shown some integrity in the cave, and now-

Well, he was actually being helpful. The Jin Sect disciples wouldn’t have listened to him, but they listened to Jin Zixuan - of course. When they reached the cave, they immediately started clearing the boulders that Wen Chao and his lackeys had used to close it up.

Jiang Cheng sidled up to him and said, grudgingly, “thank you.” Jin Zixuan turned in his direction and Jiang Cheng briefly identified his expression as ‘startled.’

Then it cleared and he just nodded, folding his hands behind his back. Jiang Cheng examined him, wondering again what a-jie possibly saw in him. Maybe he was more decent than hitherto believed, but husband material he was not.

“You’ll be going back to Lotus Pier after this,” Jin Zixuan said after a few moments. Jiang Cheng nodded, his eyes on the thinning barrier of boulders between him and that damned cave. The second he saw an opening big enough…

He probably shouldn’t just run in alone. He still didn’t have Sandu. And he’d need a rope to get down safely.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want to.

Jin Zixuan cleared his throat. “Before...your shixiong was brave,” he said. Jiang Cheng’s hackles went up and what he thought was he still is, but he realized somewhat quickly that wasn’t what Jin Zixuan meant. It just sounded too much like - the kind of thing someone might say offering condolences.

His next thought was he’s a reckless idiot, is what he is, but he had too much loyalty to say that to this peacock, even still. “Wei Wuxian is the head disciple of Jiang Sect,” he said. The glance in his direction seemed almost wary.

“I’d thought,” he began, and then stopped.

Thought he was an irresponsible jackass with no sense of decorum? You wouldn’t be wrong, Jiang Cheng thought, but he kept his mouth shut and just fixed a long stare on Jin Zixuan, who coughed delicately and turned his eyes forward again.

“I hope that he and Lan-er-gongzi are all right,” he said.

They’d better be.

A shout went up; the cave was open. Jiang Cheng took a step forward, his stomach swooping. He was counting back days, calculating time, remembering Wei Wuxian shouting at him to bring back help-

Once he went in there, there’d be no turning back. Until he saw - there was some very stupid part of him that kept thinking if he didn’t know Wei Wuxian was dead, if he didn’t see him, then he’d still be alive. Which of course was not how that worked. And he wasn’t dead, anyway. Couldn’t be.

“Jiang Wanyin,” Jin Zixuan said, or started to say.

“Let’s go,” Jiang Cheng said flatly, gritting his teeth and starting forward back into the cave.

**

Jiang Cheng saw the dead monster first. It stank, the smell of rotting meat and blood thick enough that he felt like he would choke on it. Dead, he thought. It’s dead. They killed it?

Next to him, Jin Zixuan was staring, arm covering his nose and mouth. “That,” he said. And then, “how…”

Jiang Cheng shook himself. “Wei Wuxian!” he shouted, walking forward, looking around the cavern, scanning the surface of the water. “Wei Wuxian!” After a moment he added, “Lan Wangji!”

Other voices joined him, calling their names. Jiang Cheng’s heart was pounding in his ears. The monster was dead, he told himself. For it to be dead, someone had to have killed it. Someone had to have been alive to kill it.

(That doesn’t mean they’re alive now.)

“Wei Wuxian!” he shouted, louder.

“Here,” he heard. Quiet. Not Wei Wuxian’s voice.

Finally he saw it: a crevice in the rocks, a small opening, just big enough for people to get through but not that thing in the water. He stumbled toward it, shoved his way through, a chorus in his head going please please please.

He saw Lan Wangji first, practically glowing in his whites, leaning up against the rock wall. There were bloodstains on his robes, and he looked pale and exhausted, but his eyes were open and he was plainly alive. With him-

With him, lying limply half in Lan Wangji’s lap, was Wei Wuxian. His skin was ashy and drained of color, and Jiang Cheng’s eyes widened.

He ran, crashed to his knees next to them, and said, his voice too high, “is he-?”

“He is sick,” Lan Wangji said. His expression was pinched like he was annoyed. With Wei Wuxian, for collapsing on him? Ass. Now that he was closer, Jiang Cheng could see him breathing, shallowly. He was clutching the ugliest sword Jiang Cheng had ever seen to his chest.

“What’s that,” he said, and then shook himself and said, “never mind. Let me take him.” He moved to haul Wei Wuxian off Lan Wangji, to get him out of this filthy cave and then back to Lotus Pier, to a-jie who would be so relieved to see them both.

“No need,” Lan Wangji said, and gathered Wei Wuxian into his arms like he was weightless, standing and turning away from Jiang Cheng to walk out - limp out - in silence. Jiang Cheng gaped after him.

He managed to recover himself pretty quickly and walk out after him, face burning.

Jiang Cheng glanced at the dead monster once more on the way out. It really was an awful-looking thing. Truly horrifying, and he’d seen how fearsome it was. How had Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian managed to kill it, just the two of them, alone?

By any measurement it was an impressive feat, but they’d done it. Wei Wuxian once again showing his merit.

The moment he thought it Jiang Cheng wanted to slap himself. Jealous? Really? When he’s been starving in here for days, half-dead and feverish and wounded. And you’re going to make it about yourself. Very good.

He grimaced and kept walking, climbing out of the cave and immediately searching for Lan Wangji - and how had he gotten out that fast, the shape he was in? (Cultivation’s just that high, he thought irritably. Lan-er-gongzi, what a pillar of might and skill.

He was doing it again.

For a wild moment when he didn’t see him he thought he’d walked off with Wei Wuxian, but then he did see a figure in white kneeling by a tree, bent over a limp body in black.

Jiang Cheng strode over in a hurry. Lan Wangji’s head turned as he approached, his face now blank and expressionless. Do you have some kind of problem with me or just with people in general, he wanted to snap, but only briefly, his attention zeroing back in on Wei Wuxian, dead to the world.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Lan Wangji blinked slowly. “Infection,” he said, finally. “And…” he paused, seemingly considering something, and went on, “it was a difficult battle.”

Jiang Cheng thought that was probably an understatement. His eyes dropped to the sword he was holding, and his hackles went up. It was a nasty looking thing, stained with red that looked like old blood. “What’s that,” he said, pointing.

Lan Wangji turned his eyes back to Wei Wuxian’s face. “A sword,” he said. Jiang Cheng resisted the powerful urge to snarl.

“I got that,” he snapped, and crouched down to pry it away. He’d give it back later, but it was making his skin crawl and he had the intense urge to get it as far away from Wei Wuxian as possible.

His fingers barely touched the blade and it - bit him.

That was the only way he had to describe it. It stung, like the bite of a snake, and for a moment he could’ve sworn he heard voices screaming, for a moment he wanted to get himself as far from the thing as possible-

The feeling passed and it was just a sword again. A very strange sword that had attacked when he tried to remove it. He could feel Lan Wangji watching him.

“You already tried, didn’t you,” he said.

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said.

“You could’ve said something,” Jiang Cheng said, but he looked away and focused back on Wei Wuxian, reaching out to lay the back of his hand against his forehead, then taking his hand to channel some spiritual energy into him. Lan Wangji watched like a hawk, like he thought Jiang Cheng was going to do it wrong, somehow.

Then, very abruptly, he stood up and turned away. Jiang Cheng started to rise as well, realized he was still holding Wei Wuxian’s hand, and stopped. “What’re you doing?”

“Leaving,” Lan Wangji said. Jiang Cheng took a deep breath through his nose.

“You’re - what? Now?” On the tip of his tongue was before he wakes up? but he decided he didn’t want to touch that.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji said.

“But,” Jiang Cheng started. He didn’t actually have any reasonable objections, though. There was no reason Lan Wangji needed to stay. As soon as Wei Wuxian woke up, they were just going to go back to Lotus Pier. And it wasn’t like Lan Wangji could do anything to help him now that Jiang Cheng couldn’t do.

It still seemed like - Wei Wuxian had gone out of his way more than once to help Lan Wangji, and here Lan Wangji was just - leaving while he was still like this.

And yet he’d carried him out here. He’d been holding Wei Wuxian, practically in his lap.

“Jiang-gongzi,” Lan Wangji said, and turned again, arm folded behind his back, striding smoothly away. Jiang Cheng watched him go, scowling and perplexed, but not for long before he looked back down at Wei Wuxian.

Still dead unconscious. Emphasis on the dead.

But he’d be fine. He was still breathing, and seemed to have stabilized, more or less. Soon he’d wake up and they’d head home together. The important thing was that Jiang Cheng had made it here in time.

And Wei Wuxian was going to be fine. Maybe he’d even learn his lesson about being a goddamn hero. Probably not, though.

His eyes fell again on the sword Wei Wuxian was clutching to his chest, and his skin crawled. That thing, he thought. He really didn’t like it.

Didn’t matter. Wei Wuxian would wake up soon, and they’d go home to a-jie, the Wens would be dealt with, and life could go back to normal before the end of the year.

Yes, he told himself again. That. That was how it was going to be.

#anonymous #a wild fic appeared #jiang cheng #the untamed #the sad queer cultivators show

[zertzertzhang]

Stand and Deliver: My Life Turned Upside Down CH.3

A/N: This is my first time writing on Tumblr, so please bear with me! I am usually active on FFNet and AO3, but since this fandom is basically nonexistent except for here, I thought maybe I could post my works for this movie here. The story is a fanfic based on the 1988 movie ‘Stand and Deliver’ starring Edward James Olmos, taking a deeper look into the lives of the impoverished students in East LA.

Eventual Angel/OC, and warnings of racial slurs with some physical violence.

:

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Chapter Three: Living Skills

By the time she rolled into the second week of Garfield High, Vianne was sure she saw the school at its worst. Had she been honest with herself, she would’ve thought she was beginning to get used to the rioting students. It was a surprise that she became somewhat good at blocking the excess noise from them.

Hateful stares and whispered insults about her ethnicity waned as the week dragged on. The initial weariness she felt from the people around her dropped as she kept to herself. Call it paranoia or what, she could sense the heavy atmosphere boring onto her back as she passed the lockers. It was hard imagining a whole year of silence. 

Vianne never saw herself as a quiet wallflower, but the situation at hand forced her mouth shut for far too long. The need to talk to someone had been building up since the day she arrived. If this was going to stretch out any longer, she could see herself  talking to random objects within her peripheral vision. As if the students needed another excuse to deepen the ostracization. In her own way, Vianne was in solitary confinement.

Wait why do I need them?! 

She shook her head, angry at her own slip up. There was no need for her to make any contact with people like that. Loneliness must've been a powerful force for her, for she now wanted communication from the very people set out to destroy her life. And it tore her dignity to shreds.

Biting the fleshy pulp of her lips, Vianne exhaled. There were still two more periods before she could jump into her car and drive home. Living Skills was next on her schedule, so she had to trudge across campus to her destination. The signs pointing to her class became clear as she neared the hallway. 

With five minutes before the second bell, Vianne discovered the almost empty room. It was custom for things like that to happen. Usually, people were either late or scrambling in at the last second. To her, that was a blessing. Any area could be taken for her choosing.

She spotted Ana by the side near the windows. The bespectacled young woman turned her head to look at her when she arrived at the scene. A shy smile crossed Ana’s face, and she waved. Vianne quirked her lips in an awkward attempt to smile back.

Ana was friendly, not just to her. A pang of guilt vibrated along Vianne’s chest. She felt a bit extreme in condemning everyone in the school; at least Ana made an effort to make her feel welcomed. It was because of that Vianne didn’t pull out her hair during Math 1A, so she owed it to her.

“Hey.” A soft greeting slipped from Vianne as she approached the desk. 

Ana shuffled some books to the side, creating space for her. “Hi! How was your lunch?”

Vianne sighed. “I’ve had better. The heat melted my sandwich.” She left out the part where she sat by herself for two whole weeks, not wanting to sound like some loser.

Her metaphor made Ana giggle lightly. It reminded her of the bells twinkling on the front door back in Napa; Vianne thought it to be rather calming. A breath of fresh air away from the screaming students was a surprising luxury around here.

“I know a place where there's an air conditioner,” Ana said. “You can come eat with me if you’d like.” 

The invitation caught Vianne off guard, prompting her to nearly drop her pencil. Ana still held her hopeful smile, like a lost puppy. That and the desperation to find cold air sold the deal.

Vianne grinned. “That'd be great. I’ll catch you after math tomorrow.” A satisfied hum left her as she leaned against the chair. It was nice to have a lunch buddy. 

It didn’t take long for the starting bell to ring. Mrs. Flores entered the class with a large trunk, followed by a hoard of people behind her. Everyone fought for a seat, breaking the calm atmosphere in seconds. Both Vianne and Ana resisted the urge to roll their eyes.

Mrs. Flores was a cheery plump woman in her sixties. Her floral dress was matched with a mint green camisole, making Vianne think of daisies and dandelions in a summer field. A pair of reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, giving her a jolly appearance of a librarian. Viane would reckon she’d keep a hidden stash of toffee under a desk somewhere for the children. 

“Settle down, settle down!” The teacher’s chirpy voice broke through the crowd. “I have an announcement to make!”

An exasperated glance was thrown at them as Mrs. Flores shuffled to the front podium. Her arms came up, hands clasping together in enthusiastic excitement. 

“I’m happy to introduce you all to our project of the semester,” she began. “There will be two parts, with each section worth fifty points. This will be a partnered assignment, so I expect you all to be friendly with one another.” 

Mrs. Flores gave them another knowing look, as if to warn them against their funny business. A few students avoided her gaze, fidgeting sheepishly on the chairs. To the side, Vianne looked at Ana, motioning back and forth between them. Ana caught the drift and nodded; it would be best if they could choose who they wanted to work with.

It was still too early into the school year for Vianne to be comfortable with anyone on the premises, but Ana had been the only one to show acceptance. She’d take that over anything.

“Each pair will receive a doll.” 

The next instruction baffled the class. Vianne stared on with wide eyes as Mrs. Flores took out a raggedy dummy from the trunk. It was a dress-up doll, with the color of its skin ashened by years of dust coupled with torn bits of its dress. 

Mrs. Flores sighed with strange contentment as she continued. “This year, the health department wants us to learn how to be responsible adults. As we are nearing senior year, the closer you are all to adulthood. And one of the graduation requirements is to pass Living Skills.”

Vianne didn’t need to hear the rest of it. Playing make-believe house was one of the projects required in Sex Ed class back in Napa, only it was to be taken during senior year. It would appear that it was happening sooner for her. Praying to whatever deity that came to mind, she hoped that she was allowed to choose partners. There was no way she was going to be stuck with a haughty, nose-picking man-child. 

“The fuck ma’am?!” Another shout rang from behind. “Who needs this?!”

A wave of murmurs agreed to his outcry, with some joining in. Mrs. Flores huffed, using her index finger to push up her glasses before glaring at the mass.

“If you want me to teach sex, then the right thing for me to do is to teach you the aftermath of it, too.” A light smile danced around her lips, a brow raised along with it. The boys’ cheeks flushed bright red at the comment, while the girls took a sudden interest in their books. 

Vianne felt the same sentiment, her ears tingling with warm embarrassment. Mrs. Flores was a lot of things, and bluntness was one of them. 

“Can we pick partners?” one of the girls asked. 

Mrs. Flores shook her head. “I’ve already made my decision last night about the pairs.”

Vianne’s stomach twisted at the revelation; she was already having a shitty time adjusting to the new school, and now she had to deal with a hotheaded student who probably hated her guts. Dred pooled down her back, soaking her in fearful anticipation.

Before them, Mrs. Flores took out a sheet of paper. Her mouth moved to speak, but was interrupted when an ear-splitting crash came from the door. It sounded like a dense mass falling onto the lockers. All eyes turned to the source of the sound, Vianne included. Another bang followed the crash, before all was silent. She sucked in a breath.

With a crack, the door flew open, revealing none other than the very boy who made fun of her days before in Math 1A. It would appear that barging into class midway was his style of rolling.His eyes drooped in lazy discontent, and there was dust all over his bomber jacket. Upon closer inspection, Vianne could make out the beginnings of a bruise forming on the corners of his left eye. 

Great. She shared another class with him, too. Oh goodie. Vianne was starting to believe that she was cursed before she stepped foot in LA. Or maybe she fucked up really bad in her past life. Because no one could have this much bad luck in one month. Mrs. Flores, on the other hand, seemed way too surprised at his grandiose entrance.  

“Well, well, Mr. Angel Guzman,” she tutted. “It’s a pleasure to finally see you grace my class with your presence.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice as she stared him down, not bothering with formalities.

Angel rolled his eyes with a click of his tongue. Sauntering to the nearest desk, he slumped into the seat, angling his legs wide open. Without context, one might believe him to be a gangster boss overlooking his new crew. The relaxed stance in his posture gave away nothing about his mood, but the dark look in his eyes spoke for him. 

 If Mrs. Flores was miffed by his disposition, she didn’t show it. “Since you’ve expressed so much excitement for this assignment, I’ll give you the honor of knowing your partner first.” 

Scanning the paper, her eyes landed on the very bottom of the list, and she spoke again. “You’ll be with Miss Yang over here for the project. Now, Adeline, you’re with Thomas. Ana, you’re with Daniel, Clarise-”

Vianne didn’t take in anything else other than the first sentence. Her ears rang, and she could see her soul departing her body for the heavens. This was the final nail on the coffin, pushing her over the edge of sanity. Her worst prediction had come true; she had the most deadbeat partner she could ever find in this school.

Her instincts had her look over in his direction. Angel’s gaze caught hers as she did so, however his face still held their impassive stare. Breaking contact, he moved to pull down his beanie again, shielding his eyes; he was preparing for a nap. Vianne groaned into her hands, earning a pity glance from Ana. It was the I’m-sorry-but-you’re-kinda-screwed look.

Mrs. Flores was still speaking, thus rattling Vianne back to reality. “-come up and grab your supplies! Please make a line and wait your turn.”

Half of the class rose and made a beeline for the trunk. Ana had already gathered hers and was now sitting by Daniel, leaving her alone. Angel was leaning against the chair like he was by the beach with his hands behind his head, and that told her more than she needed to hear. Vianne pursed her lips, hoisting her body from the desk. 

The teacher smiled too brightly when she came up to collect her doll. “Congratulations! It’s a girl for you!”

Handing Vianne a bottle of cleaning solution and a hair brush, Mrs. Flores patted her with a good-natured smile. It made Vianne’s soul twist in its grave. She turned around with robotic stiffness, and headed back to Angel’s seat. The young man took no notice of her arrival, continuing to stew in his state of trance. A toothpick hung out from his mouth, giving more into the lazy fashion.

Shit. I’m going to carry us both. The grim thought crossed her mind, and she winced. 

“Uh, we need to fill out the form.” Vianne pointed to the paper left by the teacher, snapping her fingers to get his attention. It was a fake birth certificate for the doll; Mrs. Flores was going above and beyond for the final project. Had it been under pleasant circumstances, Vianne would’ve given her kudos for her creativity.

Angel canted his view upwards, staring at her with mild curiosity. It was only then she noticed the deep set of eyes, with equally thick brows to match. His hands refused to leave his head, but his lips parted ever so slightly. Nothing came out of them.

Right. The guy never brings pencils. Realization hit her and she slumped onto the chair next to his. This is gonna be so fun.

As she tapped her pencil onto the paper, Vianne ignored the bouncing of his legs to the side. It was taking her attention away from thinking of a name for the doll. After another few minutes of awkward silence passed, she noticed they were the only pair that had almost zero progress on the first section.

Open your mouth and get him to talk, damn it! 

Scowling, Vianne turned to the young delinquent, who was actually on the urge of falling asleep this time. Vexation burned her mind, and she shoved the paper to his side. 

“Come up with a name,” she said. The sudden movement jerked him from his slumber, causing him to blink several times before his eyes settled back to hers with a glare. Vianne was not about to back down from a glance alone, so she crossed her arms, huffing at the dramatic display of resistance.

“I know you understand me.” The memory from last week was still fresh in her brain cache. “So come up with a name.”

At that, Angel smirked. “You’re the smart one. What ya need me for?”

Oh the little shithead.

Vianne returned the remark with a scowl of her own. “Believe me, I’d love to work by myself given the situation. But I’m not gonna carry you across the semester.” If the brat thought he was going to get an easy A because of her, then he had another thing coming. 

Her hissy fit seemed to have gotten to him; his eyes narrowed while he bit down on the toothpick. “Puta, you’re so fucking annoying.”

“What did you just call me?!”

“Figure it out, smart one.” A lopsided grin appeared on his face, though it was miles away from friendly. His eyes flashed, almost like a warning. But like that would deter her.

She was about ready to slap the paper into his face when she remembered the way Escalante would handle him when he got up all over his ass. A slight smirk painted her lips as she thought of an idea; if he was going to be an ass, then she was going to be an ass back.

“Are you simply trying to hide your illiteracy?” Vianne asked, her voice filled with over-saturated innocence.

Angel nearly swallowed his toothpick. “What?” The stare he sent her screamed a thousand red flags, but she held a hand against her legs to keep them from shivering.

“Oh, y’know…” she began. “I thought coming up with names wouldn’t be too difficult. Seems like it is for you, though.”

The muscles of his jaws clenched, darkening his guise. Angel’s nostrils flared as he looked at the piece of paper before him. Vianne could practically see the gears turn in his head. They were in a classroom, so there was nothing extreme he could do even if he was pissed. The thought of trapping him between a rock and a hard place made her feel a little better after the previous taunts.

Just when she moved to retrieve the materials back, his hands slammed on the paper. She flinched at the action, but kept her eyes glued to the desk, not raising to meet his.

“Camilla.” His raspy hum sounded quietly in the background. Had Vianne been further away, she wouldn’t have caught it.

“What?” She peered up at him, opening her mouth to ask more, but he was already looking away.

“The name,” Angel said. “It’s Camilla.” He made it sound like he was talking to a five-year-old.

Vianne breathed a sigh of relief and took the pencil. She began to fill in the required information about their ‘daughter’. He still refused to write out his part, so she relented for now.

“Camilla Guzman it is then,” she spoke to herself.

Now it was Angel’s turn to be perplexed. “Camilla Guzman?” He stopped chewing the wooden stick in his mouth for a moment.

His partner scoffed from her seat. “Well, you’re the dad, Angel. Unless you want me to have full custody.” Vianne rolled her eyes at the thought of having a daughter at her age. Ms. Lin would have a heart attack and be driven to an early grave. 

When she didn’t hear anything else from him, she feared her jokes flew over his head. Vianne raised her head just in time to catch a light smirk tugging at his face. Sensing no real threat, she went back to writing.

A clap from Mrs. Flores turned both their attentions to the front podium. The teacher had gathered everyone’s eyeballs towards herself, and she cleared her throat. 

“Since class is coming to an end, I’d like to make sure everyone understands their part of the assignment.” She paused for a second, before taking out another batch of files. “One ‘parent’ takes care of the doll for a week, alternating with their partners over the course of the semester. By the end of each month, I’d like a report summarizing the difficulties of parenthood. The rubric is simple; if the doll ends up in tatters, or if it becomes lost, then you will be automatically given an ‘F’. Keeping your ‘children’ in pristine condition and well-clothed is the primary goal. That’s all for today. Now figure out who’s taking custody first.”

Vianne looked to Angel, and then back to their ‘daughter’. This was a tough cookie, and she wasn’t sure she trusted him with not losing the doll within the first few days. 

“Rock papers,” Angel offered.

She wanted to guffaw at the suggestion, but logic told her it was a fair method. “Sure. Loser takes the kid.”

It turned out to be a horrible move on her part. No matter what kind of tricks she threw at him during the sparring, he either met her with the same level, or defeated her. If she used rock, he met her with paper. When she went for paper, he countered with scissors. At last, on the third try, she pulled a rock again, only to be faced with another rock from him.

Two loses and a tie; it was a no brainer who the kid went with for the first week. Angel sizzled with smug pride as he counted the points against her, his wicked grin broadening.

“Guess you’re not so smart after all.”

Oh fuck you. Vianne knew nothing good ever came out of that smirk. There was no guarantee he was going to show up after her week was up. For all she knew, Angel could easily ditch her for the rest of the year with the doll on her own. It wasn’t like he cared about his perfect track record. Her heart sank at the thought.

“You are coming back next week, right?” Skepticism laced her words as she eyed him. 

Angel clicked his tongue, raising a brow. “Who knows?” It was the closest to an answer she would get from him. And it was not reassuring at all. 

Vianne glared, hoping that by her looks alone, he would get the message. But her efforts were in vain. Angel soon reverted back to napping for the rest of the class, not wasting a second longer on her.

:

:

A/N: As per usual, shoutout to @classic80sand90smovieloves2 for encouraging and helping me get over writers block and whatnot ;) 

And thank you to all my followers who happened upon this piece in the sea of posts here on tumblr :p I love y’all and hope I didn’t disappoint!

#stand and deliver #angel guzman #angel guzman imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #lou diamond phillips #edward james olmos #jaime escalante #stand and deliver headcanon #80s movie imagines #80s movies

[katie-dub]

The Bottomless Brunch Incident

Summary: There are some things you shouldn’t do while drinking - driving, texting ex boyfriends, carving pumpkins. But Emma Swan was never one for following the rules.

AO3

Hello! Yes, it’s been 84 years and honestly I thought my days of writing CS fic were done, but the words are back so here I am, putting out some Halloween-type fic inspired by my ridiculous life. (No, really.) And a little birdie ( @profdanglaisstuff​ ) told me that it was @thisonesatellite​ ‘s birthday, so happy birthday Steph! (And thank you Saira for reading this for me!)

“Emma can do that! Emma! EM-MA!” Mary Margaret’s voice rang out across the bar. 

Emma looked up without releasing the straw from her lips, continuing to slurp down her delicious alcoholic beverage of indeterminate origins. She hoped that she had struck that sweet spot between paying just enough attention to satisfy her friend, while also not making it clear to the rest of the room that she was the Emma in question.

“Come here here, Emma!” Mary Margaret had started flailing dramatically. 

Emma sighed, there was nothing for it, she was going to have to go see what she wanted or risk being dragged over there and causing even more of a scene. She stood up, and was a little surprised to discover that the ground seemed to sway beneath her. 

“Woah, who’s playing Inception with the floor?” she muttered to her feet, watching them suspiciously for signs of further unexpected movements and only making a move to her friend when she was satisfied that the ground was definitely upright again.

“What’s up Ms?” she asked, stumbling, but styling it out by leaning against the bar. And if her arms happened to miss the target ever so slightly, no one seemed to notice. At least, no one who would say anything.

“Emma! You’re exactly the person we need! The lovely um -”

“Killian”

“- that’s right, Killian, needs help.”

Emma looked up into the most stunning pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. They were so rich and intense - like sparkling sapphires and forget-me-nots and the clearest, bluest summer sky all combined - and they were smirking at her in undisguised amusement. 

Oh fuck, she was staring. 

She blinked and concentrated on ignoring the resulting gravity shift in her brain that caused. When she reopened her eyes, she took in the rest of the owner of those eyes. A cocked eyebrow, an amused smirk, black and ginger scruff and mussed up hair that fell into his eyes. 

It was a good look. 

More than good, Emma’s lip curled up in a predatory grin, she licked her lips. She liked what she saw, a whole lot.

“Killian here needs a white in shining armour to help him impress a lady.” Mary Margaret said eagerly, clapping her hand on Emma’s shoulder. Emma’s heart dropped. A lady. Of fucking course the most gorgous man in the bar needs her help to get in some poor soul’s pants. “Killian, this is my dear friend Emma, and she carves the best pumpkin that you will ever have the pleasure of seeing. In. Your. Life.” 

It took Emma’s brain a minute to process what Mary Margaret had just said. “No, there’s no way for me to make sense of that. What’s happening here?”

“Killian -” Mary Margaret pointed with all the unselfconscious flourish that only the very intoxicated can pull off “- needs you, Emma Swan -” her finger jabbed towards Emma “- to carve him a pumpkin for a lady.”

“Carve your own damn pumpkin,” Emma snarled, feeling a childish urge to pout because Killian was taken.

“I would but -” Killian raised his left arm to indicate the prosthetic he had in place of a hand “- this makes it somewhat tricky.”

Oh God, I’m an asshole, she thought, refusing to help someone differently abled. 

“Oh - I’m - er, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok, love, you didn’t cut off my hand”

“Someone cut off your hand?” Emma shrieked in alarm, and Killian looked startled.

“Well, they were a surgeon, it wasn’t like Peter Pan chopped it off and fed it to a crocodile,” he said with a laugh.

Emma’s face burned in reply. 

“So anyway, my prosthetic makes pumpkin carving alone somewhat tricky. And my friend Will was supposed to turn up to help, but I forgot that he’s a wanker so that was never going to happen. And I might’ve struggled through, only the bottomless brunches that we offer is so popular that the whole place is packed. So now I need to go to Belle’s literary Halloween party straight from my shift with an ‘epic and on-theme jack o lantern’ that is currently but a sad, humble pumpkin. In short: help me Swan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

“Perhaps I should just carve Don’t Panic in large friendly letters?” Emms suggested.

Killian scoffed. “No need for that. I’m a frood who really knows where my towel is.”

Her jaw dropped. “You know Hitchhiker’s Guide?” she gasped.

“I’m a British geek, of course I do, I’d have my geek licence revoked for not know that. It’d be like a Ben Wyatt who couldn’t do sums!”

“It just doesn’t add up?” Emma smirked and Killian grinned in reply. 

“Oh I knew I liked you.”

“What does the lovely Belle like?” Mary Margaret butted in. Emma scowled. Right, there was a lady. “Ooooh Emma, maybe you could do something from Beauty and the Beast? You know, because of the name?”

“That sounds a little complex for me, Ms, um..” Emma said.

“Oh don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Killian said.

“Killian, stop flirting with my customers, and get back to work!”

Killian rolled his eyes, but straightened up, scratching behind his ears which had turned a little red at his boss’ words.

“Just leave it with me,” said Emma confidently, “I’ll wow this Belle for you!”

And she started carving a pumpkin, because what else can you do when you’re drunk and the guy you’re into has the hots for someone else.

🎃🎃🎃

It was probably not the best pumpkin Emma had ever carved. It certainly wasn’t the safest thing she ever did, wielding a sharp knife while so drunk she had to close one eye and squint to see straight. But still, some time later she had produced a Frankenstein’s Monster pumpkin that Mary Margaret squealed “she’ll love it!” over, before turning a colour befitting of said monster. 

In the rush to save both the jack o lantern and the bar floor from the indignity of Mary Margaret’s depositing the contents of her stomach upon them, Emma had to leave without saying goodbye to Killian or hearing his thoughts of her carving.

It was probably for the best.

🎃🎃🎃

Emma had thought that she would be too embarrassed to ever set foot in The Rabbit Hole again after The Bottomless Brunch Disaster. But just three weeks later, she found herself cajoled into going with Ruby to meet a new girl she’d started seeing. Emma left her hair down, letting it fall forward over her face to hide from the shame.

“Emma, come join me!” Ruby called out and Emma looked up to see her sitting at the bar. She shook her head minutely, she couldn’t go sit at the bar, what if Killian were there? She’d be mortified. 

“Swan Kenobi as I live and breathe!”

Emma was fairly certain that her heart stopped in that moment. Just for dramatic effect. Killian was here. Well, there was no point hanging back now she’d been caught.

“Hi Ruby,” she said as she walked up to her friend, “Killian,” she greeted him with a short nod.

Ruby looked back and forward between them. “I didn’t know that you knew each other.”

“Oh we don’t really,” Emma said, “I just carved a pumpkin for him a few weeks ago. How’d that go by the way? Did you win the heart of the princess?”

“Hold up,” said Ruby. “You carved him a pumpkin? How is that sentence meant to make any kind of sense to me?”

“He was trying to impress some girl and Mary Margaret was there, probably handing out hope speeches like Halloween candy, and somehow it was decided that a gorgeous Frankenstein’s Monster pumpkin would be the way to do it.”

“Emma carved that jack o lantern you brought to Belle’s party?” Ruby gasped in delighted shock, while Emma was left reeling by Ruby’s statement.

“You know Belle?” she asked.

“Hi there!” A petite brunette appeared from nowhere, presumably the aforementioned Belle, and she proceeded to give Ruby a kiss.

“Emma, meet Belle, my new girlfriend,” Ruby introduced the newcomer.

It took a long time for the pieces of the puzzle to click into place in Emma’s head, but when they did she was left feeling inexplicable angry with Killian. “I pulled out my best work for nothing?" she snapped at him. 

"I wouldn't say nothing, lass, I did need help with carving a pumpkin for Belle’s party. Your friend got it into her head that men and women can’t be friends or some such nonsense. Honestly, she was drunk and offering me help, I wasn’t trying to trick anyone. And besides that pumpkin brought a very enchanting lady into my life." 

There was someone else now? I mean, the guy was hot, but was she gonna have to fight a crowd to get to him? Not that she was interested of course.. She leaned in with her chin on her hands, attempting to look nonchalant. 

"Another one? Tell me, what's this one like?" 

"She's a tough lass, but with a heart of gold. The kind to take pity on a miserable sod in a bar and try to help him get his happy ending, a real saviour, you know?" Emma's heart beat faster. "And she has the most bewitching green eyes that I could get lost in." She started to smile. “And she’s the best pumpkin carver I ever met and if she’d be up for it, I’d love to get a drink with her sometime.”

“Killian Jones will you stop fucking about and do your damn job!” Killian’s boss had come up behind him, causing him to jump. She stomped off, leaving him and Emma to say their goodbyes.

Thinking quickly, Emma reached over the bar, grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him in for a kiss. It was hot, sweet and far too fast. “You’re on,” she said, releasing him and stepping back from the bar “but let’s go somewhere else next time - and let’s not talk about pumpkins again.”

“As you wish,” came the faintly stunned reply from Killian as she turned and sauntered out of the bar, already looking forward to next time. 

🎃🎃🎃

So... yeah. Don’t drink and carve people, that way leads to madness. What’s the wackiest Halloween-related thing you’ve ever done?

#cs fic #captain swan #cs halloween #cs ff #cs ff au #cs au #katie dub writes

[calligraphist-artemisia]

The Sun Prince (Chapter 1)

Summary:  It was an accident. A simple misstep that sent him plunging into the darkness and waking an ancient magic. Now Prompto has to deal with the consequences of making a deal with an Astral and learn how to control the magic blooming inside of him.

Also posted on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the username “kishirokitsune”

Decided to jump headfirst into this one after the idea of Prompto accidentally becoming a prince wouldn’t leave my head. I’m not 100% sure where this will go, but it’ll be fun to find out!

1. The Crown in the Darkness

In Prompto's defense, he hadn't meant to end up in the ancient ruins, alone with only his trusty lapel flashlight to guide the way. It happened so suddenly – one minute he was helping Noctis search for a missing dogtag, and the next the ground gave way beneath his feet, plunging him into the chilled depths. He'd been thankful to have his landing slightly softened by water, right up until the rushing river swept him away from the entrance, dropping him deeper into the ancient structure.

Prompto groaned as he came to another dead end. As awful as it sounded, he really wished Noctis was there with him. He didn't want his best buddy in trouble, but he'd feel a whole lot better if he had some company. Maybe then he wouldn't jump at every time shuffle of rock, every drip of water.

'Pull it together. It's just another empty ruin,' he chided himself, not daring to speak the words out loud. He turned around, making his way back through the winding passage and keeping an eye out for a split in the path.

Just an empty ruin.

A run-of-the-mill, underground, empty ruin.

A surprisingly intact empty ruin, whose murals of colorful, gleaming stone glinted as his light passed over them, so unlike any of the others they'd visited while exploring the lands outside of the Crown City. If he weren't so terrified by what may lurk there, Prompto would have examined the murals more closely or snapped a few pictures to show Ignis later.

Actually, it was strange. He should have encountered daemons the moment he came out at the bottom of the slide, but he hadn't see as much as a single imp.

Prompto shivered for a reason other than being cold and wet.

It should have brought him some form of comfort, the thought of not having to deal with daemons by himself while lost and trapped in an ancient structure, but it only intensified his feelings of unease.

He came to a new path and noted with some hope that it sloped upwards. That was a good sign, right? He had to go up in order to get out, so as long as he kept that in mind, he would be okay. Eventually he would find a way out. It was just like following the left wall to get out of a maze! (Right? Wait, was that right? He'd heard it somewhere before, but did that really work?)

Prompto shook his head and tried to focus on the situation at hand.

Step one, find a path leading up and out.

Step two... well, he didn't know what step two was, but he'd figure it out.

Step three, profit?

He fought back a giggle at the absurdity of his thoughts, which trailed off to a stop as he reached the top of the sloping path, where he came face-to-face with another dead end.

“No...” he breathed, feeling panic well up and lodge in his throat. His eyes stung with tears and he fiercely wiped them away.

There was another mural there, depicting a great horned Astral offering the image of the sun to a human figure. Maybe if he paid better attention to the lessons on the history of Solheim, he'd be able to make better sense of what he was seeing. What if there were clues on how to get out and he was missing them?

No, that was stupid. Stuff like that only happened in movies and video games, not real life.

It didn't stop Prompto from reaching out to touch the raised form of the sun, half wondering how the ancients accomplished such lasting feats of design. Even after thousands of years, there wasn't a decorative stone out of place.

The sun sank in from the light pressure of his fingertips and Prompto didn't have time to utter a despairing “uh oh” before the floor tipped under his feet and sent him painfully thudding into a chamber below.

Bright light assaulted his eyes and he tightly squeezed his eyes shut with a soft cry. Between that and the pain throbbing through his back thanks to his hard landing, all he knew was pain for several agonizingly long minutes.

He officially hated the ruins.

(Could it even be considered that? It wasn't exactly ruined.)

His eyes slowly adapted to the change in light and as he looked around the chamber, he realized he was in very real, very serious danger.

Two of the walls were slowly moving in, so quietly that at first he thought he was imagining it, and there was no exit in sight.

“No, no, no!” Prompto cried out, frantically struggling to his feet. He grabbed onto a podium in the center of the room, using it to stabilize himself as he searched the walls for any clues.

There had to be a way out! Another trigger, like the one that dropped him into danger! He just needed to be fast about finding it.

He couldn't die there, slowly and agonizingly crushed to death between hard stone. There was so much he still had to do! To see! How could he keep his promise to stand by Noct's side if he was dead!

Pure panic was setting in.

“Help!” Prompto shouted, his voice bouncing off of the walls of the stone chamber.

He received no response, not that he really expected one.

“Please.” His next word came out as more of a sob, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to calm down. He had to calm down. If he panicked, he was doomed. “Can anyone hear me?”

Prompto lowered his eyes to the podium he was clutching for support. A podium which held an ornate golden crown, which emanated an aura of light that warped the air around it, not unlike heat waves on a hot summer day or the way burning embers distorted the air as it turned wood to charcoal. It was a work of beauty, all woven gold and tiny, delicate gears that actually moved. Ancient writings were printed across the thicker sides of the bands. The emblem of a sun, carved from golden crystal, was the centerpiece.

A part of Prompto wanted to pick it up and get a better look, but he wrenched his gaze away instead. “Bad idea. That's, like, the start of seventeen different horror films,” he said to himself.

He wasn't going to make his impending death worse by getting himself cursed by an ancient artifact. Nuh uh. No thanks.

Prompto turned his attention back to the walls, morbidly wondering how badly his blood would stain the images. He shook his head. He had to stop thinking like that!

The murals...

They were everywhere that he looked. There had to be some kind of meaning to them all, or else why bother putting so much time and effort into them, especially in a chamber designed solely to kill whoever got stuck inside of it.

Dazzling crystals in an array of colors glimmered under the light of the crown, more detailed than anything else he'd come across. A giant of a man – maybe one of the Astrals? - was being presented with a golden crown, not unlike the one on the podium. He was there on every wall, in every scene, helping the people with what they needed.

It gave Prompto an idea.

He took a deep breath and tried to block out the fact that, in a few minutes, he would be firmly sandwiched between two walls and squeezed until he popped and became something that grotesquely resembled strawberry jam. He tried not to fidget too much as he summoned his camera to his hands and his words got stuck in his throat.

“Uh, so, I know I'm not worthy or anything. I'm not royalty or anyone special or even a true Crown citizen, but....” He fought the urge to touch his wristband and make sure it fully covered the mark it was meant to hide. Instead, he set his camera on the podium. “Please, if you can hear me, I really don't want to die here, and I know my camera isn't a great offering, but it's the most prized thing I have.”

He eyed the walls, which steadily continued on their path, and swallowed fearfully. “P-please, I don't... I'll do anything you want! Please, help me!”

“Anything?”

It was a good thing Prompto already set down his camera, because he absolutely would have dropped it at the sound of a raspy, masculine voice. He whirled around to find a man with long, dark hair standing against an stationary wall, a scowl set on his sharp face. His eyes were the most unsettling thing about him, flickering red and orange like a blazing fire.

He stepped forward and Prompto's attention was down to his faded and torn robes, gray like ash and unfitting for a man – no, Astral, who radiated such raw power.

Prompto gulped.

He was in way over his head, practically drowning, but he couldn't back down. Promising anything to an unknown god was probably the worst mistake he could make, but it was either that or die an agonizingly painful death.

The Astral stared at him, waiting for an answer.

“Anything,” Prompto agreed, his voice coming out as an embarrassing squeak.

The Astral didn't have the decency to laugh or even smirk, and instead walked over and took Prompto's chin in a tight grip, forcing him to look him in the eyes. Prompto didn't know what he was looking for, but the Astral must have been satisfied with what he saw because he soon released him and moved on to the crown.

Prompto watched him caress it with reserved reverence, all too aware of the walls, which had yet to stop. He hated to disrupt the moment the Astral was having, but he couldn't hold back. Not anymore. “So, uh, what about the walls? You know, the moving ones? The moving ones that are about to kill us both?”

The Astral looked wholly indifferent to what Prompto was saying, and without looking away from the crown, lifted one hand and snapped his fingers.

The walls stopped.

Prompto exhaled in relief. “Thanks! I really thought I was done for!”

“I am aware,” said the Astral, but at least that time Prompto thought he could detect a hint of amusement. His victory over being vaguely amusing to the deity rather than annoying was short-lived, as the man turned to him with the crown in his hands.

Prompto's smile faded and he took a step back. “What are you going to do with that?”

“This is for you. It is the key to leaving this place.”

“It's not cursed, is it?” Prompto asked warily, the words slipping out. He snapped his mouth shut, his eyes going wide as he realized he'd likely offended the deity standing before him.

“Cursed?” repeated the Astral, evidently thrown off guard. He glanced down at the crown in his hands and snorted in amusement. “An intriguing idea, however foolish. Had I wanted you dead, I would have let your pleas go unanswered.” He looked Prompto up and down. “You are more interesting than I expected. Now step forward, Prompto Argentum.”

Prompto's feet moved as if by their own accord until he stood directly in front of the Astral, and before he could protest or babble out a whole stream of questions, the crown was gently placed on top of his head, a pleasantly warm weight.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen, but after a moment it became clear that was it. He lifted his head to meet the Astral's amused gaze, and the crown stayed perfectly in place, as though it had been made just for him.

“Now what?”

“Now, you leave,” said the Astral, making a shooing gesture.

It had to be a trick, right? Did gods even play tricks?

“You haven't told me what you want,” Prompto pointed out. “My offering, for saving my life. I still owe you.”

“It has been a long time since anyone owed me something. I would like to cherish that feeling for a while longer,” said the Astral. “Rest assured, Prompto Argentum, I will find you when the time is right to request my favor. For now, I leave you with a name – Rhyos. Remember it.”

“Uh, sure?” Prompto responded, unsure of what else to say.

Rhyos, he tested the name in his mind. It was an unusual name for a god, but he'd never say that to his face.

He blinked and Rhyos was gone, leaving him alone in the chamber. “Okay, Prompto, lets get out of here,” he said to himself. “Now, uh, how do I do that?”

Prompto was sure he'd been gone for hours, following bands of golden light through the twisting corridors, until finally he ascended a flight of stairs to a door marked with the emblem of the sun. It had taken thirty minutes to figure out how the crown worked and he wondered if Rhyos neglected to mention it on purpose. The Astral did seem to take some amusement from his confusion.

It was easy once he figure it out. All he had to do was command a door to open or ask for a way out and the crown did all of the real work.

One last door stood in his path to freedom.

Prompto reached out and pressed his palm flat against the sun. “Open.”

As the door slid soundlessly open, Prompto quickly removed the crown from his head, and with a slight sense of guilt, stowed it away in the Armiger, purposefully hiding it in his bag. The top of his head tingled for a moment.

“Prompto!”

He didn't have time to brace himself before Noctis appeared in front of him in a shower of blue magic. His normally reserved best friend pulled him in for a tight hug and Prompto didn't need to hear his voice to feel the pure relief at seeing him alive.

He saw Gladio approach over Noctis's shoulder, watching the taller man call out to Ignis. They were all relieved to see him, he realized. Genuinely relieved, and not just because of Noct's worry. Prompto hadn't stopped to consider the close bond that had formed between them since leaving Insomnia, but the proof was right there if he ever needed it.

“Sorry, buddy. Didn't really mean to go cave diving, but, y'know,” Prompto said with a shrug. “Next time I'll make sure to drag you with me.”

“Ha,” Noctis responded dryly, letting go of his friend. “We've been trying to find a way to get to you for hours. I wanted to jump in after you, but Ignis wouldn't let me. How did you get out?”

“Just got lucky, I guess,” Prompto fibbed, not ready to explain everything that happened with Rhyos. Maybe later, once he had time to process everything for himself. All he wanted at that moment was dry clothing and food. It didn't have to be Ignis's cooking – he'd settle for some cup noodles if it meant warm food in his belly. “So, where are we camping for the night?”

“Camping, after all of that?” Ignis asked as he and Gladio approached. “I think not. Our funds can handle one night of splurging for two hotel rooms.”

Not even Gladio looked too upset by the proposal, and he was usually the first to protest when there was a perfectly good haven nearby.

“Maybe I should fall into holes more often,” Prompto joked in undertone to Noctis, who rolled his eyes and playfully shoved him.

Ignis sighed. “Do refrain from making a habit of this.”

But Prompto wasn't listening, he was too busy getting lost in the daydream of a hot shower, comfortable bed, and good food in his near future, all thoughts of magic crowns and ancient gods fleeing his mind.

#final fantasy xv #ffxv #fanfiction #The Sun Prince #promptis #slow burn #prompto argentum

[chaosqueery]

Title: Your Future Awaits

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,135

Characters/Ships: Caroline Forbes/Stefan Salvatore,

Description: A missing scene from 1x10 "The Turning Point". Stefan carries Caroline home after she is attacked by Logan Fell and they have a heart-to-heart.

Alternative Links: (FF.Net/AO3)

A/N: This story has been sitting in my unfinished fics folder for YEARS. I think I started writing it when season 5 of TVD was airing (2013... so yeah, nearly 6 years). I got stuck on an extra scene I wanted to add at the end. Eventually, I just decided to cut the scene, post what I have, then maybe return to that bit in the future.

She remained unconscious the entire walk home. Stefan was worried. He had no idea how hard Logan had hit her, but he couldn’t get close enough to examine the gash on her head. Not unless he wanted to lose all control over his bloodlust and drain her dry. Carrying her in his arms was hard enough. He could already feel the dark veins bulge under his eyes as the scent of her blood wafted through the air, making his hunger grow. If only he was strong enough to use his vampire speed all the way to her house. Being in such a small town, it doesn’t take more than five to ten minutes to get anywhere within the Mystic Falls borders. However, it didn’t seem to feel that way. Each second stretched out to minutes as the urge to act on his natural instincts tried to take over. Stefan made a low grumbling sound at the back of his throat, close to a growl, and winced as he tried to concentrate on his steps, quickening his pace as much as he could.

When he finally made it to her house and walked up driveway, Stefan breathed in deeply as he attempted to regain control over himself. How the hell was he supposed to get her inside? He hasn’t been invited into her house and he wasn’t sure he could hold himself together until Sheriff Forbes came home. It was getting to the point where he felt like he would have to just set her down at her doorstep and bolt. He would have no idea how to explain abandoning her on her front porch, but he would rather that than ripping the girl to pieces. Just as he was sure that that’s what he would have to do, he heard a small groan come from the girl in his arms and he looked down to find Caroline was waking up.

“Hmmmmm…what? Where- where am I?” She mumbled, eyes begging to crack open to observe her surroundings.

“Shhhhh… It’s okay. You’re home. You’re safe.”

“Stefan? But I was wi- what happened?” She touched the side of her head and winced as her fingers made contact with where she was her. When Stefan saw the bit of blood that transferred to the pads of her fingers he carefully moved one hand from under her legs so her feet could touch the ground. Then he took a step away, but not without keeping a hand close to her incase she couldn’t walk on her own.

“Let me walk you to the door and I’ll explain.” She nodded and followed him the rest of the way.

“First of all, what do you remember?”

“I was waiting for Bonnie to take me home, but then Logan showed up and offered me a ride. I got in the car and then he-“ she paused for a moment as she tried to piece together exactly what happened and her eyes grew wide as she came to a sudden realization. “Did he attack me?”

Stefan remained silent, but she could tell by the solemn look on his face that she had come to the right conclusion.

“I’ve known him since I was little. He’s a family friend. Why would he do that to me?”

Stefan shook his head. He knew the answer, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to give her the full truth, so he played dumb instead. “I don’t know.”

“You saved me though, right? I mean, why else would you be the one bringing me home?”

“I was just in the right place at the right time is all.” He shrugged it off, but Caroline wouldn’t hear it.

“Thank you.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to show her gratitude, but his body stiffened at her proximity. “Seriously, thank you. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come along.” Noticing his discomfort at being touched, Caroline let her hand drop and took a step back and tried to not take it personally, but that was always a hard thing for her. Stefan met her eyes and softened his expression, signaling to her that it was okay.

“Do you want me to stick around until your mom comes home?” He knew it was a big risk asking her, but he could see that she was still afraid, and the thought of leaving her alone after such an event didn’t sit well with him.

“Would you?” She looked at him with stars in her eyes, grateful to him for saving her like he was her knight in shining armor. The sweetness in her smile made his hunger ease just a bit, and he was able to offer a smile of his own.

“I’d be happy to.” He turned and sat down on the steps of her front porch.

Caroline moved towards the door and pulled her house keys but stopped when he turned to sit down on the steps of the front porch. “Don’t you want to come inside?”

“Well, it’s a nice night, and I think the fresh air might do you some good. It might make you feel a little better.” More like fresh air would do him good. Even though he was doing a bit better now, closed spaces always made it significantly harder to ignore the scent of blood.

“Now that you mention it, I do feel a little dizzy.” She groaned slightly before lowering herself to sit next to him.

“You could have a concussion. Probably a mild one, but you should stil get checked out by a doctor.”

“I will.”

They were both silent for a minute or two, neither knowing what to say. The only time they have ever spent any real time together was the night of the founders party, and then they had dancing and champaign to keep them occupied. Now it was just the silence that surrounded them.

Eventually, Caroline came up with a topic.

“So, how did you like the career fair? Anything look interesting to you?”

“I don’t know.” Stefan shrugs, making Caroline roll her eyes. What was he supposed to say?

“You don’t know? You didn’t see your future in there at all?” When Stefan just shakes his head, she isn’t satisfied. “Do you want to know what I see for your future?”

Stefan let out a small chuckle and decided to humor her. “Sure”

Caroline purses her lips a bit in thought, and then brightens when she comes up with something.

“A firefighter.”

“A firefighter?” he quirked an eyebrow and urged her to continue.

“A firefighter” she nodded. “Or a police officer, a doctor. Something where you can put your hero-like abilities to good use.”

Stefan lowered his head at the mention of him being a doctor, the one career choice he had always wanted throughout his multiple lifetimes, but could never pursue. “Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

“Hold on, I’m not done yet.” She put a hand up, halting him from interrupting whatever picture she conjured up for his future. “You’ll marry Elena, stick to the small town life, and have lots of babies. There might be a house with a white picket fence in there somewhere.”

He had to admit, she was pretty on the nose when it came to figuring out the things he had pictured for himself. It might not be the most original idea, but it was the same image of a life he’d hung on to for years and he had yet to envision a new one. Of course, they were just more things he could never have. “You forget, Elena and I broke up.”

“Oh, please. We all know that’s not going to last.” She waved him off.

Stefan wanted to deny it and tell her that getting back together with Elena wasn’t a possibility for him but, instead of trying to come up with a load of bullshit excuses as to why, he decided to turn the tables and put the focus on her. “What about you? What do you have planned for your future?”

“Broadcast journalism.” Caroline stated with absolute certainty. When Stefan gave her nothing but a ‘hmmm’ paired with a grin in response, she took as his nice way of saying ‘pffft, yeah right’.

“Great, you think I’m crazy too.”

“I didn’t say that. I actually think that’s a really good fit for you.”

“Really?” She questioned, not sure she should believe him.

“Yes, really. You’re intelligent, dedicated, and I think you’re probably one of the most capable people I have ever met. I think you could be just about anything you want.” He watched as Caroline froze for a second before she turned away from him and focused on her hands folding together in her lap. He tried to think of what he could have said that offended her, but it didn’t take long for her to answer the question herself.

“But you don’t even know me. Not really. To you I am just Elena’s annoying friend Caroline.” The sudden change in her voice and demeanor was dramatic. She went from bubbly and bright, to small and melancholy in a matter of seconds. It was a side to her he had yet to see until now.

“For the record, I have never found you annoying.” He tried to assure her, and for a moment he noticed the corner of her mouth quirk upward, but then the small smile disappeared almost instantly.

“Everyone else does.” She says simply. “I’m nosy, bossy, superficial, shallow. Nobody ever believes that there is anything more to me. Honestly, I’m not sure I believe it either.”

“Listen, I know we might not talk a lot. The thing is, I don’t talk to anyone that much. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t pay attention. I can understand why you would feel like everything I am telling you is just a bunch of empty words to make you feel better. All I can tell you is what I see. I see someone who is driven and direct. You’re someone who knows what she wants and works hard to achieve it. Most people our age don’t have the determination you do. It’s something to be admired.” Stefan spoke honestly. Even in their brief encounters, he knew that Caroline Forbes was someone special.

Caroline broke away from focusing on her fidgeting hands and turned back turned back to look Stefan in the eyes, her own glossing over, making them glimmer with unshed tears. Her mouth parted a bit, and for the first time she was at a loss for words. She just stared in wonder and allowed herself to be moved by his kind praise.

They both lingered in the quiet intimacy of the moment, until the silence was shattered by the sound of a cell phone ringing. Stefan dug in his pocket for his phone and looked down at the caller ID, his brow furrowing. Caroline closed her eyes tightly and tried to shake off the moment, before opening them again and asking “Do you need to get that?”

“Uhhh…” He tried to make it look like he wasn’t debating whether or not he should answer the call, but knew he probably wasn’t doing a very good job at it. “It’s just… Elena. She’s probably just worried about you.” He put the phone back in his pocket, his lips pressed tightly together. “I can fill her in later.”

“No, you should talk to her. It’s fine.” Caroline argued. “I think I’d really rather go inside and wash this day off me anyway.”

“Caroline, I really don’t have to-“ He started, but Caroline still stood up from her spot on the front step.

“I’m fine, Stefan.” She attempted a smile to prove her statement. “Go see Elena and tell her that everything is okay. I’m sure my mom will be home soon anyway.”

Stefan hesitated, not really knowing what the right thing to do was. He didn’t feel right leaving her after everything she’d been through, especially when she opened up with a very vulnerable side of her that was rarely seen, but then he considered that maybe all of this had become too much for her and she needed an out. He didn’t want to push her if that was the case.

He stood to meet her height and studied the expression on her face. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded and went to open the door before shooting him one last look. “Thank you. So much. For everything.”

Stefan mimicked her nod and said “If you ever need anything –if you’re ever in any trouble or even just need to talk to someone- call me. Alright?”

“Alright” Her smile seemed a little more genuine now. “Goodnight, Stefan.”

“Goodnight, Caroline.”

A/N: The scene that was supposed to go at the end was Caroline getting ready for bed and thinking about the events of the day. Going over Logan, her feelings for Matt and Stefan, and her insecurities. When I wrote it, it just wasn't going the way I wanted. It didn't sound right to me and I was worried it would bring the whole fic down. I do think it's important though, so I am gonna try to keep working on it and then add it as a second chapter. Maybe I'll even rewrite the first part completely in Caroline's POV.

I also would love to put this into a collection of missing Steroline scenes throughout the seasons. If there is anything you want to see, let me know. I can't promise I will do it, it all depends on what it is and if I feel inspired.

#steroline #tvd #vampire diaries #caroline forbes #stefan salvatore #fanfic #fan fiction #missing scene #tvd 1x10 #The turning point

[echoes-of-realities]

be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe) - 5/25

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[From the Start] // [Fanfiction] // [ao3]

[Previous Chapter] // [Next Chapter]

Chapter Summary: Tina and Santana have a long talk; Santana wishes she was better at comforting people.

Chapter 5: but some are sick of this grey

///

“If that’s anyone besides Santana don’t you dare come in!”

Santana rolls her eyes and eases the door open, finding Tina standing in front of the mirror of her vanity wearing only her tights and sports bra. “You know it’s a little suspicious that I’m allowed in here when you’re half-naked but your boyfriend’s not,” she comments idly.

Santana can see Tina roll her eyes in the mirror as she touches the mascara brush to her eyes one more time before capping the tube and dropping it on top of the pile of her makeup. “Mike doesn’t knock.”

“Still,” Santana repeats teasingly, “suspicious.” 

Tina huffs out a laugh as she shakes her head. “Sure it is, you’re like the only other person who ever comes down here that’s not another principal or a dresser,” she says easily.

Santana hums in agreement. “And I’ve seen you in less, so,” she teases.

Tina just rolls her eyes as she tugs a loose shirt, turning and leaning her hip against the vanity, her arms crossed with a grin. “So is this an official visit?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I wanna know if I can make fun of you or not.”

Santana snorts out a laugh. “As if it matters, we both know you’ll make fun of me either way,” she complains. Tina concedes with a wide, knowing grin. “But I have a couple notes to go over,” Santana continues, smacking the palm of her right hand with her notebook as she makes herself at home on Tina’s couch, propping her feet up on the coffee table. “So come sit.”

Tina laughs and crosses the room to collapse on the couch beside her best friend. Santana quickly flips through her notebook until she finds the pages she’s looking for, going over some blocking issues and a music cue that Schue missed last show that threw Tina off a little bit. Once she’s done she groans and lets her head loll onto the back of the couch, trying to roll out the tension in her neck. “I need a coffee,” she decides.

Tina smiles. “Lucky for you, Brittany went on a coffee run not too long ago, and she dropped an extra one off with me on the off chance that you dropped by.”

Santana’s smile is involuntary, and she tries not to let it be known how warm her cheeks are, but Tina’s not her best friend for nothing and she smirks at Santana knowingly as she crosses to the vanity to grab the two coffees sitting there.

“You got time to sit and drink it?” Tina asks.

Santana checks her watch as Tina hands over her coffee. “I mean, probably not, but no one should be unlucky enough to see me until I’m properly caffeinated, so sure.”

Tina laughs and resettles on the couch. “Good, I feel like I’ve barely seen you despite the fact that we’re in the same building like nine hours a day.” Santana grunts in acknowledgement as she gulps down a long sip of coffee, pleasantly surprised to find that it tastes exactly how she likes it; it’s far more lukewarm than hot, but just the fact that Brittany thought of her when getting coffee makes warmth settle in her stomach anyways. “I know we haven’t had time to talk about it since Thanksgiving,” Tina continues, “but did you think about Christmas?”

Santana sighs and drops her coffee to rest in her lap, shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll just stay home.” She doesn’t add the again, but they can both hear it, too loud in the following silence.

“You sure?” Tina murmurs, “My parents would love to have you. They haven’t stopped talking about the flan de queso you brought to Thanksgiving, and they keep asking if you’ve accepted the invitation yet.”

Santana shrugs uncomfortably. “You know I’m not great company this time of year,” she says. 

Tina sighs but she knows Santana well enough to know when to drop it. They sip their coffee silently for a long moment, before Tina turns expectantly towards Santana. “Wanna know the latest gossip?” she whispers dramatically.

Santana laughs and sits up a little more, more than grateful for the change in subject, turning towards Tina and feeling like they’re back in their college dorm, sitting cross-legged on their beds and talking about everything and nothing. “Always. I gotta keep track of whatever dumbass decisions this company makes. Remember how awkward Sister Act was our second year of college?”

“God!” Tina laughs, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you turn so red than when Kate and Christian started going at it!”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that they broke up the night before?” Santana protests, her voice bright with amusement. “They weren’t even in the scene together and somehow they managed to mortify me, the company, our professor, and the entire audience.”

“I’ve never seen you so lost for words before, but the look on your face when you had to chase after Christian and actually get on stage in the middle of the scene to physically restrain them? Priceless!”

Santana rolls her eyes at herself. “I was so scared Hagberg was going to fail me, but she just bought me a box of chocolates instead.” She takes a sip of her coffee before looking expectantly at Tina. “Now, what do I need to know about here to avoid being forced to jump on stage in the middle of The Nutcracker?”

Tina grins and sets her coffee down on the coffee table, and that’s how Santana knows she’s about to get a list of gossip a mile long. She feels like she needs to write down a list of all the connections, but she also has a feeling that it would get so tangled and convoluted it would be near impossible to understand. Rachel and Finn have a messy on-again-off-again relationship that somehow Quinn, that St. James guy from sound, and Brody from maintenance have all gotten mixed up in at some point; Puck and Quinn refuse to talk to each other unless absolutely necessary; Kurt and Blaine had a messy breakup and Karofsky somehow ended up caught up in it; Schue’s ex-wife showed up near the start of rehearsals claiming to be pregnant with his baby, and it made things super awkward when Emma, his new girlfriend, showed up at the same time; Shelby from the pit band was caught making out with Puck the second month of rehearsals; Sue, the theatrical producer, and Schue have a nasty rivalry still ongoing despite the fact that no one, not even them, know how or when it started; Kitty, The Snow Queen, dated Artie before he was hired, and then it got weird and they broke up and now don’t speak; Jane, Brittany’s understudy, and Mason, Mike’s understudy, have adorable but obvious crushes on each other, but both of them are too shy to do anything about it; Zizes once dated Puck, which makes Santana’s head spin because Zizes is pretty cool and Puck is so slimy. 

Santana shakes her head slowly as she taps her empty coffee cup against her thigh. “This is insane,” she mutters. “I need a spreadsheet and seven hours just to figure half of this out.”

Tina laughs. “It’s pretty messy,” she agrees, “And it’s all only happened since we started rehearsals.” 

Santana chews on her lip, wondering if she should even ask the question she so desperately wants to know, but before she can debate it she’s already asking it. She wishes she could blame her lack of filter on her exhaustion, but she finished her coffee ages ago. “What about Brittany?” she blurts, aiming for nonchalant but landing somewhere far past too-invested.

“Apparently she dated Artie for a little bit when they were in college, but she always conveniently ‘forgets’ that.” Tina laughs, her eyes sparkling knowingly as she regards her best friend. “But I haven’t heard of her dating anyone since we started rehearsals months ago, inside the company or out.”

Santana tries desperately to remain calm and collected with that information, but she can’t hide the way her stomach flips or the smile she’s fighting. “Cool,” she manages, leaning forward to put her empty coffee cup on the table and avoiding Tina’s eyes.

“What about you? Meet any nice girls lately?” Tina teases, grinning widely at how obvious Santana is about her little crush. “Besides Brittany,” she whispers, deftly dodging Santana’s flailing arm as she reaches out to smack her.

Santana draws back and rolls her eyes so hard that she shakes her head a little. “As if. You know I’m too busy with work.”

Tina just stares blankly at Santana, a thoroughly unimpressed look in her eyes. “Santana, I mean this from the bottom of my heart, but that’s bullshit. Work isn’t your entire life.” Santana scoffs but Tina doesn’t let her shut down. “Listen, I totally understand if you just don’t feel like dating anyone right now, but you can’t use work as an excuse.”

“Hey, I went on a date when I was covering for the stage manager on Anastasia back in August!” Santana protests, but as soon as the words leave her mouth she knows it’s a weak argument.

“What? The girl from that startup band? You went on one date and never mentioned her again,” Tina says, and Santana knows that, no matter how much she wants to protest, she can’t argue that point. “What was even her name?”

Santana opens her mouth but finds her mind has gone completely blank. “Uh, Dina?”

“Dana?”

“No wait, wasn’t it like a unisex name or something? Daniel?”

“Daniella?”

“Dani!” Santana shouts, snapping her fingers and pointing at Tina with a proud grin for finally remembering the name. “It was Dani!”

“Right!” Tina’s satisfied expression turns sly. “You know, this just proves my point. You need to find a nice girl whose name you can actually remember. Like maybe Brittany.”

“Oh, shut up,” Santana says with an eye roll, flustered and bashful. 

There’s movement from the hallway, the sound of someone dropping something bouncy and heavy footsteps as they chase after it. Tina quickly stands up and crosses the dressing room, sticking her head out into the hallway and looking both ways; if someone just broke a prop she feels the need to warn them before Santana finds out and goes on the war path. When she doesn’t see anyone she just shrugs and closes the door. “You’re not getting out of this conversation,” Tina threatens as she turns around.

Santana plays with the notebook in her hands. “I’m too busy with still learning this show, you know that.”

Tina studies her for a long moment and Santana fidgets under her scrutiny. “I’m not going to push it,” Tina says slowly, “But I think you deserve to let yourself be happy.” Santana sucks in a quick breath and resolutely doesn’t look at Tina. Her first instinct is to argue and get defensive, but she can’t quite get the words to form in her mouth. Tina sighs and crosses back to the couch, sitting down beside Santana a little closer than she normally would, ducking her head down under Santana’s until Santana is forced to meet her eyes. “It’s been four years,” she whispers, “She would want you to be happy. Whether that’s with some nice girl or with some new hobby or whatever, it doesn’t really matter. But this,” Tina pauses and Santana’s eyes cut away from hers, “this relentless, constant pace you’ve set for yourself isn’t healthy. When was the last time you actually took time off that wasn’t a no show day?”

Santana can feel the tremble in her chin and she chokes down the thickness she can feel in her throat, choking her. Tina shifts on the couch until she can wrap an arm around Santana and draw her into her embrace. She wants to struggle against her best friend’s arm, but Tina’s always given the best hugs. “I just don’t want to see you burnout,” Tina continues.

Santana lets herself be held for a moment before she shakes Tina off and stands abruptly. “I’ve gotta finish giving notes,” she rasps.

Tina sighs but nods. “Half hour is coming up soon anyways,” she agrees, “And I’ve gotta get Kurt to fix some things on my skirt.”

Santana ducks her head as she crosses the room, barely giving Tina a second glance. Tina just shakes her head and lets her friend go, staring at the empty coffee cups on the coffee table and hoping that she didn’t just cause Santana to close herself off again.

“Tina,” Santana suddenly calls from the doorway, waiting until Tina glances up at her before continuing, “I know you worry. I’m just— Work keeps my mind off of her, you know? When I’m busy I don’t think about her as much, especially this month.” Tina’s face crumples a little and she nods in understanding. “But you’re right, I could probably use a break,” she admits, “The next no show day is Monday. We should actually do something, all three of us, instead of me spending the my only day off working anyways. Maybe we can go to the mall and do some Christmas shopping?”

Tina brightens and smiles. “That sounds really good,” she says.

Santana shifts awkwardly before giving her friend a small smile. “Thanks for— For looking out for me, or whatever.”

Tina laughs, knowing that sometimes it’s best to just let Santana stumble through her emotions without too much teasing. “It’s practically my second job by this point,” she says easily, “Now you better go and finish yours.”

Santana rolls her eyes but sends Tina a fond, grateful smile before slipping out the door and heading down the principal hallway towards the stage.

//

As the evening wears on, Santana decides to just give notes before the show tomorrow because she’s so tired from running around the entire show trying to deal with the technical issues they’ve been having with the flies. Karofsky still has no idea what is happening with them, even after him and Santana messed with them for about forty minutes after the show. He offered to stay even later to try and fix them, and while Santana appreciated the offer, she just sent him and the rest of the automaton crew home, telling them meet her a couple hours earlier than usual tomorrow so they can figure it out.

She’s not sure why she ends up in the principal hallway; she knows Mike and Tina have already left, and she doesn’t have anything she needs to check on since she’s giving notes tomorrow, but her feet lead her down the stairs before she realizes where she’s going. She figures she’ll just check in on whoever is still lingering down there, but because she’s alone she can’t quite hide the fact that she’s only really hoping to check in with one person.

Most of the doors are closed and locked as she wanders down the hallway. She runs into Mason, who is just heading out after looking around for Mike to ask him a couple questions. Santana chats with him for a little bit and promises to let Mike know he was looking for him before waving goodbye and heading further down the hallway. The lights are a little dimmed, and as she heads for the end of the hallway she can hear a muffled conversation. She slows as she approaches the only door that’s cracked open; the lights to Brittany’s dressing room cast the hallway around her door a little brighter, and Santana stops just before she reaches the door.

She’s about to turn around and leave, figuring she can just talk to Brittany talk tomorrow when she’s giving notes, it’s not like she ever has many to give her anyways so she’ll definitely be able to spend a couple extra minutes with her just talking, when she hears a sniffle. She freezes and waits for a long moment, Brittany’s voice distorted and muffled by her door. When she hears that sniffle again, followed by a choked sob, something in Santana’s chest shifts and shatters a little at the sound.

She’s pushing the door open and entering the dressing room before she realizes it, and Brittany glances up at her in shock. They stand there staring, wide-eyed and worried, at each other for long drawn out moments. Brittany still has her phone pressed to her ear, tears streaming down her face and making her skin shine wetly against the redness blotching her face. “Uh, I’ll call you back, mom,” she mumbles, and now that her voice isn’t muffled by the door Santana can hear exactly how tight and wet it is. “No, no, it’s fine. Just the stage manager. I’ll call you when I get home.” She pauses, sniffling, while her mom says something over the phone. “Yeah, I will. Love you too.” She hangs up and suddenly Santana becomes aware of how rude it was for her to barge into Brittany’s dressing room like that, but she looks so heartsick that Santana can’t find it in herself to regret it; no one should be alone when they look so miserable.

“Sorry,” Brittany chokes, scrubbing furiously at her face, “I was just—”

“No, Britt,” Santana interrupts, taking a couple quick steps forward, “I’m sorry for eavesdropping and barging in here but are— Are you okay?”

Brittany looks about ready say yes, even though they both know how obvious of a lie it would be, before her face falls and she slowly shakes her head. Something deep in Santana’s chest aches at the look on Brittany’s face.

“Was this— Was this the thing you were sad about yesterday?” Santana whispers. Brittany nods hopelessly and Santana sucks in a breath. “Oh, Britt, I’m really sorry.” Brittany gives her a small wavering smile, but it drops as her eyes fall to the floor. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Brittany takes a deep, steadying breath. “I— Um— That was my mom,” she manages to whisper, “They just had to put our cat down.” Santana sucks in a breath; she’s never had a pet before, they were too expensive and high maintenance for her mom, who was a full time shift worker, when they lived in Ohio, and their apartment didn’t allow pets once they moved to New York, but she remembers how devastating it was when Tina’s family had to put down their dog in their second year of college. “He’s just— We’ve had him since I was eight,” Brittany explains in a croak, “He’s been in our family longer than my sister has. And I— Sometimes I had a hard time at school with— Schoolwork and making friends and whatever. But he was just a cat, you know? He didn’t care if I was failing math or if Katie stopped talking to me, he just wanted treats and snuggles.”

“Britt, I’m so sorry,” Santana whispers, feeling completely and utterly inadequate. “I don’t— I’m just sorry.”

Brittany sniffles and blinks rapidly. When her eyes meet Santana’s they’re too bright and shiny and Santana wants so desperately to take away the grief cracking the beautiful blue there. “He’s been really sick for a couple weeks,” she explains, “But I haven’t been able to go home and see him because of the show and I’m just— I wish I could have seen him one more time before— Before—” she chokes herself off.

“Do you want a hug?” Santana blurts without thinking.

“What?” Brittany croaks. 

Santana suddenly remembers that she’s technically only known this woman for five days, despite the fact that they spend most of their waking hours in the same building and seem to have an uncanny ability to run into each other outside of the theatre and that it feels a little bit like she’s known Brittany for years. “I— Never mind. I just— You looked so sad and— I mean hugs usually help so,” Santana trails off lamely. 

Brittany chokes on a sob and nods. “A hug would be nice.”

Santana breathes out a sigh of relief that she didn’t just creep Brittany out and takes the last few steps to Brittany, hoping that a hug will make her feel better, even if it’s just for a moment. She hesitantly opens her arms and Brittany immediately falls into her; she fits against Santana easily, their ribs locking together as Brittany clings to her, muffling her sobs against Santana’s shoulder and neck. Santana sighs and soothingly runs her hands over Brittany’s back, just letting Brittany cry without saying anything, knowing how cathartic it can be to just let someone else take your weight for a while.

She’s not sure how, but they eventually end up huddled together on the couch, and Santana keeps her arms around Brittany until she sighs and swallows thickly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. “This is just another reason December and Christmastime sucks,” she mutters. 

Santana hesitates for a moment before tightening her arm around Brittany; Brittany melts further into Santana’s embrace, boneless and heavy, and any awkwardness Santana feels nudging at her consciousness eases. “You’ve got that right,” she sighs.

#brittana #brittany pierce #santana lopez #glee #brittana fanfiction #glee fanfiction #tina cohen chang #santina #my writing #story: be my fire in the cold (and I'll be waiting by the mistletoe) #we're already one fifth of the way through lol

[jarienn972]

Curse of Undoings - part three

This third installment isn't as heavy on the whump, although we do still have Killian in chains. There's a huge clue given here about the Black Fairy's plans and we learn that Killian isn't the only one who still has his real memories. Might he have an ally out there?

Tagging @killian-whump @hookaroo @castielamigos for the update

From the beginning: Part 1  Part 2  Also on AO3 and FF.net

With no way to know if it was day or night, Killian had no inclination of how much time had passed. He was aware that he'd blacked out from the pain at least once, but for how long? He knew he couldn't actually sleep as it was impossible to find any comfortable position, which was likely part of the planned torture. Laying on his back wasn't feasible with his skin ripped open and still seeping blood - and probably pus by now. His ribs ached if he tried to lay on his side and laying on his stomach was nearly as agonizing as being on his back when the heavy chain dragged across the raw flesh. Oh yes, this all had to have been the intent, furthering his agony. His throat was dry and scratchy as though he'd swallowed an entire desert but there was no relief in sight. He'd finally resigned himself to sitting upright, knees drawn up and tucked under his chin to give his aching head a place to rest.

He nearly jumped at the sound of the steel door being unlocked, squinting as it was pulled open, not even bothering to disguise his fear of what would await him next. A feminine form appeared in the doorway, but this was not Emma. This time, his unwelcome visitor was Fiona, the Black Fairy herself, attired in a sharp, tailored black pantsuit that in all appearances, was likely purloined from Regina's closet. Her hair was coiffed into a tight, businesslike bun and had Killian been able to speak, he would have asked her if she were here to gloat. She seemed to sense the question anyway, responding with a mocking grin.

"Well, aren't you just a pathetic sight, Captain?" she chuckled as she took a step inside the cell, careful not to get to close to any chains that might scuff her patent leather heels as she held her hands clasped demurely behind her back. "I see Emma did quite a number on you already and I'm sure there will be so much more to come. Such vitriol there…" She paused to have a laugh at the early results of her ministrations. "Oh, I know you'd love to tell me that your True Love will win out, but I wouldn't be so confident of that if I were you. I may have outdone myself with the amount of loathing I instilled in your lovely bride…"

Killian shifted positions, straining against his multiple restraints while growling angrily at the mastermind of this curse.

"Oh, don't bother wasting your energy, Jones," Fiona quipped as she wrapped the manicured fingers of her right hand around the chain tethering his collar and yanked down on it, forcing his head back so he'd have to look directly up at her. "This is so much fun! And as soon as Emma kills you and severs your bond of True Love, I win." She drew her left hand from behind her back and revealed the object she'd been hiding from view – a snow globe containing a tiny castle amidst a forest scene. "You see, all of your fairytale friends are imprisoned here and as soon as Emma acts on all of that hatred towards you, they all vanish. Everything gets undone and then, it becomes my story to re-write as I see fit. All it takes is for Emma to put an end to her True Love and everything is mine...

"Considering the beating she's already given you and your present predicament, it would seem that the memories I implanted in her of you killing her family are proving quite effective. She sees you only as a cold-blooded killer and it will only be a matter of time until she acts on all of her festering anger and hatred. Do try to make yourself comfortable until then, Captain, but I seriously doubt you'll be here much longer."

Fiona released her grip on the chain, allowing it to strike the open sores on his back intentionally as she cackled, exited the cell and locked the door behind her, the echo of the heavy door slamming resonating through his entire body. It did get him thinking about what she'd said though – she needed to destroy True Love to seal her victory. It explained why he'd been kept here in Storybrooke to be the fodder of his suddenly homicidal wife who viewed him only as a murderer. Emma believed her family to have been slaughtered by him yet in truth, they were trapped inside an enchanted snow globe, not unlike the way Jasmine's kingdom of Agrabah had been placed in stasis for centuries when she'd run off to the Land of Untold Stories.

Would there be any way he could get through to Emma? Convince her that he was really her loving husband, not the criminal she believed him to be? Certainly, parts of the fallacy were based in truth, but he'd put that man behind him to make himself worthy of her. His Emma was still in there somewhere, concealed behind all of the Black Fairy's lies. He just had to find a way to reach her before she unwittingly destroyed everything she loved.

Having taken out some of her frustrations on her prisoner, Emma decided to return to the Sheriff station to relax a bit before round two, entering the squad room with a satisfied smile turning up the corners of her lips. While Hook hadn't provided her anything in the way of actual information regarding her parents' murders, she'd enjoyed taking out ten years of aggravations on him. She'd return later to interrogate her prisoner further but at the moment, she had a few other things to attend to, the first of which was locating a clean shirt. She dug into the stash of emergency clothing she kept in her bottom desk drawer after discovering that a splattering of Hook's blood was staining her shirt. Eh, it was a small price to pay to look into a killer's eyes and punish him for his crimes. She didn't think much more of it as she unbuttoned the baby blue blouse and slipped it off, momentarily crouching in her office clad only in a camisole until she found a deep wine hued sweater that she pulled over her head, kicking the drawer closed with her toe as she stood back up.

Had her real memories been intact, she would have realized that the garment she'd just donned was one Killian had given her. He'd enlisted Henry's assistance to acquire it for her after he'd seen her admiring it in a magazine advertisement. The fabric still bore traces of both her perfume and a hint of his cologne from one of their last rendezvous in her office, but now, her cursed self barely recognized the scent. It was just another sweater to her, but it certainly held some familiarity to another person who'd retained his memories, not that anyone was believing him.

"Henry? What are you doing here?" Emma asked as she turned to spot her teenage son lurking in a corner of the squad room.

"I was looking all over for you, Mom," Henry replied. "You didn't come home last night…"

"Sorry, but you know yesterday was a hard day for me… I slept at the old loft…"

"Your wedding day was a hard day?" Henry asked, confused by her odd response. He'd known people were missing from the town, but until now, he wasn't sure what else the curse may have done.

"Wedding? Henry, did you forget to take your meds again? You know quite well that yesterday was the tenth anniversary of your grandparents being murdered…"

"Mom, Grandma and Grandpa aren't dead, I'm sure of it. They're just missing from the curse, you know, like half the town?"

"Okay, kid, now I know for sure that you didn't take your pills this morning. You're having delusions of curses and fairytales again, aren't you?"

"They're not delusions, Mom. You know it's all real…" Henry argued, worried that now that he'd located one of his mothers that he might have even bigger concerns. "It's all here in the book, for now, at least."

"Ugh, Henry, I swear I'm going to take that book away if you keep getting so caught up in fairytales! They're fiction. Happy endings don't exist in the real world, although at least now that I've found Jones, I can finally put one awful chapter behind me - as soon as he's sufficiently punished for what he did."

"You found Killian?" Henry asked both excitedly and a bit timidly.

"Killian? We're calling murderers by their first names now?"

"Murderer? Mom, what are you talking about?"

"Seriously, Henry, you know damned well what I'm talking about! Killian Jones – the vile bastard who massacred your grandparents a decade ago – we finally captured him and he's locked away where he can't hurt anyone ever again."

"Mom, no… That's not true. That's just what the Black Fairy wants you to believe. This is her curse. She wants you to forget the real Killian – to forget that you love him…"

"I think it's time I made you another psychiatric appointment. These fantasies of yours are getting a lot worse. Love him? You must be growing more insane… Look, right now, I want you do go home and take your meds, mister. That's an order. If I find out you didn't, I'll have to force you to take them and you know I don't like to do that…"

"Okay, mom," he conceded defeat. Whatever the Black Fairy had implanted into his mother's head was a lot stronger than he'd imagined. She believed that her True Love had murdered her parents and he could hear the bloodlust for revenge in her voice. "I'll see you at home later," he said as he backed out of the station, his mind swirling with thoughts of where she might have Killian locked away. If he could locate his stepfather, maybe the two of them together could break the curse and foil Fiona's plan, whatever it might be.

Henry scampered out of the Sheriff station, but he didn't exactly go straight home as he'd promised. He headed first to the town park, climbing to the top of the play castle where he'd always liked to come when he needed to think. He tossed his backpack onto the floor as he leaned his back into the slatted wood wall, getting a little more comfortable before opening the pack to retrieve his precious storybook – his family's legacy. Placing the book on the floor of the play castle, he opened it to the center, disturbed to see that even more of the image was deteriorating, portions of it missing. He flipped through several more pages that were also gradually fading away.

Was that what this curse was all about? Undoing all of the stories? Erasing all of the lessons learned? He knew that his grandparents and his other mother were missing, but he didn't think for a moment that they were dead. Half of Storybrooke had gone missing overnight, probably swept away to another realm, but he needed to know why. What was Fiona up to? Why did she need Emma to harbor such hatred toward Killian? No way he could head home just yet. He needed too many answers.

#ouat ff #ouat fan fiction #killian jones ff #killian whump #curse of undoings

[ifridiot]

1 3 12 19 for fanfic asks

1. favorite fic you wrote this year

oh god this is difficult. Hmm. I have a few, because... I have written over a hundred short stories this year, and I honestly can’t pic just one. Sticking with what I posted on AO3, I am quite pleased with the entirety of the Let Them Eat Flesh series, especially The Widening Gyre and Wretched and Joyful. Delicate was such a monumental effort for me, and I think i could have done better at capturing the emotions it was meant to evoke, but it’s still quite solid and I’m pleased with it. Things Change, My Dear is quite good, if only because of the discussions we’ve had about the AU and the work you’ve done from the foundations I knocked together. I am maliciously fond of Never, if only because of the disgust I’ve received in response to the idea of Frank Castle having, of all things, a gun kink. Of course, Memento Mori, Puncture Repair, and Come Home really laid the ground work for how I wanted to present my takes on these characters.

For fandoms that are not The Punisher, I’m particularly pleased with Protector, because I quite enjoy Nate and Wade calling each other out on their bullshit. Science is Cool was just a lot of fun to write and I absolutely adore seeing people’s reactions to it -- a lot like Memento Mori, honestly. Owned and Jarmed in the Target Jathroom were both supremely enjoyable to write. I loved doing the stupid ass puns in Jarmed, and Owned is of course about War, so what’s not to love? A Green Eyed Demon is... well, it’s just a lot of things I like, okay. Jealousy, pining, Nate knowing Wade way too well... it’s fun and sexy. And of course, the first published fic of the year deserves a mention, because I got to write an old, old love of mine, so Drunken Lament, there you are.

GONNA HAVE TO DO THE REST UNDER A CUT, YOU BASTARD.

3. favorite line/scene you wrote this year

Jesus christ. Okay. I’m going to try to be reasonable here. One or two lines from only the Best Fics. Oh who the fuck am I kidding... 

“You smell,” Kakuzu says by way of greeting, “like expensive sake. And self-pity.” 

(from Drunken Lament)

"Fuckin' cunt," he snarls, "you stupid fucking," blood dripping down his face, all over the carpet, all over Wade, and Wade musters half the strength in his body and throws Nate off over his head. His body makes a satisfying thud on the dingy carpet, and Wade launches at him, pins him again, always on the stomach, and this time he bites Nate's neck, leaves uneven pinpoint marks where his teeth have been, not drawing blood though he could, he could so very easily. Nate groans.  

(from Glittering)

It becomes easier to avoid him. Only go over when he needs something, and even then, scurry away at the first sexy sign emanating from the apartment, stop going on missions together unless Nate comes asking him to help out. A man can only jack it so many times behind a dumpster before he starts having unhealthy associations with the smell of hot trash. He can think about getting fucked six ways to Sunday by everyone’s favorite scowling soldier in his own room, thankyouverymuch, and it’s nicer to jerk off where there are clean tissues on hand. 

(from A Green Eyed Demon)

“Would it be easier to come if I were fucking you like you don’t matter?” 

(from A Green Eyed Demon, also fuck that is a Horny Line)

“The jurtains,” he whispers, and Nate gives him a look, which just seems to make him even more pleased with the find. “We need them. Those are what we want. Good eye, honeypie.”

“What the fuck,” Nate says slowly, not sure he wants to know, “are jurtains?”

“Curtains but denim,” Wade replies with utter earnest sincerity. “It’s – don’t give me that face – it’s basic English.” 

(from Jarmed in the Target Jathroom)

Okay so I would basically be copying the whole back half of Jarmed, but... Pretty much all the dialog while Nate’s jerking Wade off is just Good. All the denim puns.

Once, when he’d been another man, a weaker man, he’d loved Wade.

In his own way, he still did; loved him and wanted him safe and kept and all his own. But it was easy to hate him, too; his arrogance and selfishness and constant cries for attention.

But Wade belonged to him now. And in a way, owning him was better than loving him alone had ever been.

(from Owned. I really love how crisply this highlights the difference between War and Nathan.)

When he finally thrusts into the tight, pliant heat of Wade’s body, he focuses on his TK, stripping the scarred flesh from muscle from bone down Wade’s back. Wade moans, smothering the wet tearing sound of the mutilation, his tone dripping with lust and excitement, audibly delighted over the flesh flaying from his body. As it comes free, the blood and tissue is held by telekinetic force all around them, extending out from Wade in a gory fan.

(from Owned. This is just disgusting and I live for it)

“Fuck you,” Wade says pleasantly, and then groans beautifully at the sensation of the raw muscle and nerve of his back being torn open again. “This? This is all for me. If you were really punishing me, I wouldn’t get dick, pun very much intended; you’d leave me all alone for a few more fuckless days, and if you ever thought for a goddamn second about me anymore, maybe you’d figure out why I keep trying to run away so often.”

(from Owned)

It’s all Wade’s fault, he thinks furiously as he digs his fingers in hard enough to feel something crunch, blood welling under his fingers, clutching hard to the skin under his fingers and squeezing until the frustration leaks out between his knuckles. It’s Wade’s fault. Because Wade’s skin feels like it’s burning, always, imprinting on War’s back and hips and thighs as he futilely tries to cling. Because Wade doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean, doesn’t try to placate him, doesn’t make him feel like any more of a man even when he’s bucking under him and making strangled, incoherent noises like he’s drowning, they’re both drowning, and he can’t get enough air or enough of War. Because when it’s done, and his heart is still stuffed up somewhere in his throat, War knows Wade will beg him to stay for cuddles he hasn’t got time to indulge in, like they’re just two of a kind, two normal people living normal lives together.

(From Owned. Love that War still has so much complex emotion)

Bearded Nate isn’t just taller, his version of the TO is cleaner, somehow, sinking in a smooth line under his flesh, swallowing his arm and dancing down his side, his hip, his leg. Short!Nate is more organic looking, very nice with the scars and the proud flesh and the jagged lines of metal bursting from under his skin. He’s got a thick vein of TO running up his dick, and Wade’s mouth waters at the sight, his brain going hazy at the thought of getting that inside him. As soon as possible, yes please.

(from Science is Cool)

Laughter bubbles up out of him like the kind of vomit you get after drinking too much soda too quickly, frothy and jagged. 

(from Science is Cool. Such a Wade line

“Is curiosity really going to kill the Cable?” He asks, closing his eyes again. He’s very tired uddenly. He liked not remembering. He wants to get back to that. “Bodyslide outta here. Your Wade is in another castle. This is not the Wade you’re looking for. Good fuck though, thanks for that.”

“Wade.”

“War is coming. That’s what you go by here. So get the fuck out. Please.”

(from Science is Cool. I know this is a spoiler for the whole fic, but god i love this line)

The more they start to work together, once things get rolling, the harder it is to find his disgust for this man, this man who ruined lives trying to do the right thing. The sickest part, to Frank at least, is that one day he’s thinking about that, about how David ruined so much just trying to do the right thing, and realizes he’s proud of David. David did what a lot of people would have refused to do, David took initiative, David tried his damnedest to do right. And it had destroyed everything, there had been no justice, no grand revelation of corruption.

(from Come Home)

He watches Frank like he knows the kind of pain he’s in and wants to spare him and when he realizes that, he responds the same way he always had when he’d caught Maria with that look on her face. He forces himself to act more put together, forces himself to get over the bullshit. Because Maria hadn’t deserved the concern he’d tormented her with, and maybe David didn’t either.

(from Come Home)

They’re drinking one night when David leans over and kisses him. Frank makes a point to never have more than a couple fingers of anything harder than beer, but David gets white girl wasted when he’s upset.

(from Come Home. The phrase ‘white girl wasted’ makes this)

It’s some time later that Sarah kisses him. Between the two of them, the Liebermans are going to give him some kind of fucking complex.

(from Come Home. GOD, POOR FRANK LMAO)

I can’t take it if you go, David is saying, though he’s beyond words. I will die, if you die.

He wants to tell him how wrong he is. He knows from experience. It might feel like you’re dead for a while, and you might wish you were dead for even longer, but the loss wouldn’t kill you. That was the cruelest part of it.

(from, you guessed it, Come Home. Im sorry)

Frank watches David disappear into his house and drives away before anyone else can come out and try convincing him to stay. It’s a bittersweet parting – David deserves to go home to his family. Frank’s not sure what he deserves, but he’s starting to think maybe this unending loneliness isn’t it.

(from Come Home. The good news is, that’s the end of the fic.)

(the bad news is, now it’s time for Puncture Repair)

Sarah missed Pete, maybe. Missed someone who’d snuck in, like a thief, to get close to her, to have something to hold over her husband. Who had offered comfort in a hard time. Somehow she’s missing the part where Frank could have gotten her husband killed for real. She’s missing the part where Frank’s blood brother had abducted and could have murdered her and her son. She’s missing the part where Pete was an act (until he wasn’t) and hadn’t ever been meant to mean anything to her.

If he’s honest with himself – and he’s trying to be that, more often now – he’s terrified of seeing her again, of seeing her realize how bad an idea it is for him to be around them. Because Sarah is smart, Sarah is brave and determined and wants to keep her family safe. She’s not like David, too close to see the danger.

(from Puncture Repair. Love Frank being terrified of Sarah hating him, acknowledging that she has cause to.)

And maybe that’s the right thing to do. Maybe hurting David now will help the dumbass get over this. Because Frank loves him, and he knows what his love does to people. He sees it every time he tries to sleep. He can’t stand the idea of seeing it happen again, here, in waking.

But when has he ever done the right thing where David is concerned? David had given so much to Frank; his trust, his affection, his fucking blood, pumping through Frank’s veins. Frank takes and takes because he doesn’t know how to stop. He’s greedy for what David offers, for the chance to spend some time being alive after so long of being dead.

(from Puncture Repair)

When David’s hand comes to rest, gently, on his arm, his whole body tenses up, reflex curling his fists as he snaps his head toward David, face an angry mask, warning. David doesn’t even flinch. He looks concerned, though. Not afraid – David’s not afraid of Frank because while David might be a certifiable genius, he’s still an idiot. Frank could kill him in fifteen ways without breaking a sweat, and David knows that.

His hand strokes over Frank’s arm, and Frank holds his breath. Lets it out. Breathes again.

He’s working on a lot of things. Sometimes, it even seems like he’s getting better.

(from Puncture Repair)

“It’s called a spare room, Frank,” David says, patiently and patronizing at the same time, forcing the air in the room to lighten with his stab at humor. Frank’s lip twitches. “Some even call it a ‘guest room’. Guests are people you invite into your house to –”

“I know what guests are, asshole.”

“Well, I just wonder, you know, since you act like you were raised outdoors.”

(from Puncture Repair)

He needs to leave. He should leave. He stands and glares at David instead, feet planted, hands curled. It’s like being back in the power station basement, when he had no where else to be. Part of him knows he can go at anytime, the rest of him is stripping gears in a war over whether he needs to destroy this thing happening between him and David before it gets David hurt.

(from Puncture Repair)

“You ever get tired of punishing yourself, Frank?”

David’s voice is so gentle and so tired, laced with a bitterness that is so familiar. Frank is used to people giving up on arguing with him. He knows what it sounds like.

“No,” He says sharply, because it’s easier to deny than acknowledge that there’s even a chance that David’s got him figured out.

“Now who’s lying?”

(from Puncture Repair)

“You gonna hit me, Frank?” David asks. Frank just pushes him harder against the wall, face twisted in a snarl. David smiles very gently, as if, up close, he’s seeing something too. Frank really does flinch when fingers stroke over his cheek, David reaching up to gently frame his face in his hands. “See, I don’t think you are.”

“You don’t know me, David, you think you do, but you don’t know –”

David drags him in, and Frank lets himself be dragged. The kiss is hot and inevitable and somehow furious. David hums, the sound surprised but accepting when Frank bites at his mouth. His death grip on David’s shirt relaxes, until his hands are just resting over David’s chest, holding him to the wall as David steals his breath. His eyes are blue, so blue; Frank could never look in those eyes and imagine he was with anyone else. No one had eyes like that.

(from Puncture Repair. Damn, David)

David deserves better. Frank still doesn’t know what he deserves.

(from Puncture Repair. Frank, stop being a jackass please)

“You never shut up. You tellin’ me this is all I gotta do to make you quiet?”

A little whine, indignant, helpless, and Frank chuckles. “You still think about me suckin’ you off, David?” He asks quietly, moving his hand to pull, carefully, at the button of the fly. The zipper, when he jerks it down, sounds loud in the quiet room. “What was it again? Rough, behind a dumpster? Real romantic imagery, there.”

David’s dick is hot and hard in his hand when he shoves his way past the waistband of his underwear, gripping him firmly. Fingers clutch back to his shoulder, David’s hips twitching into his touch. He leans in, so he’s talking against David’s hair, feeling the softness of those curls as he mutters in David’s ear. “What’s it gonna be, huh? There’s no dumpster, but I know you got a vivid imagination.”

(from Puncture Repair. :Eyes Emoji: amirite?)

“Lemme do this for you, Frank,” David says softly, and he’s begging, quiet and restrained but it’s still begging, pleading to be allowed to touch him. “You’re always giving for me. You never take. It’s not right. Lemme do this.”

(from Puncture Repair. Love this throwback/contradiction to Frank’s obsessive thoughts over how he’s always taking from David.)

David stands at the top of the steps, looking out at the street like he’s waiting for something he knows isn’t coming. He’s slouched more than usual, one arm wrapped around himself, half a hug, and the other held at his side, something glinting in his hand. Frank wonders if he’s drunk, and watches him turn back towards the door and decides both yes, he is, and also that he’s not too drunk. And the ridiculous urge to get out of the van passes when David turns away and opens the door, tossing back the end of whatever’s in his glass as he crosses the threshold. Frank turns the engine back on and pulls away before it can come back.

(from Memento Mori)

If asked why, Frank would never in a million years be able to answer. It’s like asking a half drowned man, why breathe when he’s offered fresh air – because it’s a need. Because he had to. He had to step in closer, bringing his hands up to brush away those tears. And when David surges against him, kissing him? He had to wrap his arms around that shivering frame, had to kiss back.

(from Memento Mori)

Frank remembers Maria touching him much the same way when he’d first come home, and god, that hurts. Hurts his heart, but maybe not as bad as it should, and he doesn’t know if that means he’s healing or not. He doesn’t even know anymore if healing is a good thing – without the pain, he’s not sure he knows how to define himself anymore.

(from Memento Mori)

What they end up doing on the floor, which is hard and cold and not exactly the ideal place, is sloppy and needy and rough. It’s months of pent up frustration, it’s finally allowing something that both had wanted and neither had dared address. Its fast and dirty and satisfying, David’s breath on Frank’s neck rabbit-quick and sharp as they grind together, shirtless, their pants hitched low. Frank thinks he’s got the feel of the hardwood against his back memorized, the way it digs and drags with every thrust and roll of David’s hips.

(from Memento Mori)

He’s thinking about wants and how they creep up on you. He’s thinking about needs, what each person in the world needs to survive, and if affection – not love, not desire, but honest affection – is one of those needs. He’s thinking about his children, dead and buried, and sleeping upstairs.

(from Memento Mori)

By some miracle the kids actually obey, letting Frank loose and running off to go chatter at David a million questions – When had Frank gotten there, where had he come from, was he staying, how long was he staying –before the tears rise in Frank’s eyes. He’s shoving them away with the heels of his hands, trying to play it off as rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, but when Sarah envelops him in a hug of her own, he knows she knows. She holds his face against her shoulder, curled over him as he sits, and combs her fingers through his hair.

(from Memento Mori)

That’s how he ends up with a fully furnished house – not just a couch and a bed to sleep on, but a table to eat at, an easy chair David likes to lay across the arms of rather than recline in normally, a coffee table he puts his feet on and Sarah, when she catches him, slaps him on the shin to make him stop, despite it being his.

(from Memento Mori. I know this is a dumb bit, but like... domesticity...)

That’s all the justification Frank needs to bring her home, and then – well would you look at that. The house, it’s… well. With Molly to come back to and a bed to sleep in, a kitchen he feels obligated to keep stocked with food because why else should he be paying for the electricity to power the fridge, a living room he entertains David’s family in sometimes – all the sudden, it’s not just a house. It’s home.

He has a home.

He blames David for that. Blaming is easier than thanking.

(from Memento Mori)

Home is three blocks away, with his dog and his own bed, but sometimes home is here, too.

(from Memento Mori)

When he’s home, though, he’s known. He is Frank, just Frank, and he is loved. He loves in return, and god – god but it’s good. It’s about the living, it’s about the living.

(from Memento Mori)

He doesn’t say he loves them, but he shows it in everything he does. He’s working up to it, working up to externalizing the things he feels so deeply. This is his family, and he won’t let anything happen to them this time. He has a second chance and he will do it right this time.

(from Memento Mori, also WHY DID I DO THIS)

Something crashes in the kitchen and the laughter cuts off as everyone turns to look at Sarah. Frank meets her eyes as her skin darkens and breaks. He’s on his feet and she’s crumbling, blowing apart in the barest breeze. Leo screams, and Frank’s head snaps back to the table, away from the horror of Sarah turning to dust, to look at his little girl and see – “no, no, no” – her skin going dull, her outstretched hand crumbling to ash as she reaches for – “no, no, no” – David, who sits in stunned shock, looking at his own crumbling hands and then up at Frank, those piercing eyes pleading in a way they never had before, and he breathes the softest curse, almost a laugh, before his face is gone and Frank looks across the table and there’s Zach – “no, no, no, wait, no” with his hands pressed flat to the table, all eyes as he watches, helpless, alone in the way the solemn child often seems to be, and slowly falls apart.

(from Memento Mori)

When he opens his eyes, he’s alone. Some trick of the breeze stirs the ashy dust in the air, drawing it toward him so his dark clothes are filmed with a fine coating of it, so he’s breathing – he gags and covers his mouth and nose, struggling.

The dust – the dust which is his family – is so thick now, floating aimless in the air, directionless as the breeze from the open door settles again. There are piles around the table and on the kitchen floor, piles of dust that he can identify by location but by no other factor as his – “oh god.”

(from Memento Mori)

When he feels a cold, wet something press against his ankle he jumps, startled, whipping around to find the threat, something – but it’s only Molly. Molly, looking scared, shivering, but whole. Molly is still here and he clings to that as he goes through the process of finding her leash, putting it on her. They need to leave the house. He can’t be here, he can’t keep – the dust is in the air, the dust is them and he can’t hold his breath so he’s breathing –

(from Memento Mori)

Memento mori, he hears David explain to him, deep in his head, in his memory. You will die.

Except it’s never him that dies.

For the living, it was for the living, the living.

Someone has done something monumentally stupid, and whether it was intentional or not, they’ve hurt his family. They’ve taken from him.

For the living, memento mori

He pulls out his phone, the very same one David left for him so long ago now, and he calls Curt. There is no answer, and his fingers leave dusty prints where the brush the numbers. He chokes out something approximate to ‘Call me ASAP please’, but he doesn’t think Curtis is in a way to make phone calls.

(from Memento Mori)

Well, Frank knows monsters, and he knows they can die.

Memento mori.

He knows he can put them down.

You will die.

He can only hope.

(from Memento Mori)

“Here in public?” David intones, thoughtful and pleasant, miles away from his old habitual nervousness. “Think about all the attention we’d get. You wanna get Pete in the papers? Maybe someone with a camera phone and a steady hand get you up on YouTube; Brave Man Fights Off Would-Be Gunman. The text doesn’t point out your pretty necklace, but everyone sees it. Everyone knows, and when the smart ones watch, they recognize the way you move. Is that how you wanna get back in the public eye, Frank,” David murmurs, smug and calm, gun pressed steadily against his spine, “everybody wondering who’s bitch you are?”

(From Never)

He thinks about the bullet tearing through, shattering everything in its path. This close, it’d be a horrific mess. Almost certain death.

His cock is hard against the sheets, and what that says about him, he doesn’t want to examine much.

(from Never. I fuckin love how fucked up Frank is)

David hasn’t known any touch but his own in almost a year. The little bit of contact he’d gotten from Frank up to now had been accompanied by pain. No wonder he’s trembling. No wonder his hands are white-knuckled fists on his knees.

(from Things Change, My Dear)

When David touches his wing, just the trace of fingers over the upper curve, he flinches away. It’s almost the same, sharp denial he’d shown Karen, and he feels his breath catch in his chest. The was a new war inside him; what he thought he deserved versus what he knew he needed. But ultimately, it was a glance over his shoulder, the sight of David’s face, so sad and so alone and so willing to just accept that Frank wouldn’t allow this after all, that makes him steady himself on his feet and lower his wings, slow and deliberate.

(from Things Change, My Dear)

A kiss is communication. It can say different things. This kiss is soft and questioning, not quite chaste. It says I’m hungry, it says I can wait. It is a promise, and a dare, and an assurance. David never takes more than is offered; David can be a selfish little shit, but he respects boundaries.

So Frank pushes his wings open, a sudden show of force that knocks David back, so his own wings flutter, just barely keeping himself on his feet. Frank turns on David, rounds on him with his wings raised, posturing without meaning to. Later, David will describe to him the way he looks in that moment, his face set, his wings aloft, stepping toward David ‘like the wrath of God’, and he’ll say that, his tone torn between amusement and awe, and Frank will have no choice but to punch his shoulder call him, affectionately, a jackass.

(from Things Change, My Dear)

Frank thinks about pulling away, and all the ways a man can do that. He thinks about loneliness so vast and dark that you were blinded by it. He thinks about the softness of a man and all the ways he could be hurt, all the ways it does and doesn’t show. Eyes so blue they can’t be real, glistening with tears, shining with fury, bright on him with delight.

At some point, he falls asleep too, and that’s better.

(from Things Change, My Dear)

You know what, i’m done, thats all i have in me. next question blease

12. favorite character to write about this year

Frank Castle, David Lieberman, or Wade Wilson. Had fun with all of ‘em.

19. any new fics to start next year

hmm, i don’t really think that far ahead. I plan to finish the last two Important, Main Plot stories for Let Them Eat Flesh before New Years. I have an idea rolling around for more Cablepool/Liebercaste crack and yes you read that correctly, so maybe that.

#meme me baby #fanfic meme #saulsgoodman

[femsff]

4, 8, 11, 13, 23, 30, 34, 38 :)

Oooh, awesome! Thanks. 

I’ve included already answered ones below.

A Writer’s Ask Game

agwitow:

Send me an ask with the number(s) you’d like me to answer!

The Basics1.     Do you listen to music when you write?2.     Are you a pantser or plotter?

Started out as a pantser but after a few fic, I decided to give plotting a try. Am now a fully committed plotter.

3.     Computer or pen and paper?

Definitely computer. My fingers tend to cramp up even when I write a little bit and when I write a page or so in a notebook (I often carry a notebook with me when I go somewhere but don’t want to drag the laptop with me), about 3/4th of it illegible to anyone who isn’t me. In a way, that’s a good thing I suppose considering some of my smuttier fics, but overall it’s just a pain. And I always get disappointed when I get around to typing out the notes because it looks like a lot more when written out!

4.     Have you ever been published, or do you want to be published?

No, I have never been published. Maybe one day I’ll try my hand at it, but right now I don’t feel like my writing is “good enough” yet. No idea for an original novel either.

5.     How much writing do you get done on an average day?6.     Single or multiple POV?7.     Standalone or series?8.     Oldest WIP

Oldest WIP I’ve written for or does plotting also count? If it’s just written, then it’s probably my abandoned Down the Rabbit Hole (FFnet | AO3). I just... got stuck. And it was so incredibly frustrating and really stopped me from enjoying anything fic-related that I finally just said to hell with it and dropped it. I just checked and I stopped working on it in 2013... I still have the outline and everything though, so who knows?

9.     Current WIP10.  Do you set yourself deadlines?

The Specifics11.  Books and/or authors who influenced you the most

To be honest, I have no idea. I don’t know, maybe I’m rare but I’ve never been one of those people who held specific authors up as their ideal. I used to read a lot of books (nowadays less so, because 1) am adult and have to adult and 2) because I read fanfic and often would rather write my own fic than read a book) and have some favorites  (all fiction) but nothing that really stands out.

12.  Describe your perfect writing space13.  Describe your writing process from idea to polished

Hahaha! Are you sure you want to know?

Okay, so I get an idea. Often when I’m half asleep/dozing, in the shower or just doing something mindlessly. The ideas are usually specific scenes that I can see play out in my head, but occasionally it’s just a conversation/some dialogue. If I like it, I’ll try to force more by really focusing on it. If the muse wishes it, that tends to work. I’m rarely super excited about an idea that I’ll start working on it right away, and prefer to let it roll around for a while. See if it keeps popping up and more details are added. If it’s worth my time and energy, I suppose.

Once that happens, I’ll start writing down notes. I use OneNote to organize my fic ideas/plotting and have one notebook that’s simply for ideas; one section per idea and depending on the idea, it’ll just be a stream of consciousness (often peppered with questions for myself) or a bit more organized in different pages. Again, depending on how excited I am about the idea, this can be done in a day or it can take weeks/months where I’ll occasionally add some info.

Then, when I feel like I want to work on it some more, I’ll start to delve into the details. When is it set? What’s the beginning, middle and end? Which events do I want include but have no idea where yet? Is there specific dialogue or are there actions I want to maybe include at one point? If it’s an AU, AR or AT, I’ll start working on the differences from canon (who is in it, what’s their role, how does it deviate from canon). How long do I think this fic will be? I need to set a max number of chapters for myself, otherwise the story will just keep growing and I’ll keep adding stuff and in the end it’ll read like I just came up with more and more stuff simply so I wouldn’t have to end the story, rather than telling the story I wanted to tell in the beginning. 

Anyway, I start creating pages for the chapters and fill in the few things I already know. At this point I often also involve my beta and discuss the fic idea with her. Everything from that conversation goes into the ‘brainstorm’ section and I’ll work on the questions and suggestions that arose during the conversation. Then, I’ll start focusing on filling up the chapters with general outlines. That can be anything from “scene 1 Sam telling Jack (Sam pov); scene 2 introspection about changes (Jack pov)” to a paragraphed summary or even a scene completely written out. Sometimes it’s just “some shippy stuff here”, to let me know that at one point I need to lighten it up or bring them closer together. I go over all the chapter pages that way, but don’t necessarily fill them all out. I also make one page with a chapter overview, which is usually the numbered chapters with one or two lines about the content so I can see in one quick glance which things need working on. 

More thinking on the fic idea, sometimes even when sleeping and brainstorming with the beta usually follows, which in turn results in adding more details. The chapter pages get more specifics or maybe a “don’t forget to mention [character]”  or “now [# weeks] pregnant, mention that/include symptoms”. Also, depending on the story idea, I might need to do research. That can be canon/fanon stuff, but also scientific stuff, maybe a different language, create background information for original/rarely used canonical  characters, timeline, locations, RL world events, and so on. That also gets included in the notebook and, at some point, added to the relevant chapter.

Once my outlining is done and I feel comfortable to start  writing, I tend to just create a master document and start writing. Now, that’s not to say my whole outline is complete or that it’s something I must strictly adhere to. Additions and changes are made all the time, sometimes I’ll get stuck or realize a scene doesn’t work the way I envisioned it or the beta tells me something is missing. So, I go back to the notes and work on it. Then I go back to the fic and write, write, write.

Oh and I usually ask the beta to go over a chapter once I’ve finished writing it (or, if I’m stuck in a scene, I’ll ask her to look at it right away) and then I’ll go over the feedback, make changes, possibly discuss some of the things she mentioned, do some more editing and then I’ll go to the next chapter and write some more.

14.  How do you deal with self-doubts?15.  How do you deal with writer’s block?16.  How many drafts do you need until you’re satisfied with a project?17.  What writing habits or rituals do you have?

Hmm. I’m not sure? I do know that when I’m stuck I tend to make a fruit salad or get snacks out in the hopes of it resulting in the required brainpower to keep going.

18.  If you could collaborate with anyone, who would it be, and what would you write about?19.  How do you keep yourself motivated?20.  How many WIPs and story ideas do you have?

The Favourites21.  Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write?22.  Who is/are your favourite pairing(s) to write?23.  Favourite author

I don’t think I really have a favorite author... I don’t like non-fiction, I always read fiction and often thrillers. Some of the books I always order and often reread are ones by Jilliane Hoffman and Ingrid Black.

As for fic, see my favorites/bookmarks on my profile on FFnet/AO3.

24.  Favourite genre to write and read25.  Favourite part of writing

Ooh, difficult to choose. I really love doing the research and plotting, but I think the best part of writing is ending up with the story you imagined before you even ‘put pen to to paper’. Also, managing to convey the emotions through the writing - like when a reader comments with how they also teared up, they had to stop reading a few times to catch their breath/get a grip on their emotions or were just overwhelmed by it all. That’s pretty neat.

26.  Favourite writing program27.  Favourite line/scene28.  Favourite side character29.  Favourite villain30.  Favourite idea you haven’t started on yet

I have quite a few fic ideas I haven’t started writing yet. Not sure I can choose one. But one that I’ve had for a long time, like ~6 years, and even started writing on (but then discarded that because it wasn’t a good opening) is for Woman In Blue. It’s a first-person fic, a style I actually kinda hate and would probably back-button right away if I saw one of my favorite authors use in a new fic... anyway, it’s Mark Carter in first person, writing about Sam (and to a smaller extent, Jack) and all the things he learned about her life after her death - she and Jack died in a blaze of glory, defending Earth against a Replicator attack that also prompted Disclosure.

The Dark31.  Least favourite part of writing32.  Most difficult character to write33.  Have you ever killed a main character?34.  What was the hardest scene you ever had to write?

There are so many scenes I’ve struggled with, most recently in Unmade Plans (chapter 8 specifically, that one really was a fight and I’ve rewritten it probably a dozen times) but the hardest was probably the Sam/Klorel scene in Only the Stubborn Survive. Those of you who’ve read the fic will know which scene I mean.

35.  What scene/story are you least looking forward to writing?

The Fun36.  Last sentence you wrote37.  First sentence or your current WIP38.  Weirdest story idea you’ve ever had

I’m not quite sure. A lot of them start out as weird ideas! The end result as you see them are soooo different. Maybe Consequences of Being Touched, because there were quite a few risque scenes in there?

39.  Weirdest character concept you’ve ever had40.  Share some backstory for one of your characters

The Rest of It41.  Any advice for new/beginning/young writers?42.  How do you feel about love triangles?43.  What do you do if/when characters don’t follow the outline?

It depends on the situation and the outline. I’ve thrown outlines out of the window at times because something else turned out to work much better once you actually reach that point in your story, but I’ve also rewritten a scene a dozen times before I got it exactly the way I wanted it in the outline.

44.  How much research do you do?45.  How much world building do you do?46.  Do you reread your own stories?47.  Best way to procrastinate48.  What’s the most self-insert character/scene you’ve ever written?49.  Which character would you most want to be friends with, if they were real?50.  [Other question—ask me anything]

Well, those were fun but also tricky! Guess I shouldn’t have skimmed the list before rb’ing, haha. No just kidding, I loved answering them. Thanks!

#writer's ask game #writing #fanfiction #me #rl #thank you for playing #london88blog

[cooperjones2020]

Nobodies Nobody Knows

Summary: She is the lamp in Hero’s tower, the scissors in Delilah’s hand, the blood in Guinevere’s bed. She is a million and one metaphors and all of them are his undoing.

part 1/?

Some of the scenes from Second City but from Jughead's perspective. More a character exercise than a story.

Apparently I have no self-restraint and need to post things as soon as they’re completed, which now means I’m out of pre-written material so stuff may take longer. Also I really wanted to use this title and Algren strikes me as someone Jughead would like.

(ao3->http://archiveofourown.org/works/11434950/chapters/25623927)

By the time Sunday night rolls around, Jughead Jones wants a beer, a shower, and several hours uninterrupted with his Netflix. He has been doing line edits on his new manuscript for ten hours, sitting hunched over his coffee table. Because he’s a grown-ass man and he doesn’t own a desk.

So, more than the beer, the shower, and the Netflix, he wants to grunt and sweat and expend some goddamn energy until his muscles are as tired as his eyes.

But, instead of any of those things — those blessedly simple, easy to satisfy desires — because the universe has a fucking sadistic sense of humor —  he walks into Mary Andrews’s house to find Betty Cooper.

Now that he thinks about it, Mary had looked surprised when she’d opened the door. But he’d pushed his way in and made himself at home the way he’d been doing since he was 19. Mike was expecting him. They had a date with some wood.

It’s not a creepy sex thing. He’s taken up woodworking and furniture restoration.

Expect Mike is in London. Halfway down the hallway, her words stop him cold. “Here, come into the living room, I’m having dinner with Betty.”

“Betty.” He only knows one Betty. “Betty Cooper?” Red alert. SOS. All hands on deck.

“Of course Betty Cooper. Didn’t I tell you she was moving here?”

“No actually, I don’t think you did.” He doesn’t know how much Mary knows, doesn’t know if it’s truly an oversight on her part or if Archie has told her something and she thinks she’s helping him by keeping him in the dark about Betty. If it’s the latter, she is. Or she was, anyway.

But she’s already pushed past him into the living room. There’s nothing else for it.

Betty Cooper is every bit as beautiful as she was ten years ago. More so. And he swears his heart stops in his chest when he rounds the corner and sees her for the first time.

He truly hasn’t seen her since high school. He doesn’t have a facebook, doesn’t follow her on instagram. She may have featured in a few of Archie’s posts over the years, but he’s always told his eyes to slide off of her. To not linger on what he can never have. She looks older. No shit. But more mature, more relaxed. Her neck looks longer and her hair shorter. It is still a beam of sunlight.

Jughead Jones is a writer. And he likes to think he’s at least okay at it. He trades in metaphor and simile, synechdoche and metonym. But his entire life, every time he’s seen her, the only thing that’s shot through him, the only word he’s been able to grab onto and hold is sunlight. The color, the warmth, the feeling.

When she says hello and reaches out a hand, he takes it automatically. Something somewhere in his nervous system is misfiring. He’s pretty sure he says her name.

“Can I get you some food, Jug?”

Ah yes, a distraction. “Always Mary. Do you even have to ask?”

Of course that means Mary turns back to the kitchen, so Jughead is left sitting across from Betty Cooper, staring at her like she’s a goddamn ghost. Betty, forever her mother’s daughter, manages to make small talk.

“Did you say something about a desk?”

“A—? Oh yeah. Mike and I are restoring this turn-of-the-century roll-top desk Mary found at an estate sale. It was gift when The Final Fissure hit the bestseller list.” Idiot. Stop bragging.

But then he notices color creeping her up chest and her eyes slide to the right. Where what he assumes is her purse sits in front of the fireplace with a very familiar cover peaking out of the top. Before he gives himself a chance to think, he picks it up.

“If you ask me if I want an autograph, I’ll clock you.”

“I would never.”

It’s a paperback, and it feels like a pretty new one. The pages are crisp and there’s no crack in the spine. He thumbs through it.

“Why, Betty Cooper, no annotations? I’m shocked.” That’s good, Jug. That’s almost funny.

“Actually—that might be my second copy. I got to the airport way too early and, in a whirlwind of productivity, I’d already shipped all my books here—well not here, cause they’re in Lexington at the moment—but I didn’t have anything to read and I’d already finished the newspaper and it was on display in Hudson’s. I picked it up just to look at but before I knew it you’d sucked me back in. So I bought it so I’d have something to do on the plane.”

There are many threads in that spiel on which he’d like to tug—Lexington?—but at the knowledge that she not only found his writing compelling but found it compelling enough to buy two copies of his book, his heart swells up in his chest and he can’t breathe.

“Hey you don’t have to justify buying my book to me.”

He’d actually thought about sending her a copy, before it first came out. He debates telling her that, just to see how she’d react.

But then Mary returns.

“Here you go, Jug. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Logically, he doesn’t. So he accepts his plate and turns tail for the basement, trying to ignore the ball of string that wants to lead him out of the labyrinth, up the stairs, right to where Betty sits.

So many questions run through Jughead Jones’s mind the first time he sets eyes on Betty Cooper in ten years. But above all he wants to ask her, Who are you now, Betts? How did you get here from there, Betts? What happened to you when I left you? Did you find the strength I always knew you had?

For a while, he loses himself in the slog of paint stripper, sand paper, and power tools. He tries not to think about the fact that they’re almost certainly talking about him. He wants to know what she’s asking Mary. He wants to know what Mary’s telling her. He’s ashamed when he considers creeping up the stairs to listen at the doorway.

When he emerges a few hours later, most of the lights on the first floor have been extinguished. But for the glow creeping its way down the hallway from the kitchen, slipping its fingers into Betty’s hair where she sleeps on the living room couch, an afghan slipping off one shoulder.

He gives himself a moment just to look at her. When the moment passes, he turns and Mary is watching him from the doorway, a mug of tea cupped in her hands.

“How’d it go?” There’s a look in her eyes he can’t quite decipher, but he’d bet his next advance it’s not about his pet project.

“Slow progress. I’m trying not to damage the wood when I remove the old varnish. It’s like the Battle of Verdun but for my patience. When’d you lose Sleeping Beauty over here?

“An hour and half or so ago. I was going to just let her sleep on the couch but I’d forgotten you were here. Maybe you could carry her upstairs.” Everything inside him screams out yes: yes, take her in your arms again; yes, press your cheek to her hair; yes, match the rhythm of her heartbeat to yours. But everything also screams out no: no, don’t torture yourself; no, she wouldn’t want it; no, you have no right. The two everythings wrench him apart.

But then, before he can respond: “I’m awake!” And so she is.

“Hey Pippi Longstocking.” He wonders how many more mediocre movie references he can jam into tonight.

“Betty, you’re welcome to sleep in the guest room upstairs. But if you want to go home, I’m sure Jughead can take you.” His stomach twists in two different directions again.

“Oh no that’s alright, Mary. I can just take the L.” Like hell she can.

“No, Betty, you’re not riding the red line home by yourself this late at night.” He is not being a caveman. He would say that to anyone. Hell, he wouldn’t ride the red line at midnight by himself. Especially not if there’s been a game tonight — which he thinks there has been. And he looks scary. He has a leather jacket!

“Jug’s right, honey. It’s not safe and you’re so new to the city anyway. Let him take you home.”

He’s not quite sure how, because he can tell she doesn’t want to, but Mary somehow convinces her. He tries to mentally prepare himself to have her on the back of his bike, touching him, a twisted version of his sixteen-year-old self’s fantasy come to life.

When Mary has kissed his helmet and vanished back into the house, he asks, “So where to, Miss Daisy?” Update: the answer is one. One more mediocre movie reference.

She names an address near the Newberry. “Of course you live in River North.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ask me again in a month if you haven’t figured it out.” Stupid. Betty in Chicago is not equal to Betty in his life. He will not try to parse whether this is a fantasy or a nightmare. He will not let himself hope. Hope is not for people like him.

“And where do you live?”

“In Logan Square. And before you say anything, I lived there before the hipsters moved in.” More stupid. She’ll definitely latch onto that.

She does. “Really? Before the hipsters moved in? Well okay then. By all means, continue to proselytize on the ills of gentrification.”

He snaps his visor shut and swings a leg over the bike.

He takes her down Lake Shore Drive though it’s slightly out of the way, so they can enjoy the juxtaposition of the city lights and the deep, dark lake. In the night air, her arms burn where they touch his chest.

When they get to her building, she awkwardly climbs off and he stows the helmet in a saddlebag.

Then she touches him. “Thanks, Juggie.”

He sucks in a breath. He feels the point of contact, the nickname, zing through his system. She, too, seems to realize what she’s done.

He can’t help himself. He slides a hand down her arm, cupping her elbow, before bringing it to rest atop hers. He lifts it and squeezes, says, “Night Betts.”

“Night.” He watches her slip into her building, then kicks the bike to life and roars away. He takes the corner as sharply as he can get away with and heads toward the expressway.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #bughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #riverdale #mine #second city

[wierdogal]

Writing Our Own Stories (Chapter 6)

Summary: It’s been five years since Rumplestiltskin was banished from Storybrooke and no one knew what had happened to him. That was until Regina got a call from someone asking how she could transfer the remains of her step-brother from Storybrooke to Scotland. Canon until Rumple’s banishment. [Eventual Rumbelle but towards the end.]

In this chapter, Neal tries to find a loophole and we finally learn who it was that saved Rumplestiltskin when he was banished from Storybrooke.

Note: Thank you to everyone who nominated Emily for Best OC in this years TEAs. Thank you for the love! As my thanks, I'll be updating this story with a few more scenes from her.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

[AO3] [FFN]

Chapter 6

New York, sometime during the First Curse

Neal was getting in over his head. Why on earth would he even entertain the idea of guardianship for a child when he himself was a train wreck?

But there he was at the midtown library of New York, looking over the laws of this realm, trying to see if he had a chance of raising Emily as her guardian. The girl was all alone, after all. He had asked around, even to some of the police he knew...there was no report of any missing girl. Jake, a friend he had in the force, said he'd keep an eye out but so far no one was looking for the girl, no one wanted her.

"Look," began Jake over the phone when Neal had called him for the umpteenth time. "I think it's best for the girl if you just take her in. No one's looking for her, I'd say social services will side with you on this."

"With my RAP sheet," fired back Neal. "Do you honestly think social services is going to let me take care of this girl?"

"Show them how you care," said Jake. "Look, Neal, so far you've been on the mends from what I can see. No more breaking in and stealing cars, no more shoplifting. You actually have a roof over your head...this girl might just be yet another one of those things to get your life back on track. Not to mention her name starts with E and M."

"Not funny," mumbled Neal. "Just let me know."

"Think about it," said Jake. "From what you've told me, that girl has no one else...you can't seriously want her to go into the system, or back into it if that's where she came from." He paused. "She's taken a liking to you and vice versa. I'm sure there's some way you can get legal custody of her."

And that's how Neal found himself in the library pouring over legal books on adoption. He looked over at Emily who was beaming with a stack of books right in front of her. She had been excited when Neal carried the stack over to her earlier, telling her that they'll be in the library for quite some time.

So far the girl hasn't complained. Now that she was engaging in conversation more, Neal could tell the hint of an accent from her speech. Whoever her parents were, or whoever raised her, was not someone who were from around here.

Neal smiled as he watched her read. She seemed to devour every word and the way her eyes scanned through the pages made Neal swell with pride a little that he was able to make this little girl smile despite whatever she's been through.

A small cough brought him out of his thoughts and Neal turned to see an older, Chinese man standing next to him. "I'm sorry to interrupt. But the librarian told me that you've checked out most of the law text and I was wondering if I could borrow the volumes about Business."

"Oh sure," replied Neal, gathering the books the man needed.

"Thank you," replied the elderly man. "I'm putting up a herbal shop and wanted to make sure everything was in order…"

"Not from around here?" asked Neal.

"Hong Kong before New York," replied the man. "Before that? Well you won't believe me if I told you."

"I would probably say the same to you," said Neal. "Neal Cassidy."

"Li Yao," replied the elder man. He motioned to the Emily. "Your daughter?"

"Trying to be her guardian," corrected Neal. "Like you, I'm trying to get things in order."

"I wish you the best of luck then," replied Mr. Yao and headed off to read on another table. The elder man couldn't shake off the feeling that he has seen the boy before but brushed it aside. He went ahead and made sure his shop was in no danger of being shut down by the legal system of this realm. Once he was satisfied he made to return the book but found Neal and the girl had gone.

Mr. Yao went and returned the books he had but as he passed by the table the two had used, his eyes caught on the fairytale book left open and something clicked inside him. He quickly headed to one of the isolated reading rooms of the library… a place no one seems to really wander off into for no apparent reason...or because it was cloaked with his magic.

He found the book that had appeared a decade or so ago and turned to the right page. A drawing of a boy with short brown hair clinging to a scrawny older man with shoulder length brown hair. He waved his hand over the drawing and soon a paper of the same drawing of the boy appeared on his hand. He concentrated harder and the image of the boy began to age until the the drawing of the boy resembled that of Neal Cassidy.

Mr Yao placed the drawing he had used magic on right next to the book. The man, Neal Cassidy, had also came from another realm. The man himself had implied it so earlier. Not only was he from the Enchanted Forest but he was also the reason why the Dark Curse was cast in the first place. Neal Cassidy was Baelfire. He was Rumplestiltskin's son. He was the son of the Dark One.

"Jared there's really no point," said Emily to the person on the other end of the line and Rumple sighed as he heard his daughter's voice from the other room. "I'd rather join my father to America than spend it bored in a useless award ceremony when they're just going to-"

Rumple swore that her friend Jared must have cut her off and for good reason. Emily was graduating with top honors and was being convinced by Jared to deliver the address on behalf of her fellow students to the institution they spent a couple of years studying in.

Emily was smart and a good student but she should be the last person you'd ask to deliver a speech, especially if she had her way...it'll turn to one big speech against the administration and how they lacked in almost every aspect.

"Yes well I'm sure Dean Masterson will be relieved not to see me attending," replied Emily. "Oh so this is all because they want my father there? Yeah well they didn't convince him to speak, why in heaven's name do they think I will?"

Rumple chuckled. Technically that never happened but the workings of magic was truly remarkable. Mr. Yao had explained that the curse had given everyone that was brought by the curse from the Enchanted Forest to the Land Without Magic new lives, including family history and educational attainment. What was even more remarkable is that magic had reworked the memories of people that could be involved...the history of Maine for example, had the foundation of the town of Storybrooke even in their records.

It was the same with the university in Scotland that apparently R. Gold graduated from, with some people even commenting that they had taken classes with him, trying to discover his secretive first name, even though Rumplestiltskin knew that to be a work of fiction.

But he himself, if he tried, would recall moments in campus...studying with professors and even goofing around with other men, drinking alcohol. It was bizarre in a sense but magic was magic...it was the same when he had regained his memories when Emma Swan had arrived in Storybrooke.

"It's not like I'm not going to get my degree if I don't attend," fired back his daughter. "That's why the university has graduate in-absentia. So please will you-"

"Hello Mr. Wilcot," began Rumplestiltskin as he took Emily's phone from her hand and took over the call. "I believe my daughter has made her position quite clear."

"Sir," stuttered the young man. "I-well I was just-"

"Asked to try, I would assume and I understand," replied Rumple with a sly smile to his daughter. "Please do send our regards to whoever convinced you to even attempt to persuade my daughter to do anything she doesn't want. They apparently do not know her very well...like yourself."

"I-" Rumple ended the call and tossed the phone to his daughter.

"And that had nothing to do with the fact that he asked me-" began Emily with a glare.

"Of course not," replied Rumple with a smile. "Your social life is not my concern...especially after you made it perfectly clear the last time you had a lad over."

"Oh you mean Alex who ran out of the house when you entered the room with a gun?" asked Emily, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I thought you liked Jared."

"Yes, well if he thinks he can decide things for you, I retract that statement," said Rumple with a wave of his hand and Emily had to bite back a smile, because she was still a bit annoyed but that gesture that made her reminisce the days when he would show her a spell or a trick with real and proper magic...the one at his disposal.

"I cannot comprehend how you do that," began Emily with a sigh as her father gave her a confused look. "You could be so aggravating and annoying one second and be completely adorable a second after."

"Adorable?" asked Rumple with a raised eyebrow.

"You were twirling your hand," explained Emily with a smile. She raised her phone. "Maybe a little light show to make up for ruining my chance at a boyfriend."

"Are you asking me to show you magic because I told that boy the truth?" asked Rumple, taken aback that apparently he had angered her slightly at his gesture. "I thought you wanted to end that conversation."

"Yes, but I had it under control," replied Emily.

"Uh-huh," replied Rumple with a smile. "And that particular shade of red on your cheeks doesn't help me make my point at all."

"Papa!" called Emily as Rumple all but ran out of the room, his daughter not far behind armed with a pillow.

Somewhere in the Land Without Magic, just a few miles away from Stoyrbrooke during the Second Curse

Rumplestiltskin felt numb. This wasn't how death felt like when he had killed himself and his father not too long ago. Then again, that had transpired in a place with magic. This time it had happened in the Land Without Magic...maybe death was different here.

Awareness slowly crept back to his mind and he was suddenly aware that he wasn't on the hard ground. Actually it felt soft...comfortable actually. It took him a couple of minutes to finally realize he was laying flat on his back on a bed…

His eyes shot open to see an unfamiliar room. He tried lifting his head but that small act took up energy that his body didn't have and he fell right back down.

"Easy," said a voice and Rumple's eyes widened when an older man came to his line of sight. "Your body still needs time to recover even with the light healing spell I could manage."

Healing spell? Rumple studied the man in front of him and it dawned on him that he was somehow familiar...never came across the man before he had disappeared from the Enchanted Forest but the man was known...well any person able to transform into a dragon was someone Rumplestiltskin the Dark One needed to be familiar with.

"You're.." began Rumple, his voice hoarse and low.

"Yes," came the reply. "I was driving aimless in the forest when I saw you collapse."

"You were heading to Storybrooke?" asked Rumple, his mind going into overdrive trying to access his current situation and how he could escape if the man in front of him decided to turn hostile.

"Actually," began the man. "I think my magic was leading me to you...to help you."

All of his thoughts stopped and he stared at the man. "Help me?"

The man nodded. "You must know who I am if you freely talked about magic right in front of me."

"I know who you are Rumplestiltskin." replied the man. "I am Li Yao, if it's any consolation to you. I know how names have power and you would want to be on even ground."

"That's not your real name," whispered Rumple and Mr Yao smiled. He should know well not to try and deceive the Dark One.

"So you do know who I am," began Mr Yao. "I chose the name when I had arrived in this realm..but back in the Enchanted Forest people knew me as 'The Dragon'."

#Writing Our Own Stories #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #rumplestiltskin #baelfire #neal cassidy #the dragon ouat #wierdo writes