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fuwabloom · 1 year

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It's been a while since I posted anything! So sorry but I've been in a bit of creative funk and had to scrap a lot of the chapter I was working on so... I'm gonna post it here!

Context: Ayano is being discharged from the hospital after fainting due to stress. Her father is worried for her and she thinks back on a very specific memory of appeasing him as a child.

It took several more tests and evaluations before Ayano was finally released from the hospital. Her mother was, once again, roped into another meeting with Director Mukai and assured her family that they could leave without her.

The three idle outside the entrance of the hospital, her father carrying a bag of clothes in one hand and a paperbag full of books and other miscellaneous trinkets Ayano was gifted. Mukai Kinu was bashfully obvious with trying to win over the girl's affections,

She laughed off the concerns of the two, and gently patted them on the shoulders, affirming her initial offer,

"Now, now," she cooed, affection sparkling in her eyes. A wide grin blossomed on her lips, reaching her eyes with sheer delight. "I know today is our first day altogether out of the hospital, but duty calls! I'll have Mukai-kun drive me home and pay for some prime wagyu beef, doesn't that sound nice?"

Ayano isn't slow, she knows what her mother looks for with how she stares back, batting her lashes in am attempt to garner a favorable response. Her father is quick, a natural charmer when it came to Ryoba, and he utters a pathetic excuse of being concerned that maybe they should all take a night to relax. It's been so long, hasn't it? They've rarely had a chance to sit at the table and negotiate who gets to finish what side dish.

Ayano follows up, picking up the cue from her father's trailing pleas. She forces a heavy pout, eyes downcast, and as soon as she feels her mother's loving attention on her, she crosses her arms and turns away. Most parents would reprimand such insolence but Ryoba was an anomaly. She had no standard criteria. No control group to be compared to. Nothing. She was a being of whims and wants with no manual someone can pick up and read.

An adolescent of a parent with an ounce of normality would get scolded. But this was not that type of setting. Instead, Ryoba giggles, validating the poor acting, and gently kisses her daughter's temple. She's a woman who is not easily swayed and faulted to being amused than endeared.

"I wish you could act spoiled like this before you start high school," she sighs and her husband relents a nervous chuckle. "Maybe I'll also drop by Wakuri Bakery and pick up some cream puffs? I know my dearest Ayano's are the best but for now, you need to get reacquainted with our home after being away so long!"

She repeated her consolation until a man in a black suit arrived and cleared his throat. He was an older gentleman, clean shaven, with black hair swept over a pair of shades. His shoulders were broad and the way he stood made him appear bigger than he actually was for his average height. "Aishi-san," he calls, tapping on his wrist. A flash of light reflected on his watch, showing off a hint of his wage.

"Hmph!" Ryoba whines but laughs it off when the man refrains from flinching. "Oh you young blood," she chides and waves to her family. "Don't worry, my loves, just make sure not to eat too late!"

The two leave, approaching a loitering vehicle with the suit opening the passenger's door, waiting for Ryoba to slide in. She turns one last time and blows affectionate kisses to her husband and daughter and, finally, seats herself in the car. Visibly, the man's shoulders slack, and he hurries to the driver's seat. A few more seconds pass and the engine murmurs before the vehicle departs.

Ayano hears her father breathe out in an ironic mix of distress and relief. "How are you feeling, sweetie?" His tone is unsteady as his eyes are tracking the tail end of the car circling through the parking lot and entering the high way. "Mukai-sensei said everything was fine, great even, and praised how healthy you are... But, uh, how was your appetite? Was it okay? Did you eat enough?"

Her father danced around the worries of her well-being often. Meanwhile, Ryoba batted away such issues like they were someone else's problem or something absurd like the Aishi family's genes were above such trivial things like fevers. They both exercised caution of Ayano's health, leaving it to regular evaluations in school. There was never anything wrong outside of the mild concern that Ayano, as a growing child, didn't eat much compared to other children.

It wasn’t urgent nor something to worry about, but it left a gnawing feeling in his stomach. A worry that he once brought up when it was just him and a seven-year-old Ayano. They sat across each other at a quiet family restaurant. Laminated menus placed before them, wiped clean from previous diners, colorful to entice their childish patrons, and used silly names to further entrance curious eyes.

Sundae specials like 'A Berry Banana Bonanza' for a banana split chock-full of strawberries and raspberries; 'Choco-Mint Mayhem' where the sea green of mint was sprinkled with chocolate chunks and decorated with sticks of Pocky; and 'My Neopolitean Regime' is a strange name for a childish delight, what with its dedicated embodiment of its three flavors and candies that resided inside. It's supposed to be a statement, Ayano once thought, possibly one that denied dentists everywhere a smooth appointment.

Her father's eyes shone briefly after she rose her head, asking with eagerness if she wanted ice cream. She knows she needs to act spoiled, yanking at her father's shaky hands, and sobbing crocodile tears with a thousand pleases falling from her tongue. She knows he wants that, to witness an ounce of a normal child across him. She knows he is struggling, desperation the only thing he can feel when around his family.

She knows and yet, she can't act like what he wants. All she can do is pick up a mask that she made specifically for him and wear it while reciting a script. As the playwright, the producer, the actress, she performs and does it well.

"Daddy," she meekly began, batting her eyes like she's seen Midori do a thousand times. "Can I get the Neopolitean one?" She tapped her finger against the disgustingly bright photo of said dessert.

A smile escaped him and the crows feet around his eyes crinkle. "You can, but then you'll be too full for dinner," he gently reprimanded, relief flooding from his voice. His muscles loosen, as if something inside him unwound. "Can you promise me that you'll have room for some yummy dinner?"

Like he could breathe.

She figured this was enough for him to feel like this could be normal. So she nods, stubborn with cheeks puffed and brows furrowed, similar to Kuu who debated with her parents often. She'd fight for adding 'just one more book!' to the cart as they wandered from aisle to aisle in a bookstore. Funny faces seeped onto Kuu's parents' faces as though they were doing their best not to laugh, and were easily swayed by the soured look of their child. 'Okay,' they'd say with a shake of their head, 'just one more.'

So, as always, Ayano feeds off her companions' lives and processes it as artificially as possible.

"I promise!"

And that memory drifts into nothingness. Her stomach was too small to handle such a behemoth of a sundae and they wound up boxing it, brought it home, and had it as dessert for dinner. She recalled having stomach cramps but managed to hide it and finish dinner her mother crooned on about loving to make. Ayano excused herself to take a bath first and relished in the hot water for as long as she could.

Why would anyone want to eat more than one scoop of ice cream? Impossible. She felt her teeth decay at the thought of attempting it a second time.

And so, the feeling drifts again.

"Mukai-sensei made sure I've eaten everything on my plate," she assured, feigning bashfulness. "I might gain weight because of it..." Gingerly her hands pat at her nearly nonexistent flab. She always worked out, not even thinking about it, scultped by her mother's designed lifestyle. Her posture was always upright, she did light cardio, she put her all into physical education, and was on constant alert. If anything, the pink-haired nurse commented how Ayano had a surprising amount of muscle for someone who wasn't part of an athletic club.

"It's almost as if you're training to join a sports meet!"

It was a kind observation. Something someone innocent, ignorant, of the world would assume. Or someone normal.

Her father cracked a smile, crows feet prominent.

#yandere simulator #ys galatea au #fuwa writes #fuwa drafts #this can be found on ao3!#well the actual story #not the actual chapter

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isagrimorie · 2 years

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3, 4, 7 and 9 for the writer ask game 😃.

for this ask meme:

3. What’s a fic idea that you have but haven’t written yet?

I answered this here but also I have a lot of story ideas: One that I'm contemplating writing but it's daunting, is a bit of a re-write of season 4 from Lizzie breaking the sire bond onwards and making Ken more of a formidable god villain ala Glory. Or just scrap him altogether in favor of having Aurora's triad as a true force to be reckoned with.

It's probably just going to live in my head.

Thirteen heist story, Thirteen meets up with the crew in series 8. They recruit the Doctor again to help with another heist to save a world, except the Doctor they contact isn't Twelve but Thirteen. The first time I thought of this idea was in series 11 but if I were to write it now, I would love to place it in the TARDIS team of Thirteen, Yaz, and Dan.

Except the conceit was the crew are used to Twelve with his professional coldness (this was series 8!Twelve after all) and his sharpness. And the Fam definitely doesn't know that the Doctor was anything but sunshine and roses. So maybe if I do write it, it has to be in the series 11 era.

4. Do you prefer writing multi-chapter or oneshot fanfictions?

Multi-chapter stories! But alas, I seem to only be able to write one shots!

7. What’s a trope you love to write?

I answered this but I contain multitudes so I'm okay to answer again. I think I like drama/angst with a happy ending story.

Also, journeys of self-discovery, are my jam.

9. What’s your favorite line(s) or scene(s) that you have written?

I've kind of realized that I like my endings and... I sure do love to end with: "--"

From my Harold and Shaw story, written this year: Metamorphosis:

The woman -- the personification of the Machine his hallucinating brain conjured-- turned back towards them, a smile on her face. Harold angled his head and finally spotted the camera almost hidden but not quite out of sight.

“Are you ready, Harold?”

Harold felt himself smile, Shaw had a hand on his pulse, counting. “It’s been an honor, Miss Shaw.”

He imagined he heard the beat of wings, the sound of an old dial tone, and in the distance, he imagined he saw Miss Groves – Root, the real Root and John waiting for him, and just beyond, Joss Carter and Nathan.

And then–

#end#

#answered #terapsina #asked and answered #doctor who #tv: legacies #my fic #okay this is the last one for today #since it's already past midnight

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draconic-ichor · 3 years

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In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 28: The Pot Boils Over

Warnings:” strong language, sexual themes

Summar: Juniper finally comes clean to Heisenberg…

Feedback appreciated. 18+

Their interactions for the following days didn’t fare better. Juniper was touchy and moody, almost bursting into tears at some of Heisenberg’s comments. He was at a loss, used to her being a bantering partner.

She’d started avoiding the workshop, from a mixture of the smell and her recent lack of patience for his joking. At night Heisenberg would frequently hear her crying softly when she thought he’d fallen asleep or while she hid away in the bathroom.

It broke his heart.

He knew she was suffering, but wouldn’t talk to him. When he would attempt to get answers from her it seemed to push her father away.

So he started focusing on work more, spending more time away from the apartment.

His worry worked its way into a sharp blade, slicing into him when his mind would wander.

Was it his fault? It must be. That’s why she wouldn’t speak to him…

The thought swam darkly around his brain.

How did he fuck up?

The worry was blanketed with anger and annoyance, his usual response to hard to process emotions. He knew what being angry felt like, it was normal. It was easier to handle, he thought.

But it made him simmer like a kettle, ready to boil over every second. The deeper he sunk into worry and self-loathing without any type of answers, the higher the heat rose on the kettle.

After their most recent spout, it finally did boil over…

Heisenberg sat reading at the table, smoking a cigar quietly. Juniper bruised herself with cleaning up the dishes after their most recent meal. The smoke hit her face, making her wrinkle her nose. For some odd reason it sent a sharp bolt of annoyance through her.

“Do you have to do that?” She grumbled as she wiped down the table with a damp rag.

“What??” Heisenberg looked up sharply, confused.

“Smoke at the table while I’m cleaning.”

“And? It never bothered you before.”

“It’s bothering me now!” She snapped.

Heisenberg dropped the cigar in the ashtray, fixing her with a narrow gaze. “Just deciding to be a complete bitch to me or does it just come naturally?” He barked, leaning back in the chair.

“Excuse me?” Juniper threw down the rag, turning to meet his gaze.

They stared down at each other for a long, tense moment. Juniper was the first to break, looking away with glassy eyes.

“You are such an asshole.” She began to walk away, hiding her face.

“Me?” Heisenberg stood, anger rising, “You’ve been treating me like shit.” He went after her, grabbing her wrist in a strong hold. Juniper stopped dead but didn’t look back at him.

“Why have you been acting so damn weird?”Heisenberg asked, his brows knotting together. His voice was rough and accusing.

“Getting all buddy-buddy with Donna?” He walked towards her, “Being quiet as hell around me? Acting like I’m going to bite, what’s going on?”

Juniper’s shoulders shook a bit, refusing to turn toward him. He didn’t take the silence well, grabbing her arm and forcing her to face him.

“Juniper, fucking talk to me!” He almost begged, “If I fucked up just tell me.”

He saw tears start to fall from her eyes, her lips trembling. Heisenberg heard the cups and plates in the cabinets begin to shake and clink together.

He took a breath, trying to calm his voice a bit, realizing she was much more distressed then she was letting on.

“Buttercup?” He wiped a tear away, “What did I do?”

Juniper pushed him away a bit, “W-we messed up Karl.” On the chairs fell away from the table with a loud clatter, papers swirled around them.

Confusion clouded his eyes.

“K-Karl,” she stammered through tears, “I’m pregnant!”

His grip fell from her, his face losing color. In the wake of his silence she started to blurt everything out.

“I've been asking Donna to teach me how to sew and make clothes so I c-could maybe make things later.” Her hands covered her face, “And I've been trying to c-collect things that wouldn’t be suspicious.”

Heisenberg stumbled back a bit, his lips a thin line. His mind was a garbled mess, stomach totally flipping as he almost lost his footing. The floor felt like jelly under his legs and thought hammered through his brain. So much made sense now but damn…it was a lot to take in.

“I didn’t know how to tell you!” Juniper cried, “I thought you would hate me.” The papers and small bits of metal began to fly erratically around them, silverware rattled in the drawers as the kitchen knives threatened to pull free from the block.

She gulped, looking up at him, “Please say something. Say anything!”

She almost begged, “Just yell at me Karl, please!”

Heisenberg looked almost dumbfounded, eyes wide, as he asked in a low voice, “Buttercup, you’re pregnant?”

“Haven’t you been listening?”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so…I took a test.” She looked down, “And my stomach feels different…”

“Fuck.” Heisenberg whispered, crumpling into the kitchen chair. His hands balled into his hair.

Juniper stood still for a moment, trying to control her breathing. Everything in the room started to slow until the debris around them fell to the floor. The cabinets grew silent as the soft hum died. Juniper wiped her eyes with a shaking hand.

“How long?” Heisenberg’s voice was hardly auditable.

“About a month.” She admitted, padded closer.

He put his face into his hands, his thoughts a storm in his head.

“D-Do you want me to leave?” Juniper asked, her voice wavering.

He looked up suddenly at her, “Of course not! Just give me a fucking second ok.”

She nodded, worrying her hands.

It was a while before they had a real conversation about the matter, eventually sitting down to talk.

Shocked couldn’t begin to describe how he felt.

He shifted between bewilderment and fear.

“Heis…” Juniper knocked on the side of the doorway to the shop.

Heisenberg didn’t move, his chin resting on his folded hands, “Hm?”

“Can…can we talk?” Juniper’s voice was heavy, almost pleading.

“…sure.” He answered, his voice was not tinged with any ill.

She came forward, pulling up a chair to sit close to him. They sat in silence for a long moment before words tugged at her lips.

“You haven’t broken anything.” She observed, almost surprised.

“I’m not angry.” He said frankly, not moving his head to look at her.

“Then…what are you?” She ventured.

He mulled over his answer, not truthfully sure himself.

“Confused.” He finally admitted.

Juniper nodded in understanding, even though she had time to process everything.

“And a bit upset.” He went on, “That you waited so long to tell me.” Juniper opened her mouth but he continued, “We’re in this together…you shouldn’t feel like you have to hide shit from me.”

His words stung a bit but she understood his hurt.

“I’m sorry.” She reached out a hand, fingers finding his coat sleeve.

He gave a little rumble of acknowledgment.

“This also makes our lives a lot more complicated…everything is fucked.”

“Does it have to be?”

“Well it sure as hell puts me on a tight time limit on the whole ‘revolution’ thing.” He snorted.

When she didn’t speak he rattled on, “Your in danger…so much more than before. I’m not losing you again.”

His voice was determined, almost breaking under the weight of his promise to himself.

“And about…about the baby?” She held onto his sleeve even tighter, worry making her tremble a bit.

His lips were a thin line, eyes clouded. “We’ll figure it out…” he sighed, “Won’t let that bitch have it either.”

His words gave her a bit of relief; hearing his want to protect not only her but the baby quelled her fears of him rejecting the child altogether

“…you said you took a test?” He ventured, words breaking the silence that had blanked the room.

Juniper nodded, “I bought one from the Duke.”

“Where is it now?” He asked.

Juniper shifted uncomfortably.

“What did you do with it, Doll?”

“I…panicked.”

“Where?”

Her eyes teared up a bit, “I-I threw it off the balcony…into the scrapyard.”

Heisenberg gave a heavy, exasperated sigh. There was a silence between them for a moment before Heisenberg stood, “I have to find it.”

He paused, “What does it look like?”

“A little pink and white stick…made out of plastic.” She admitted.

“Of course it fucking is…”

It took him three days of sifting through scrap to find the test. When he found it he burned it until it was unrecognizable then disposed of it in the deepest reaches of the factory. Now that it was gone it gave him a small semblance of relief.

Even now Juniper acted like more of a mother then Miranda had: speaking fondly about the growing life and in the soft tones of her voice. The very fact she strove to learn new skills for the future child’s benefit spoke volumes to him.

He was still on the fence with how he felt, a mixture of fear and confusion. But seeing her be the thing he never had brought hope to flutter about his chest like a young bird.

Neither of them knew, or could recall, their true parents, no memories to guide them now. But they had each other and a dug in desire to keep this child safe.

The most important thing now was secrecy.

Heisenberg knew it couldn’t have just been a miracle of nature. It had to be the work of Mother Miranda, some sick scheme to breed a vessel from her strongest subject.

But fuck all of that.

This was his, his blood, his baby.

And he would do everything in his power not to let her sink her golden claws into it.

That night as they got ready for bed together Heisenberg practically scooped Juniper up and took her to the bed. She made little sounds of protest but he was persistent. Now that the immediate threats were sorted out he just craved comfort.

He flopped onto the bed, nuzzling into her. She wiggled into a more comfortable position on him, cupping a hand over his strong jaw.

“What’s all this for?” She smiled.

“You’ve been so worked up recently that you’ve been a prickly bitch to me for weeks…I just want to hold you ok.” He huffed out.

Juniper looked away, the guilt flooding back into her. She blinked away the threatening salt water, her heart clenching. She hugged onto him, “I’m sorry.” She sniffed.

He accepted the hug, nuzzling into her hair and huffing out deeply. “I know…” he murmured.

They lay there for what felt like hours, just enjoying each other’s heartbeat and warmth. Tension seemed to flow from them, the comfort washing away weeks of stress.

“I love you.” Juniper murmured into his chest.

“I love you too, buttercup.” He whispered back, dropping a kiss onto the crown of her head.

Heisenberg was still concerned for her and their situation beyond words, but the heaviness of the world could wait. He lay back, holding Juniper to his chest as he thought. The fact she carried his baby at that very moment still baffled him. Something deep in his heart sparked to life, burning brighter and hotter the more it all settled into reality in his mind.

He squeezed her softly, earning a little mewl.

Fuck…he was going to be a Father.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #heisenberg x oc #re8 oc #heisenberg #in the steel steeds heart #resident evil

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shera-dnd · 3 years

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New chapter arriving a little early today. This time featuring Weiss’s lesbian awakening at the hands of a certain Knight of the Fall Maiden

As usual you can read here or over on AO3, just follow your gay little heart (like Weiss is hopefully gonna do soon)

It had taken Weiss a couple of days to get used to not wearing her helmet, and a few more still for her to ditch the armor altogether. She hadn’t engaged in combat since those first couple of days, and even if she did, she was more than confident that she could best her opponents with sword alone.

Now, with the protection of Lady Ilia’s shawl she was given a level of freedom she did not expect. She was able to roam the festival grounds without a care in the world, no longer weighted either by iron or name. Tied down no longer by responsibilities to her father nor to House Schnee as a whole.

Of course Lady Ilia accompanied her wherever she went, though now Weiss saw her less as a shackle and more as a companion, with whom she spent time happily. She hoped that by putting aside her iron she had made herself more approachable to Lady Ilia. She had the fae to thank for all this after all.

“Must we really accompany those two once more?” Lady Ilia demanded as they followed a little ways behind Lady Yang and Lady Blake, who were both very openly and blatantly flirting.

“Lady Blake is our friend, Lady Ilia,” Weiss replied, “shouldn’t we be happy to accompany her in such a joyful evening stroll?”

“Oh, I’m plenty happy,” Lady Ilia countered, clear annoyance disproving her own statement, “though I do not understand why I must be exposed to these love birds every day.”

“Because Lady Blake requested that we accompany her,” Weiss informed, a playful grin forming on her face, “besides how else will you reach your daily quota of snark and mockery?”

“I’m sure you’d still give me plenty to work with, Lady Gigas,” Lady Ilia replied in kind, using the false name they had chosen for Weiss’s disguise.

“You know nothing delights me more than being of help to you, Lady Ilia,” Weiss added. The two of them looked at each other with an attempt at annoyed glares which very quickly dissolved into amused smirks.

“If you two are quite done,” Lady Blake called, “we’ve arrived.”

Around them sprawled the tents of the valean envoys and the Knights of the Fall Maiden, above them fluttered the flag of crossed axes over a crown, the symbol of their kingdom. They would finally meet Lady Blake’s companions.

“Come here, men,” the knight called in the valean tongue, “I wish to introduce you to my friends.”

With that many of those present gathered around the four of them to exchange greetings. Plenty of these knights had been bested by Weiss the week before, but none of them seemed to hold a grudge against her, and many had taken the opportunity to request rematches, which she gladly accepted.

It was after she had assumed she had met all of Lady Blake’s companions that she was greeted by the sight of a new arrival. An arrival that caught both her eye, and every scrap of breath from her lungs.

She was a tall woman with a flowing mane of red hair. Her body may not be as large, nor bulky, as Lady Yang’s, but the lean muscle it had looked as if it had been sculpted from marble, and the sweat - from what was clearly an intense training session - gave them a shine that made it near impossible for Weiss to look away.

She was starstruck.

“Lady Nikos,” Lady Blake called, “I hope I haven’t interrupted your sparring practice.”

“Hello again,” she greeted, with a lovely smile on her face, “are these the companions you have spoken so fondly of?”

With that she happily greeted the four of them and then continued to hold an animated conversation with her fellow knight. Weiss’s mind was having a difficult time grasping what was being said, most of it focusing on the lovely sound of Lady Nikos’s accent, and the insufferable smirk on Lady Ilia’s face.

Before she could question her companion on this another knight stumbled after Lady Nikos. A blonde man that Weiss first assumed to be her squire, but whose regalia was that of a full fledged knight.

Her next assumption was that the man had stolen his gear from an actual knight, though Lady Blake would have apprehended him if that was the case.

“Sir Arc, good to see you’ve survived your sparring session,” Lady Blake welcomed, the title as unfitting on him as his armor.

“Jaune’s been getting better and better,” Lady Nikos assured her, though why someone like her would waste her good will on such a buffon was beyond her.

“It’s only because of your teachings, Pyrrha,” he replied, offering the recognition back to the one who actually deserved it, “I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

“Nonsense, you’d still be a knight of great renown,” she assured him, quite wrongly in Weiss’s fair opinion.

To drive her point home she took his hand and gently pressed a kiss against his knuckles. Weiss decided then that she despised Jaune Arc with all her being.

With her mind now being assaulted on three fronts - two annoying and one lovely - Weiss did not contribute much to the conversation, which only aggravated Lady Ilia’s accursed smile.

It was only later, when the two of them had been separated from the group that Weiss finally had a chance to question her on that.

“What amuses you so, Lady Ilia?” Weiss asked, making no attempt to hide her annoyance.

“Nothing much,” she replied, her tone as unbearable as her smile, “only that you’re so clearly smitten by Lady Nikos.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Weiss scoffed.

She was not some foolish little princess swooning over any knight who so much as flexed a bicep in her vicinity. More importantly she did not seek the company of women in that way...at the very least she was pretty sure she didn’t.

“That you wish it was your hand, not Sir Arc’s, that she had kissed,” Lady Ilia replied with certainty.

“That is…not untrue,” Weiss admitted, “but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it now?” She teased, “does the thought of a strong woman in knightly armor, carrying you off into the sunset not set your heart aflutter?"

“It very much does not,” Weiss informed her, unamused.

“Then perhaps you wish to be that knight in shining armor,” she tried again, “brave, powerful, holding a swooning maiden in your arms as she declares her undying love for you.”

That thought certainly brought some color to Weiss’s cheeks. Though it was obviously only because it played to her dream of becoming a knight, and not because of any previously undiscovered attraction to swooning maidens.

Certainly not.

“Oh Lady Schnee,” Lady Ilia continued, hands clutching her chest as she leaned back in a clear mockery of said maidens, “you’re so handsome and strong, please carry me off to your chambers so you may ravish me.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Weiss rolled her eyes, deigning to ignore Lady Ilia’s nonsense in favor of preparing their camp once more.

That was certainly a lot for her to process all at once. Certainly she was surrounded by women who held interest in other women, but that did not speak of her preferences, right? Though if she was so certain she shouldn’t be having all these doubts right now.

Perhaps she enjoyed the company of men and women, much like Lady Yang’s mothers. Though she couldn’t quite remember a time in which a man’s company did to her what the mere sight of Lady Nikos did.

She needed something to get her mind off of this. Something that would both distract her and help her think more clearly. Thankfully she knew just what could save her in her hour of need.

“What are you doing?” Lady Ilia asked, as Weiss began searching through her belongings.

“Searching for my training swords,” she informed her, “the two of us are gonna spar.”

“I see,” Lady Ilia replied, seemingly not much entertained by this idea, “and why is that?”

“You’ve claimed to know how to defend yourself,” she explained. Having found the pair of wooden swords that she had stashed away - just in case Winter could spare some time with her - Weiss tossed one over to Lady Ilia and continued, “I wish to test that.”

Her reasoning wasn’t entirely untrue. She did want to measure her companion’s skill, just to be sure she would be safe were they ever separated, and that explanation dealt a far smaller blow to her pride than, ‘I’d rather swordfight you than sit around and question my sexuality all night.’

“Very well,” Lady Ilia agreed, getting up and giving her sword a few practice swings, “though do not be saddened when I put an end to your winning streak, Schnee.”

“My lady,” Weiss replied, in a tone she knew annoyed her companion deeply, “you know you could never sadden me.”

“You know that won’t stop me from trying, Schnee,” she replied, matching Weiss in her annoyance.

This would bring her such joy.

“On my mark then,” Weiss declared, taking a proper fighting stance, “begin!”

The word had barely left her lips before Lady Ilia’s sword was already swinging for Weiss’s head. She barely had the time to block that blow before another hit came her way, then another, and another still. Lady Ilia pressed the offensive with a terrifying fury, backed by skillful swordsmanship.

Sidestepping her next blow, Weiss finally managed to get her footing again and swing her first blow towards her opponent. Lady Ilia evaded it masterfully and pushed the attack once again, only to be stopped by a follow up blow of Weiss’ sword.

Oh, this was exhilarating. The intensity of her lady’s attacks, the rhythm of their push and pull, truly nothing could get her blood pumping quite like a good fight, and Lady Ilia was giving her exactly that.

“I wanna see you grinning like that once I turn you into worm food, Schnee,” she threatened.

Oh? Had Weiss been grinning this whole time? Perhaps she had been enjoying herself too much. Not that she had any cares right now. There was only space in her mind for the fires of combat, both with blades and words alike.

“Your skills with the blade are matched only by your eloquence, my lady,” Weiss declared, trying to keep a calm tone even as the fight continued.

“And yours is only matched by your fairness,” Lady Ilia countered, matching Weiss blow for blow.

“I’ll be taking that as a compliment,” she replied, taking some ground as well while she was at it.

“Not once I’m done beating your face bloody!”

Weiss laughed.

She couldn’t help herself really, not when she was enjoying herself so much. She hadn’t had such fun in ages, so of course she had been grinning and laughing like a complete fool. It did not help that her sparring partner was making herself a fool in much the same way.

Perhaps it had been such bouts of laughter that had caused Lady Ilia’s stance to slip for a moment. Making the best of the opportunity she had been given, Weiss lunged forth, hitting her partner’s sword with force, knocking her backwards with the blow. Though she did not wish for her companion to suffer any real wounds, and dutifully caught her in one arm before she could touch the ground.

Her breathing was labored, heavy with strain and adrenaline. Lady Ilia did not find herself in a much better position, clinging to Weiss’s arm to keep herself from falling back as the both of them simply held themselves like that. Their bodies pushed oh so closely as they allowed themselves to slowly recover.

“I must admit, Schnee,” Ilia was the first to break the silence, “you’re quite the fighter.”

Weiss did not care to stop the smirk that had returned to her face, “it wouldn’t do for my lady to have a poor knight at her service.”

Calling herself a knight was perhaps a bit much, but she felt she could allow herself such indulgences in this moment. As expected, Lady Ilia clearly disagreed, rolling her eyes at Weiss’s self satisfied comment.

What wasn’t expected was for her body to fracture into a kaleidoscope of butterflies, each of them flying away and dispersing into the air. Weiss froze in stunned shock, unable to move as her mind tried to grasp what had just unfolded.

She felt hard wood gently press against her back, before the real Lady Ilia allowed herself to retort, "and it wouldn't do to let you grow too cocky, Schnee."

The Ilia she had fought was an illusion.

Now that had returned the smile to her face.

Weiss righted herself and turned to face her sparring partner. Ilia’s excitement was written on her face as clear as day. She smiled not only at the fact that she had bested a Schnee, but at the simple joy of a good fight.

It struck her then that perhaps there was some truth to Lady Ilia’s assumptions. Perhaps she had certain preferences when it came to her partners. That was certainly a lot for Weiss’s poor mind to digest while still being pumped full of adrenaline. Maybe it would be for the best if she saved the self questioning for later, and just allowed herself to enjoy this moment of joy.

“Again?” Weiss asked, already knowing what her lady’s answer would be.

“Again!”

#rwby #prismatic ponytails #weiss schnee #ilia amitola #pyrrha nikos #medieval au #fanfic

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 12)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Hi, so...either in this chapter I completely dissapoint you or I pleasantly surprise you, I’m very much hoping for the latter lol. I would love to hear your thoughts on this, cause I’m an insecure little fuck and I’m very afraid you’ll all hate this chapter and where the story goes from now on lol

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me

Decided to post this a day earlier cause ffs, between the fucking election and minks with covid and destiel and putin, the world doesn’t make sense anymore. So fuck it, have some Ivar :)

“Word has it that the King has made you a free woman.” The girl whispers, handing you a piece of bread and sitting beside you, looking out at the stars.

“Mhm.”

“We’ve known you were more than a prisoner since the moment you arrived, though.” She quips quietly.

“Oh.” You can only mutter, but the surprise is written in your face.

Freydis smiles, warm and a little cold at the same time, “It is written in the way you walk, witch. You were never a slave, were you?”

“If you are asking if the Saxons kept me a prisoner, the answer is no. That privilege seems to be reserved for your King.” If your last words drip with venom and anger, she does not mention it. You dare think she understands.

“I was. But now, like you, I am free,” Freydis sentences, and this does bring your attention back to her eyes. Depthless blue eyes, perverse and innocent, relentless and broken. When the girl leans closer, you don’t move. Her words are barely a whisper, but carry the strength of the vow you hissed at Stithulf, “Neither you or me will die slaves to men.”

“To whom, then?”

“The Gods. Yours or mine, I do not know,” She answers simply, fierce when she hisses the words at you, “But we mustn’t settle with mortal men. What we have suffered, it has to…mean something. It has to mean we are destined for more, that we are more.”

“Sometimes pain is just pain, Freydis.” You offer quietly, but her mind is set. You wonder for a moment if these thoughts were what made her spirit survive her time as a slave.

“No,” She shakes her head, stubborn, “We are broken because our fate is to be strong, we are…we are defiled because we are to rise above it.”

You roll your eyes, and even if the conversation remains quiet in the dead of night your voice is strong when you argue, “Did Freyja release you from your binds? Will Despoina release me from mine?” The pain lacers at your heart, but you insist, “No. I shall not be thankful for an unending fight to survive.”

“Yet you survive.”

She is not talking about surviving the Byzantine warriors’ almost successful attempt to silence you like they did your mother. She is not talking about surviving the pain of years, centuries, that marks your soul, a pain that Freydis may not know about but understands regardless.

No. She’s talking of the ‘freedom’ you have garnered here in her homeland, of what it means to be a free woman in a world that steps over the ones that cannot fight like men. She is talking of surviving Ivar the Boneless.

As your eyes meet, different stories, different agonies, and different destinies meet as well; but you feel she understands, better than almost anyone, what guided your words, your steps, your promises, that made an army be laid at your feet, to make a mad King set you free.

“King Ivar was the one to free you.” You say quietly, leaning away from the girl. It is not even a question, is a realization. All her words, all her advice…she spoke from experience, more specific experience than you thought.

“He wasn’t a king then.”

A hopeless laugh leaves your lips, “What men like Ivar the Boneless need you to be, you become.” You repeat her words from a few weeks ago, a new meaning to them altogether.

The girl laughs as well, the sound dainty and musical even if it carries iron beneath, “Although now I realize you may have been too arrogant to lie.”

All you can offer her is a shrug and a sigh as you say, “I die on my own terms, with my own face, Freydis.”

“But you didn’t. Die, that is,” She insists, smile on her pale face that you find yourself starting to return in kind. Her hand settles on your knee and she squeezes and you wonder if it is in comfort or something else. “Whatever you are, he wants to keep for himself.”

You say nothing else, turning your gaze back into the sky outside, suddenly reminded of the circumstances that brought you here, of the invisible chains that still remain on you, of how you have failed to become what you ought to.

If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.

And yet you cower and accept scraps of freedom at the first chance you have. Shame and resentment fill your heart, and your mother’s favorite piece of jewelry hanging from your neck feels like a noose when your fingers toy with the old metal.

“Did you seduce him?” Freydis starts suddenly, dragging you away from your thoughts so quickly you find yourself disoriented.

You blink a couple of times before you can answer with anything other than a wordless sound to her question.

“What?”

She shrugs with one of her shoulders, drinking from her own cup of warm milk before explaining, “You earned your freedom, or whatever measure of it that you don’t seem to be happy with. Did you bed him for it?”

It should be insulting, but her clear eyes tell you she does not shame you for it. She seems almost…impressed. It still makes something churn at your insides, and you find yourself hating the world that bound her and made her a slave a little bit more.

“No,” You say, slowly, “Was I expected to?”

Did you? Is what your words whisper but you don’t dare voice, although you have an inkling that she hears it regardless. Her eyes remain on you for a few moments too long, and the start of a knowing smile curves at her lips.

The girl still shakes her head in response, “I was curious.”

“Why?” If you sound harsh, if what Sieghild calls your ‘Athenian nobility’ is heard in your tone, Freydis does not mention it.

“He wants you, you know that. Half of Kattegat wants you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

She shrugs, “Word runs that he has never taken a woman to his bed. Earls have even gifted him noble women and slaves, but he never accepts them.

A part of you wants to ask why she is aware of all this. You remain silent however, looking back out at the stars and wondering why does she believe the King’s cock and its use or lack thereof is something you are interested in discussing.

“It’s not about beauty, the women brought in were the most beautiful I have seen,” She continues on, talking to herself as she recalls, “It’s also not about…power. Most I have seen wouldn’t be sharp-witted enough to try to get something out of him either.”

She seems to be willing to babble on, but a sharp voice interrupts you, no matter how quiet it is.

“Girl,” One of the older women chastises, gaze set on Freydis. “Eyes and ears follow the witch. Be careful.”

You are stunned into silence, as is the girl next to you, and when the quiet of night settles upon you, you can hear the rustling of leather and the deep breaths of soldiers set outside your door.

His guest. You guess to them being a guest just means a looser set of chains, or invisible shackles.

True fear settles in the girl’s pale eyes, and you reach to place a hand in her knee, placating her. The older woman, you do not know her name, motions so that you both move closer to the crackling fire and away from the windows.

“It will do you no good to gossip like this about any son of Ragnar, especially Ivar,” She advices, but a glint in her eye tells you of times in her youth spent just like this. She leans closer, and whispers, “And also, despite the rumors, you must remember he is a hot-blooded young man commanding an army, you oaf.”

“Maybe it’s about control,” The blonde ponders, side-glance directed at you. After a breath, she shrugs, “Maybe you were brought all the way here just to be fucked, witch.”

Freydis ends her sentence in a giggle, her voice quiet and eyes shining. The young girl behind the past suffering and fear.

The old woman smiles, and points towards you with her head, “She speaks like one of our own, she better fuck like one too.”

Her jest is well-meaning even if insulting, and used already to Sieghild’s equally brash humor, you only roll your eyes with a laugh.

The three of you continue exchanging secrets of this land and its people till the moon is high up the sky. It helps with the feeling of shame, the feeling of having betrayed your purpose; it helps, but it doesn’t quieten the voices that demand to know why you get the right to spend the night next to a warm fire laughing and exchanging stories while your people’s corpses are still fresh, while the survivors await the embrace of the incoming winter to let go of their strength.

When the whispers quieten, when the city sleeps, when you are left alone with your thoughts; you realize what a mistake you have made.

You were taught to fight, you were taught to resist. The Gods made you smart and ambitious, and it was for a reason. It may be Fate you are to cross paths with the Varangian, but it is not written that you are to be bound to him, you refuse to believe so.

You have fought with claws and teeth before, you have lied and kissed and promised to avoid bindings. There is no reason why you shouldn’t now, no reason why foolish thoughts and feelings should stop you from doing what you have before.

Fight. To return to your people. To remain free. To overcome.

And so, letting go of the guilt of not trying enough but with a new sort of guilt and shame settling upon you, you depart the apothecary towards the main hall in the dead of night.

You are not stupid, you know the Viking wants you, at least slightly, at least begrudgingly. And he knows he cannot get any political advantage from making you his wife, he may even lose power by making you queen. There aren’t many things he can force out of you, so that leaves your body.

So, if it is your body he wants, you will let him have it, in whatever way he sees fit.

When it is done, when the foreignness is no longer mysterious, when you make the allure of whatever it is dissipate; then it will be easier to make him see that this was not ordained by the Gods, not his and definitely not yours.

You thank the warrior that leads you to the quarters with a nod and a silent smile, wondering in the back of your mind when or how these men got directions that you are to be allowed in the King’s chambers when he hasn’t called for you.

It surprises you that he hasn’t yet gone to sleep, makes you wonder what he has entertained himself with. A foolish thought of it being a someone that entertains the King at night makes you clench your jaw.

Still, you stand in wait, letting curious eyes wander over the spacious room. When the uneven steps reach your ears, followed by the fainter footsteps of two slaves, you straighten your back and face the doorway.

King Ivar’s eyes widen when he finds you in the room, quickly moving over your form in the red dress before he dismisses the slaves with a gesture of his hand.

You keep your eyes on his, but there has never been a time you have shown less in your gaze. He sits down, discarding the crutch at his side, and you walk closer even though your legs shake and your hands tremble.

Playing games kept you from your freedom, but…playing games may keep you from chains this time.

You’d prefer iron shackles on your wrists and ankles for a thousand years if it meant not having to be an unwilling wife before Gods that, although you don’t worship, you respect and believe in.

Your steps falter, and your heart remembers the consequences of the last time you lied in exchange for freedom. The words in your head are promises that this is no different from Narses, even if Narses was kind, and sane, and you cared for him.

What men like Ivar the Boneless need you to be, you become.

You reach up, keeping your eyes on his, and let the dress drop down to the floor, leaving you bare to hungry blue eyes that immediately trace over your body.

His lips part before he speaks, and he seems to stammer for a moment before he asks, “W-What are you…?”

“I know you want me,” You offer, a little entranced by the desire, the fear, the struggle for control that you see written all over his face; taking a small step forward before you realize it. You shake yourself off your stupor, standing straighter. With what feels like your last breath before a defeated descent to Hades, you whisper, “You don’t have to make me your wife, whatever you want you can get without marrying me.”

Any wonder, any trace of desire and boyish vulnerability you could see written all over his face, shining in his hungry eyes; it all disappears with your words.

His expression hardens and his nose furrows on a snarl, his voice gravelly and almost disgusted as he motions dismissively towards you.

“Get dressed.”

You startle, and resist the urge to cover yourself with your hands.

“W-What?”

“I said get dressed. I do not want your pity.”

Your brow furrows along with your nose, and although with trembling hands you grab onto the linen and cover yourself, you still grit out,

“It’s not pity. It’s…desperation.”

“Desperation?”

“I cannot be bound to you, I cannot be made into your wife.” You try, and the pleading tone of your voice makes disgust at yourself churn at your insides.

“Are you ashamed you will have to be the wife to a cripple, hm? Disgusted?” He taunts, the flip of a coin and back into the cruel rage you have faced before, although with a different, more raw edge to it as he presses, “Is that it?”

And as before, the glimpse of something real, the victory of drawing something human out of the monster that bears the crown makes your own back straighten, your own voice turn into steel.

“That you think your legs are the reason I would have for not wanting to be your wife, King Ivar, tells me all I need to know about you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He spits out, and even as his raised voice puts you on edge, you still run your hands through your hair as you start placing, “Do not walk away from me!”

You turn back to him with wide eyes and quickened breath. But it is not fear, it’s rage. For a moment when your eyes meet you want to dare him to make you fear him, but the arrogance beats the desire to prove your foolish heart wrong, and you spit out,

“You have had me chained and humiliated; you have forced me to become something I do not want to!” Your nose furrows and your eyebrows crease, but your voice lowers and you settle the fury in your voice as you answer his question, “And you thinking me being against all this charade has anything to do with your legs makes me realize in your mind all of this,” You gesture around you, “is somehow alright.”

His nose furrows, his lip curls in a snarl before he argues, “It is Fate!”

“Why!? Because you say so!?” You shake your head, “Impressive a man as you may be, you are not yet a Manteion.”

“A what!?”

Of course he doesn’t know, how could he, how could anyone in this cold and foreign place know at all what you mean when you speak in your tongue, to your Gods, about your world.

Letting all the breath leave your lungs, you let yourself fall to the ground, hiding your face in your hands.

“Our worlds are so different, Ivar, how can you think that-…” You sigh, “I do not belong here, I do not belong here with you.”

“Well, you are here.”

You are here with me.

And his arrogance as he says it, his pride, his power, you have known those for a long time, you have seen them in familiar faces and strangers. You have been forced to accept them, accept their rule over you simply because of the way the world is, for too long now.

Your calves grow warmer before the fire, but even if you put your legs above the burning wood it wouldn’t feel as stinging and as burning as the red mark now on your cheek.

The reminder, the thought of it alone, makes your weak hands tremble and your eyes fill with useless tears.

“Tis your pride hurting more than your face, little one.” Sieghild starts, but even if there is the start of a jest in her words, there’s gravity in her voice.

“He had no right to-…”

“He did,” She interrupts. And it is the truth, and it makes you clench your jaw and look away from her green eyes. “You wounded his pride, most men don’t take kindly to that offense.”

You stay silent, because you know. And you know you spoke out of place, you know you acted like a child, wanting things out of your reach. You know you should have lowered your eyes, shut your mouth.

Still…

“Is what he said true?” You ask meekly, feeling the burn of shame at the base of your throat. “That they can…take me?”

“As a prisoner?” The Viking leans back on her bed, a crooked smile on her inked face, “They can try.”

“As a concubine.”

Your mother focuses on you, “You are my daughter, little one. They can force no binds on you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sieghild smiles, with that same smile that speaks of a world of liberties women where you come from could never even fathom.

“You need me to say yes!” You yell before you can stop the words from leaving your lips, and you can only watch with widened eyes and a hand over your treacherous mouth as Ivar the Boneless turns to look at you again, the arrogant ire shining in his clear eyes. You scramble to stand, your eyes wide and hand still somewhat covering your mouth.

“What?”

He heard you. This would be your opportunity to take back your words, to take back your resistance, to accept surrender. You waged war against the very Empire the last time you were asked to surrender, though.

“You need my consent for us to be married, Varangian,” You state instead, the words fast and your breath also. You stand up, hands tightened to fists. A flinch of anger passes over the King’s expression as he presses his lips together, irritated that you are apparently so bent on being free. Yes, truly scandalous of you. You swallow your own irritation down and insist, “I am a free woman, you can’t force me.

He considers you quietly for a moment, and before he has a chance to argue, you remind him,

“You won’t break a promise, so you won’t make me a slave,” Even if your voice shakes, you continue, “I-I know of your ways, of…of your Gods. This wasn’t arranged, and since I’m free you need me to say yes.”

He hears the words you don’t say: And I will say no.

After a moment of stubbornly considering you, the King merely shakes his head.

“You have already been given to me.”

“That Christian has no claims to me, and you know this.” You tell him, speak ing of Stithulf and his useless chains.

“I’m not talking about him,” Ivar says, cold smile on his face as he leans on his crutch and serves a goblet of mead. He lifts the cup to you in offering, but you remain in your spot. With a sigh of both disappointment and irritation, the King gulps down the drink and clarifies, “I’m talking about your mother.”

“My mother is dead.” You say without hesitation, although a pit of fear starts opening at your stomach.

But he shakes his head, lifting a finger from his hold on the cup and pointing to you as he corrects, “I don’t mean the Greek one.”

“You are lying,” Is all you say as you look into Ivar’s eyes, your voice trembling as much as the rest of your body. Your nails dig into your palms but you cannot help it, you cannot tell your body to uncoil, not until you hear the truth. “You are lying to play with my head.”

“How would I know Sieghild Vorsdottir, King Rorik’s wife, famed shieldmaiden from the Danes, is the woman that raised you?” He offers, and with each word the ground under your feet dissolves more and more, “She came to me, told me she gave me your hand. I have witnesses.”

No, no, she would never. All those years, telling you to stand tall, teaching you not to bite your tongue, it cannot all have been for her to ditch you and sell you off to the first king you encounter.

You want to think this rationally, you want to remain calm and look for the truth but…

A part of you that will always be her child, that will always love her like the mother you lost too soon; that part of you leaves you with your hands shaking and your throat clogged with only one word.

Móðir…

“She would never do that, she…” You close your eyes with a deep breath, “If she did such a thing, she told you why.”

“She said she had to, that it was fate.”

“You are lying.” The words are choked, the last grasp of a dying hope.

“Would you stop with that? I am not lying.”

Sieghild’s sad and loving eyes on you, her hand holding your face, “I have asked Freya for help ever since we arrived in Scandinavia. She has answered.”

Frantic questions leave your lips, but in her smile there’s the same resignation you saw when she said goodbye as you readied to face the Byzantines for what was supposed to be your death, “The Seer’s words-…it does not matter anymore.”

“She said-…she knew all this time,” You choke out, wide eyes searching the nothing before you for answers, “Her visions, the Seer’s words, she…she knew.”

There’s a strange moment of hesitation, a breath of uncertainty where you think the Viking is trying to find a way to comfort you.

“Prophecies, visions…it is usually too late to change the result when we realize what the Seer’s words mean.” Is what he finally settles on saying.

Foolish, stubborn tears sting at your eyes, and it is with a shaky hand you reach to hold on tight to your mother’s necklace, despair cursing through your veins.

The Völva offers you a small smile, equally mocking and apologetic, “Run if you want to, fight, kick, scream. Fate will drag you home by the wrists, child. You know how this tale goes. The chariot’s pace will tear the world asunder as darkness goes looking for you.”

Your eyes trace over the skyline, almost frantically searching for an answer you know you will not find there.

“This…this place,” You look over the sea, feeling your chest tighten. “This was Ragnar’s pride. Sieghild’s tales…this is Queen Aslaug’s home. The empty throne.”

“You are not making any sense.”

“I was supposed to come here, before I even returned to Greece. I was-…Sieghild, she knew we were to return to her homeland, to that place ruled by a witch from the Danes.

You turn to him with wide eyes, a manic laugh bubbling up in your chest at the realization. For once, the King stays silent, watching you raptly.

“She knew it was fate. We ran from it, I ran from it.

It is with wide eyes and parted lips you look at the man before you, now in a new light, now with a new weight over your shoulders and heart.

“I have no choice,” The revelation is stealing the air from your lips, but with cracked tones you whisper, “I am…I am to be here. It is fate I become your wife.”

Fate. You never thought a word that once brought you so much comfort would make you feel so devastated.

“I will not be a bad husband for you,” He promises after a moment of silence, voice as uncertain as his eyes searching yours, “You will want for nothing, you will be respected by our people, I...I will take care of you.

You nod, but stay silent as the weight of it all settles upon you. You don’t know what is expected out of you now, what fight can you conjure up, what you can try -and see fail, again- to try and escape these…these invisible shackles.

There’s a moment of quiet, and the man moves in his seat, settling back in place with a posture that in anything other than a monster would make you think he’s sheepish, awkward.

His voice is low, almost hesitant as he offers, “You can ask for anything you want.”

You look at him out of the corner of your eye, “I do not ask for things I do not deserve, my King.”

Maybe it is time you stop asking for freedom.

____

Kay so Ivar’s words at the end are inspired on Hades’ speech to Persephone in the Homeric Hymns: “(…) feel kindly in your heart towards me: be not so exceedingly cast down; for I shall be no unfitting husband for you among the deathless gods, that am own brother to father Zeus. And while you are here, you shall rule all that lives and moves and shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore."

Anyhow, I would love to hear what you think of this chapter and of where the story has led. I hope I haven’t dissapointed you, honestly.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope to see you next Tuesday!! Love you all :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

129 notes · View notes

kimjongdaely · 4 years

Text

Eternal [Chapter 10]

Vampire!AU

Pairing: Baekhyun x Reader

Warnings: Language, violence, abuse, sexual situations, abortion, mention of suicide

Summary: You’re not sure how to deal with your current situation. Your owner, Byun Baekhyun, isn’t helping with the stress. But what happens when you find a risky solution that might just solve all your problems?

Prologue [M]│Chapter 1│Chapter 2│Chapter 3│Chapter 4│Chapter 5│ Chapter 6│Chapter 7│Chapter 8│Chapter 9│Chapter 10│Chapter 11│ Chapter 12│Chapter 13

You feel the world stop around you. You look at Sehun with wide eyes, exhilaration filling you to the brim, electrifying your nerves, the sound of your heartbeat drumming in your ears.

You gesture quickly for him to enter the room, letting him sit down on the bed next to you. “Are you serious? How?”

He nods, then bites his lip, looking around nervously as if he’s afraid of being overheard. His face is serious. “You have to keep it between us though. Don’t let Baekhyun know.”

You frown. “Why? What exactly did you find?”

He takes a deep breath, looking down and fiddling with his fingers. “It’s not exactly…a fool-proof way. And it could potentially go wrong. I’m afraid if Baekhyun finds out, he won’t even attempt it.”

The exhilaration is replaced with worry now. “Tell me how first, and then I’ll think about it.”

“Well, I think I found a way to turn you into a vampire like us.” He says. “If we can somehow merge your blood with a vampire’s, I think it can work, since our blood has special properties. In small doses it could heal wounds, while large doses can be used as poison. If we can just get the amount right…”

Your eyes widen. You’re beginning to understand what he’s insinuating, the question like lead on your tongue. “You can potentially bring me back to life?”

He nods. “Or rather, preserve your life before it ends completely. Of course, there might be aftereffects. You might not be human anymore, but you’d be alive and so will the baby.”

You furrow your brows, thinking about it. It’s plausible. Also risky, but if you were to slowly increase the blood intake in small increments, you can avoid getting poisoned, at least.

You also understand why Sehun doesn’t want you to tell Baekhyun. If there’s a possibility of you becoming a vampire…you’re not sure he would be happy with that. Baekhyun doesn’t like his life as a vampire, he doesn’t want to live for an eternity, and surely he wouldn’t want that for you either.

Or maybe…maybe he would be happy? To spend eternity with you and your baby?

Uneasiness churns in your stomach, and you place a hand over your baby bump to calm yourself.

“You can think about it.” Sehun says. “You don’t have to make a decision right now. I think it would be best to do it when you’re in labor, there’ll be a small window where we can try to do it.”

“I’m worried about Baekhyun.” You admit, chewing your lip. “He’s working tirelessly to find a way to save both of us and I know he probably won’t die from fatigue but…” You frown at the floor.

“I know.” Sehun pats a hand on your knee to comfort you.

“And what if there’s aftereffects?” You continue. “For the baby? Right now it’s half-vampire, half-human. But if I were to turn into a vampire halfway into labor, what does that mean for the baby? Does it become full-vampire?”

You shake your head. “There are so many questions and…I’m scared.”

Sehun has an odd expression on his face, something like sadness—which you can understand—and…disappointment? “I get it. Don’t worry about it, I was just giving a suggestion. Maybe we’ll find another way.”

He stands up to leave, offering you a reassuring smile but it’s tight. Deep down you feel like there isn’t another way. You have to accept the risks or result in death.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as the door clicks shut, leaving you in darkness.

Baekhyun sighs, leaning back against his chair. He closes his eyes, honing in on Thorn, and even through the wall he can hear her gentle breaths, the steady beating of her heart. Faintly, he can even hear the baby’s heartbeat.

It’s still such a strange thought for him. He has a baby coming. He’s going to be a father.

What does that even mean? He doesn’t have the slightest inkling on how to act, what to do. He’s never taken care of anyone before; his brothers certainly don’t need his help with anything.

Will he be a good father? Or will he…

He sighs again, pressing his clasped hands against his forehead.

If the baby looks like him at all, he might want to kill it.

He can’t banish the evil thought. Can’t pretend it never occurred to him. If Thorn were to die during labor…if the baby comes out healthy and grows up to resemble either of them in any way, Baekhyun doesn’t think he could bear it.

It’s just…too much.

Which is why he’s determined not to let Thorn die. He knows how much she loves this baby, even if he can’t understand. He knows she would hate him if he were to hurt the baby in any way. She’d come back to haunt him for eternity.

And he knows that he won’t be able to stop himself from acting rash and violent if anything were to happen to her. So she can’t die. Definitely not.

But he’s been searching high and low for months now for a way to save her. He still comes up empty handed. He has a few potential theories that could work but…he’s skeptical about trying them.

He taps his pen against his notebook, focusing on the name he wrote down a while ago. He had left this idea hanging, his mind going numb when he thought about it too much.

But now that he’s revisiting it, maybe…?

He stands, chair scraping against the wooden floor as he hurries out the room. He walks down the hall, knocking on his brother’s room, quietly since he’s probably with his Pet, who must be asleep at this time.

The door opens slowly, Jongdae’s face poking out. His brother furrows his brows in surprise when he sees Baekhyun. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk?” He tilts his head towards his room and Jongdae nods. He closes the door quietly behind him, following Baekhyun back to his room.

Once Baekhyun closes his door, away from listening ears, he gestures for Jongdae to sit down next to him. “How’s it going with your Pet?”

A smile blooms on Jongdae’s face as he sits. “Pretty good. She seems to be completely over what happened with Victoria. She’s very affectionate.” Jongdae gives Baekhyun a sly wink.

“That’s good to hear.” Baekhyun says, strangely stiff and Jongdae frowns.

“So?” He raises a brow. “I doubt you called me over just to ask me about my Pet.”

“I wanted to ask about Victoria.” Baekhyun says, and Jongdae tenses. “Back then, you watched her die, didn’t you?”

Jongdae’s face darkens as he stares at his hands. “Yes.”

“You were sure she was dead?”

“Absolutely.” His voice trembles and cracks, eyes glazing over when he says, “I held her in my arms and she...was gone.”

“Then when she came back,” Baekhyun says carefully, looking right into Jongdae’s eyes, “she was certainly revived, wasn’t she?”

Jongdae hesitates, then nods. “What are you getting at, Baek?”

“If a vampire can be revived, is it possible to turn a human into a vampire?” Baekhyun asks, his hands clasped tightly together until his knuckles are white. “Since vampires have incredible self-healing capabilities and near-immortality—to be able to even bring a vampire back to life—perhaps if we used a vampire’s blood, we could save a human from the brink of death as well.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Jongdae waves his hands to slow Baekhyun down. “I don’t know how Victoria was able to come back to life…but you’re suggesting someone fed her blood to bring her back?”

“It seems like the only logical answer.”

“Who would’ve done that?” Jongdae frowns. “And why? Why Victoria?”

Baekhyun sighs. “I don’t know. I’m still piecing things together. I just want to know what you think, and whether it’s worth a try.”

Jongdae takes a moment to mull it over, tapping a finger against his chin. “Certainly, it’s a logical idea. It could be possible. But isn’t it too risky?”

“Yeah.” Baekhyun sighs. “There’s no knowing the effects on her body and the baby’s…and it’s hard to calculate just how much blood we’ll need.”

“Well we shouldn’t scrap the idea just yet.” Jongdae says. “Maybe we can expand on it and find a better solution. I think a vampire’s blood could be beneficial to her.”

“Yes, maybe.” Baekhyun falls into deep thought.

“Still.” Jongdae leans back on the chair, brows furrowed. “Who do you think revived Victoria? What are their motives?”

“Someone who has a grudge with you?” Baekhyun suggests. “Someone who knows about her, so it can’t be a human, since it happened so long ago. It must be a vampire as well. Perhaps a rival clan.”

“But what good would bringing Victoria back do?” Jongdae frowns. “She only wanted to be with me again, and tried to kill my Pet. She wouldn’t have done anything to the clan.”

“That’s true…” Baekhyun frowns. “Found anything on your patrols lately? Any new suspicious deaths or activity?”

“None noteworthy.”

“Strange.” Baekhyun looks down as he tries to think. “If it’s really someone who wants to cause trouble for us, there’s no way they would stop there. They should’ve made a move by now.”

“I agree.” Jongdae stands, offering Baekhyun a nod. “Let’s meet up with the others for a meeting soon and talk about this. I think the older hyungs may have a better idea of what to do. Yixing might have more knowledge about the blood transfer idea.” Jongdae hovers by the door, before turning and giving Baekhyun a small smile. “Good luck with the pregnancy.”

Baekhyun feels a sharp pang in his chest. “Thanks.”

You wake up to a body pressed gently against your back. You smile, turning and finding Baekhyun’s sleeping face. He looks so tired, dark circles under his eyes and his skin even paler than usual.

Pressing a hand to his cheek, it’s freezing. You frown. Has he been feeding properly? He’s cut back his feeding frequency, but could it be that he’s stopped altogether in order to spend more time researching?

You lean up to kiss him softly, feeling him stir against you, his eyes snapping open. You feel guilty for waking him up, even though he probably just got into bed. It’s been happening more ever since you became pregnant, but it’s still unusual for him to sleep with you like this. “Sorry, go back to sleep.”

He mumbles something, pulling you as close as your baby bump allows. His breath is cold against your forehead and you shiver. “I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good.” You can’t help the smile that grows on your face. You try your best to warm him up by wrapping your arms around him and pressing even closer to him. “Baby kicks in the middle of the night sometimes and I have to go to the bathroom a lot, but I’m happy.”

“That’s good.” He sighs against your hair, and you feel him relax. “What time is it?”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

He let’s out a soft groan. “Go, get some breakfast. I’ll be sleeping.”

“Alright.” You push yourself up, pecking him on the forehead before heading to the kitchen. You’ll be sure to let him sleep for a few hours at least.

Baekhyun blinks awake, finding a sliver of sunlight creeping in from the small gap between the curtains. That tells him it’s still daylight, he hasn’t slept nearly enough. He can hear some laughter downstairs from the Pets, Thorn’s voice standing out to him the most. He guesses it’s around mid-afternoon.

He pushes himself groggily out of bed, stumbling back to his own room. Though it’s comfortable in Thorn’s room, he finds himself too thirsty when he stays in there too long. She just smells so good.

He eyes the bed and wonders if he should get some more sleep. But he had a strange dream that gave him an unusual idea, something seems to click inside him, so Baekhyun chooses to sit down on his desk.

Baekhyun scribbles into his notebook again, history books and medical books open, scattered about on the desk and on the floor. He hadn’t bothered cleaning anything up. Talking with Jongdae last night cleared up some of his thoughts. Vocalizing them really helped him think, and hazy dream he had making a sliver of anxiety begin to brew. He churns ideas and theories and crazy speculation in his mind, scrawling them down in hopes to find some sort of coherency in all this mess.

And finally, he writes down a name that makes his mouth dry, his hands tremble.

Surely it’s not true. Surely he’s just being paranoid, anxious about the pregnancy and about Thorn’s fate. Surely he’s mistaken somehow, and picked up the wrong hints. Yes, that’s right. There’s nothing to make him speculate. No reason for this person to do such a thing.

But deep down he feels so uneasy.

He writes it right under Victoria’s name. He circles it, draws an arrow upwards, connecting their names and then by the side writes, “blood research?”

Could it be?

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gildorsonofinglor · 3 years

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Okay all two of you, do you remember the first draft of the Green Mile fic’s first chapter?

Well FORGET IT. IT’S GONE. SCRAPPED. DONE.

Here’s a new one under the cut (if I can figure out how to do it).

To his credit, Percy refrained from rolling his eyes when Brutus informed him of the new guard Paul would be introducing soon. He was still adjusting to his first job himself, and the idea of having to work with yet another stranger rankled him. The rumors surrounding this new guard didn't help: he was related to the warden, he was a veteran of The Great War, he was a hard ass who never spoke to anyone. The beneficiary of nepotism himself, Percy was especially irritated by the idea of some old soldier with an inflated sense of entitlement stomping around E block. He imagined a grizzled, angry old man with steel gray hair and an even steelier stare; his mind conjured up a deep set frown and bushy, furrowed eyebrows surrounded by wrinkles developed from long-standing grimaces, and not a laugh line in sight. Percy practically expected his grandfather to follow his boss through the door.

He never expected the tall, gentle-faced man who walked in instead. Auburn curls peeked out from under his uniform cap, and curious hazel eyes darted around the block as Paul introduced him. When his eyes locked with Percy's, he gave a soft, amused smile that took the younger man's breath away. Chest tight and face flushing red, Percy quickly dropped his gaze to the floor.

“...Captain Jason Cole...” He heard Paul say, and he dared to look back up at the pair of men. Jason was silently shaking his head at Paul, clearly uncomfortable. “Oh, just Jason, then?” A curt nod confirmed Paul's correction, and he cleared his throat before introducing him again, this time simply as “Jason Cole”.

“He can't talk for himself?” Percy asked, remembering what he'd heard about the tall man's preference for silence. He could have kicked himself for saying anything when Jason's eyes flicked to him again.

Paul sighed and moved to lecture him, most likely something about “respect” on the tip of his tongue, but Jason placed a hand on his shoulder and cut the words off before they could begin. His eyes never left Percy, and he gave the younger man another patient smile. This expression, however, seemed to Percy to have a hint of wickedness to it, as though Jason was preparing to play a particularly vicious joke on him.

That smile made him shiver in a not altogether unpleasant way.

He swallowed thickly as Jason reached up to his collar, loosened his tie, and unfastened the first two buttons of his shirt. When he pulled the material away from this neck, a dizzying mix of fascination and embarrassment his Percy's chest like an anvil.

Carving its way across Jason's neck like a malformed second mouth was a ghastly scar. The skin around it stretched with each movement of the underlying musculature, while the scar itself remained stationary, like a grisly necklace of angry red flesh. It appeared to Percy that pieces of Jason's neck had been torn away, then whatever scraps were left had been stitched back together sloppily by an inexperienced (or possibly drunken) surgeon.

The overall consensus from the other men on the mile was one of stunned disgust. Dean hissed, Harry quickly averted his eyes, and Brutus gave a low, sympathetic whistle. Even Paul, who had been made privy to Jason's handicap beforehand, seemed shocked and uncomfortable at the reveal of the extent of it.

Percy, despite feeling the heat searing his cheeks again, couldn't take his eyes away from Jason's neck as he mumbled an apology. He'd never seen anything like it before. He wondered what it would feel like to trace the edges of the puckered skin; would it hurt Jason if he did? Would it feel rough under his fingers, or would it be smooth like its shine suggested?

His musings were interrupted by an amused huff from Jason, and Percy realized with horror that he had been staring. His eyes immediately dropped to the floor, his shoes, anywhere but at the man in front of him. He heard what sounded like puffs of air and the rustling of cloth as Jason fixed his collar and tie. Was the other man... laughing? At him? He glanced up and saw a smirk.

The new guy was laughing at him. Swell. The day was not going the way Percy had hoped, not at all.

Regaining his composure, Paul introduced each of the guards to Jason individually, giving him time to shake each man's hand before moving on to the next. Percy was last, of course, and when he took Jason's hand he had to tilt his head back to look at the man's face. “I am sorry,” he stated again, more clearly, but Jason cut off any further explanation with a shrug of his shoulder and a shake of his head. “Oh, um... I'm Percy,” he muttered in response.

Jason fished through his pockets for a moment to find a notepad and a pen. After scribbling on the pad, he tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Percy.

'It's nice to meet you.'

Well, that was unexpected. He held the note with both hands, genuinely surprised by the message. “So you, um... not at all?” He asked quietly, much to the clear displeasure of Paul. The older guard shot him a very pointed look, but Percy ignored his glare in favor of watching Jason shake his head again. His curls bounced so playfully with the movement, Percy found himself entranced.

Before he could ask any more questions, Paul took Jason's arm and lead him away, down the hallway towards Ole Sparky, talking about prisoner transport and protocol all the way. Percy had a feeling he would be hearing about this later, but he folded that thought and put it away, just as he folded Jason's message and pocketed it.

The men sat in silence, tension thick in the air as they listened to Paul's voice become more and more faint.

“What do you think happened?” Dean asked in a frantic whisper.

Brutus snorted and shrugged. “Does it matter? If he wanted us to know, he'd tell us.” The other men groaned and grumbled about him being a killjoy, and Brutus gave them a short laugh in return. “What's there to guess? He was a soldier; someone probably just tried to slit his throat.”

The other three eyed each other uncomfortably, Percy and Dean both reaching for their own necks in response to the thought.

#FUCK YEAH I FIGURED OUT THE READ MORE #ooc #the green mile #percy wetmore #fanfic

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meta-squash · 3 years

Text

Brick Club 1.5.10 “Outcome Of The Success”

It’s long, I’m sorry. There’s just so much in this chapter!

The chapter’s first paragraph is a description of the misery of winter weather, bookended by sentences about Fantine. It’s been nearly a year since she was fired. The bit about winter is a description of Fantine’s descent as well as the weather. Winter brings short days which means less work; Fantine’s position in society means she’s finding less work as well because she is essentially freelancing rather than working for an employer with steady jobs. “No heat, no light, no noon, evening touches morning” is such a good description of the way everything is miserable and just blurs together when you’re trying to just stay alive. All the awful stuff is sharp and dull at the same time. “Winter changes into stone the water of heaven and the heart of man.” Fantine is starting to harden here; we see her become more shameless, tougher.

Fantine wears a cap after cutting her hair “so she was still pretty.” And this disappears so rapidly in this chapter. Her beauty is so important. Fantine is the only character aside from Enjolras who is repeatedly described as beautiful in a way that seems to really matter. (Cosette is also beautiful, but that description is almost entirely through Marius’ POV, rather than from a more general POV with Fantine.) The slow destruction of Fantines beauty--the discarding of her pretty clothes for peasant ones, her frequent tears, the loss of her hair and teeth, the torn and threadbare clothing--mirrors her social destruction. She desperately clings to her beauty by wearing a cap, but she obviously gives up pretty soon.

What fascinates me here is that Hugo mentions that Fantine admired Madeleine, like everyone else, but he also implies that she didn’t hate him straight away for her dismissal. In the previous chapters, her reaction is to accept the dismissal as a “just” decision. She works up her hatred by repeatedly telling herself it was his fault. It seems as though she lands on the right conclusion in the wrong way. She blames herself first, and only through gradually convincing herself does she start to blame Madeleine. He and his crap system are the ones to blame, but she comes to that conclusion in a roundabout way that feels like she still blames herself but is trying not to. Fantine has been a scapegoat for everyone up until now; Madeleine has become her scapegoat to avoid (incorrectly) blaming herself.

“If she passed the factory when the workers were at the door, she would force herself to laugh and sing.” She’s trying so hard to make them think they haven’t gotten to her, but it just makes it so much more obvious. The laughter and singing is the “wrong” reaction, and it makes everyone notice her even more, and judge her even harder. It’s just so sad because I can understand that behavior of trying so hard to act the opposite way of how you think people will expect you to, only it backfires and makes your true feelings all the more apparent, which gives even more fuel to the cruel people.

Fantine takes a lover out of spite, “a man she did not love.” There are a few things here that contrast with the grisettes of 1.3. This lover is someone Fantine does not love, her first relationship since losing Tholomyes, who she was in love with. The man is also a street musician, which reminds me of Favourite’s actor/choir boy. The difference being that Favourite’s boy had at least some connections through his father, and Fantine’s lover is only a street musician. Fantine takes this lover in for the same reason that she sings and laughs outside the factory: to try and show that she’s unaffected, which really only serves to do the opposite. She has this affair “with rage in her heart,” which seems to be the only emotion left for her for anyone besides Cosette (and maybe Marguerite).

“She worshiped Cosette.” My only comment here is that this is something that Valjean will later echo. Both worship and adore Cosette as a point of light, something to cling to and love and care for.

Okay maybe I’m missing something here, but Fantine can read but she can’t write? This is probably my “been good at reading/writing my whole life” privilege talking, but wouldn’t she be able to write if she could read? I suppose maybe it’s like how I can look at numbers and understand the numbers but I can’t do math for shit? I don’t know. That just caught my eye.

Fantine is starting to lose her inhibitions as she begins to lose control of everything in her life. She’s laughing and singing and running and jumping around outside in public, she’s acting loud and brash and odd. Her reactions to her misfortune and the terrible things that keep happening express the “wrong” emotion. It’s an attempt to cope, and a courageous one, but it’s drastically different from the quiet Fantine who barely spoke that we were introduced to.

“Two Napoleons!” grumbled a toothless old hag who stood by. “She’s the lucky one!”

This line really struck me. We’ve been tunnel-visioned on Fantine’s misery this whole time. Suddenly the focus pulls back a little bit and we get a little bit of perspective. Fantine is not at rock bottom yet. She could still go so much lower. To this toothless old woman, she’s lucky because she’s pretty and because her teeth have worth. Fantine is poor, and cold, and worried about her kid, and most of the town laugh at or scorn her, and yet this old woman still thinks she’s the lucky one of the two of them. It’s a much more subtle commentary on the levels of poverty and abjectness that exist. Once you’ve fallen through the cracks in society to the level of homelessness, to the level of selling your teeth and hair and body, to complete aloneness, anyone who has even a scrap more than you seems “lucky.” And Fantine’s not too far from that existence.

The conversation between Marguerite and Fantine about military fever is so weird. Is Marguerite just saying stuff? This dialogue sounds like a conversation between two people who have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s like those scenes in comedies where one person pretends to be super confident about something to impress the other even though both of them are completely wrong. Oh okay wait! I just did some googling and I’ve realized that neither of them know what they’re talking about because Thenardier did his bad spelling thing! “Miliary fever” is an old medical term for an infection that causes fevers and bumpy skin rashes. (Mozart’s death is attributed to it; it seems to have fallen out of use as it became easier to pinpoint certain illnesses.) I think this isn’t just Marguerite not knowing what she’s talking about. This is a misunderstanding due to Thenardier’s misspelling (whether deliberate or not, I don’t know) and neither Marguerite nor Fantine know enough to realize it.

ETA: Okay wow I’m keeping that whole “miliary fever” thought journey in just to record my thought process but I’ve just double-checked against the Hapgood translation and the original French, and the mistake isn’t with the Thenardiers at all! It’s entirely the fault of the translators. The original French says “miliare” and Hapgood has translated it as “miliary”; Fahnestock and MacAfee clearly did not notice that the French was “miliare” and not “militaire,” and neither did their editors.

“During the night Fantine had grown ten years older.” Off the top of my head, I can only think of three instances of not-old people being blatantly described as looking old. This description here, Valjean when he returns from Arras, and Eponine. There are probably more I’m missing, but the connecting factor between these three is severe, prolonged trauma. Trauma and a difficult life can prematurely age people (I always think of that Dorothea Lange photo of the migrant mother who was only 32 but looks 50) and Hugo uses this fact to bolster his descriptions of what they go through. But Fantine and Valjean both age almost suddenly; Eponine is already old-looking the first time we meet her as a character with dialogue. Fantine’s sudden aging is another level of departure from her old life. In Paris, she was the youngest of the group, and now she looks far older than she is.

“Actually, the Thenardiers had lied to get her to get the money. Cosette was not sick at all.” As readers, we know this. We’ve seen the Thenardiers lie over and over and we see Fantine sacrifice with no idea. But this one hits harder than the others. Partly, I think, because Hugo puts it so bluntly in a sentence that has its own paragraph. But also because this is the first sacrifice that is truly unalterable. Fantine’s hair can grow back. There may have eventually been some slim chance of a job opportunity or something coming up somehow, or an influx of things needing mending or something. But she cannot regain her teeth. This is also the first sacrifice that physically disfigures her in a visible way. She can hide her lack of hair under a cap, she can hide her lack of money by using and reusing things. She cannot hide her missing teeth.

It’s interesting that we do not hear about Mme Victurnien here. Rather than the last chapter, this would be the one where Victurnien would be “winning.” The consequences of Victurnien’s actions have now permanently affected Fantine’s life. Except I think the reason we don’t see her here is that she wouldn’t face it. She can look out her window at Fantine walking down the street in distress with her beauty intact and feel satisfaction, but if she saw Fantine walking down the street, toothless and hairless, I don’t think she would feel satisfaction, because she wouldn’t be able to connect her actions to this Fantine. Feeling satisfaction towards this level of misery would require acknowledging her participation in causing it. It’s one thing for the townspeople to laugh at or gawk at her, but I think claiming responsibility for her condition is something else altogether that I’m not sure Mme Victurnien would do.

Fantine throwing her mirror out the window is a strange sort of contrast compared to Eponine’s reaction to a mirror. Fantine cannot face her descent. Eponine is already there, and her excitement at Marius’ mirror is a weird sort of distracted examination of herself. Fantine cannot bear to examine herself because unlike Eponine, she can remember what it was like before this. Tossing away the mirror is tossing away the thoughts of her past life and her past self; she can’t ever go back to that.

“The poor cannot go to the far end of their rooms or to the far end of their lives, except by continually bending more and more.”

God I don’t really even know what to say about this line except ouch. It’s just so poignant and intense. The older you get the harder it is to survive, to get up with each new stumble. And we can also take into account things like the cholera epidemic that will occur a few years later in the book, which mostly affected the poor. There’s so little access to any sort of help or assistance. And clearly Valjean’s few little systems of aid aren’t good enough. He may have set up a worker’s infirmary and a place for children or old workmen, but there doesn’t seem to be assistance for single, unsupported women, or the homeless and unemployed. They’re left to bend more and more under the weight of life.

“Her little rose bush dried up in the corner, forgotten.” I can’t help but read this as a parallel to the Thenardier’s treatment of Cosette. As Fantine falls apart and falls behind on her payments, Cosette is growing up which means the abuse from the Thenardiers has probably increased. It also feels like a weird sort of throwback to the spring/summertime imagery of beauty and chasteness and modesty from back in 1.3, which has now completely disappeared and dried up as Fantine loses her beauty, her modesty, and her coquetry.

I love the little detail about Fantine’s butter bell full of water and the frozen ice marks. It’s such a small detail but so evocative. It also feels like a metaphor for each of Fantine’s new hardships. Every time the butter pot freezes over, it leaves a ring of ice for a long time; each time Fantine encounters a new trauma, she hardens and becomes tougher. She keeps her dried up, long gone modesty and youth in one corner and the suffering that has hardened her in the other. On a side note, I’m wondering if there is actually butter in her butter bell or if she’s now using it only for water? I would imagine water only; butter seems like something that might be expensive. Also, would the building she’s living in have had indoor plumbing, or would she have gotten water from a well or a pump somewhere? My plumbing history knowledge is lacking.

Hugo describes Fantine’s torn and badly mended clothes. At this point she’s working as a seamstress, which means she’s at least proficient in the skills needed to sew and/or mend clothes in such a way that they stay together. This means that the repairs done for herself are likely careless and messy. I think this is partly an indication of how little time she has for herself--if she’s sewing for work for 17 hours a day, she has very little time to mend her own stuff, and definitely can’t afford better quality material--and partly an indication of the ways in which she is falling apart. She doesn’t bother mending her things properly, she goes out in dirty clothes. She doesn’t mend her stockings, she just stuffs them further down in her shoes. It seems she has only one or perhaps no good petticoats, which means she’s probably walking around in just a shift and a dress. Not only is her stuff threadbare and falling apart, she’s also probably freezing due to the lack of layers.

“A constant pain in her shoulder near the top of her left shoulder blade.” This makes me wonder if Fantine’s left-handed. If she’s sewing by hand, by candlelight, in a shitty rush chair, for seventeen hours a day, that is absolute murder on the back/shoulders/neck. Whenever I do hand-sewing I’m usually sat on the floor or my bed, and my back and upper shoulders tend to get sore if I get in the zone and I’m bent over the work for a long time. I don’t know about French dressmakers, but I know around that time the English were really big on very small, neat, almost invisible stitches. Which would hurt to do for seventeen hours a day by candlelight.

“She hated Father Madeleine profoundly, and she never complained.” The Hapgood translation of this line is better, I think. Still, I think it’s important that it’s pointed out that she never voices her opinions or her complaints. It’s only when Madeleine is in front of her that she announces them at all (despite not speaking directly to him then, either). She hates Valjean, she blames him, and yet obviously some part of her still thinks that she deserves it, or that her dismissal was right.

“She sewed seventeen hours a day, but a contractor who was using prison labor suddenly cut the price, and this reduced the day’s wages of free-laborers to nine sous.” Reading this book is always a lot because aside from the still-relevant general overarching commentary about society and poverty and mutual aid and goodness and all that, there are so many smaller details that are so painfully, strangely relevant to the present day. Even today there’s fear that employers will come up with a new policy or a new labor shortcut that means less income. Employers who pay their employees less because the workers get tipped, or outsourcing that causes layoffs. Prison labor, too (and behind that, the fact that prison labor doesn’t guarantee a job in a similar field after release if desired).

In the next two chapters, we jump ahead somewhere between a few weeks to a couple months. What happened to Marguerite in the interim? Hugo describes her as a “pious woman [...] of genuine devotion,” but I have this sad thought that maybe when Fantine made the decision to become a sex worker, Marguerite may have turned her back on her as well. As we’ve seen with Valjean, being poor but modest is Good, and being poor and desperate enough to do something improper and “immoral” is Bad. Despite Marguerite’s canonical generosity towards the poor, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fantine’s decision overstepped some moral boundaries of hers.

“But where is there a way to earn a hundred sous a day?” I’m a little stuck on this. Would she make this much money? I’m basing the following information off of Luc Sante’s The Other Paris, so the monetary info might be slightly different a for non-Parisian area. According to Sante, someone like Fantine, a poor woman working without a pimp or madame and not in a legal brothel, would basically be working for pocket change. 100 sous would equal about 5 francs. If her earnings are basically pocket change, I don’t think she’d make 5 francs a day. Just considering the fact that a loaf of bread might cost about 15 sous, which seems like pocket change, or even slightly more than pocket change. Fantine probably becomes a sex worker and finds herself in the exact same position that she was in before, not making any more money than she would have if she had continued to be a seamstress.

#les miserables #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.5.10 #les mis #les mis meta

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jasonbehrs · 3 years

Text

i wanna read every word, chapter 2

by airauralintensity (aka me, jasonbehrs!)

“Have you ever fallen in love with someone you’ve never met?” “Uh, do you mean like we’ve-been-doing-long-distance-slash-online-dating or like I’ve-been-crushing-on-the-cute-barista-at-the-library-cafe?” “Ummm, more like I’ve-read-their-poems-and-sure-they’re-very-talented-but-their-handwriting-alone-makes-me-smile.” “… That’s oddly specific.”

fandom: kpop, super junior characters: eunhyuk, ryeowook; guest appearances by the rest of sj-m and yesung ship: eunwook genre: romantic comedy themes: alternate endings, strangers to lovers, handwriting, identity reveal setting: college chapter: 2/4 word count: 5.2k

read it below or on ffnet, aff, wattpad

A/N (6.6.2021): Welcome to the next installment folks! Some clarifying things:

- This is the first of two alternate endings to the story, which answers the question, 'What if Ryeowook finds out first?'

- I got some interesting reviews/PMs about the last chapter? Eunhyuk isn't pining after Yesung or anything, and I didn't mean to indicate that would be an aspect of the story. If you were looking forward to it, I'll be disappointing you today haha. Feel free to let me know how much you hate me in a review ;)

Also, today would have been my grandmother's 102nd birthday, so I'm dedicating this chapter to her since she always loved seeing me write. Love you, Nanay!

~~~

He and Hyukjae haven't hung out alone before, but he's sure this won't be awkward. Their only real link may have just been Yesung, but Hyukjae successfully ingrained himself into their entire friend group in the short weeks since they first met. Besides, even if Hyukjae weren't so willing to help him with his twisted scavenger hunt for love, Ryeowook thinks he'd like to hang out with him some time anyway. He's grown to like Hyukjae, really.

At least, that's what he tells himself when he turns the corner and sees Hyukjae sitting alone on a bench in the quad with his legs crossed, a laptop over one knee and an open notebook on the other, waiting for him to arrive.

Ryeowook takes a breath to steel his nerves then heads over to plop himself right next to the other. He doesn't say anything and takes out his own work instead. They don't have to start with the crush thing.

"Ah, my favourite person under 5'2". How do you do?" Hyukjae snarks without pausing his typing.

In response, Ryeowook uses a single finger to tip Hyukjae's notebook onto the ground without remorse.

"Ya!" Hyukjae picks up his notebook and slaps Ryeowook with it.

On the downswing, Ryeowook freezes.

"Oh shit, did I hit you that hard? Sorry, I didn't mean to," Hyukjae hurriedly apologises, but that's not it at all.

Ryeowook had caught a glimpse of the notes hurriedly scrawled across the open book. He would recognise that handwriting anywhere.

"Why don't we get started then," Hyukjae offers uneasily, eyeing how Ryeowook's stance hadn't relaxed yet. "Um, did you bring a copy of one of the notes like we discussed?"

Of course he did. Ryeowook was so excited to be one step closer to identifying the person behind the song lyrics that took up as much space in his brain as his Food Sciences lecture notes, he had brought the whole ass scrapbook with him, eager to show off his favourites to a new and willing audience.

But now, Ryeowook is panicking. He found the object of his affections much sooner than for which he was ready; and said object is sitting right next to him, staring at him expectantly and eager to help.

Not letting himself think it through, Ryeowook rummages through his bag looking for viable scraps of paper. There is no way he is going to hand Hyukjae's own work to him, so he makes do with what he's got.

He bypasses the lyric samples he actually prepared for today's meeting and found ones of his own making which he had intended to recycle weeks ago but never got around to. He silently thanks himself for this terrible habit as he frantically smooths out the small squares of paper before handing them to Hyukjae.

The other raises his eyebrows as he reads through the papers. "Damn, I was hoping that maybe one of these things had even a little similarity to an assignment we've heard so far, but no dice."

Ryeowook nods, affecting understanding disappointment even as he privately rejoices.

"Do you mind if I keep these? I can, like, surreptitiously check people's notebooks during group assignments," he offers with a laugh. "Pearl blue sticky notes can't be that common in a class of 50, right?''

Ryeowook smiles, wide and fake. "Fingers crossed!"

~Even though we're making awkward conversation, it's clear that we're happy to be together.~

Thus proceeds their search for Poem Person. (The gender-neutral nickname Mi had come up with stuck even after Hyukjae revealed those were not actually poems being left behind. Alliterative nicknames are just so catchy.)

"Okay, what if we tie a balloon to your chair and hope Poem Person likes balloons enough to take it with them around campus?" "No way, they won't take it." "How could you possibly be so sure?"

Sometimes, it's Hyukjae coming up with ridiculous plots.

"Trust me. They curl their lowercase L's." "I'm gonna let this go, but I want you to know that makes zero sense."

Plots which Ryeowook foils with equally ridiculous reasoning.

"''We might have never known each other, but we crossed faraway paths and came together. We crossed the distance of a stranger that's farther away than space.' Huh, not bad." "You think so?"

Sometimes, it's Hyukjae asking to read more of the scraps that Ryeowook collects, partially so Hyukjae can make fun of him, but mostly so that he has more clues.

"Yeah. I mean, it doesn't help me at all, but your man's got a way with words. I wonder why he doesn't submit any of the stuff you've shown me for class. It's worth critiquing."

An ask which forces Ryeowook to wrack his brain for passable imitations of song-lyrics-that-could-be-mistakenly-construed-as-poems and to get used to writing with his nondominant hand.

"Pass. Pass. Pass. Pass." "Really? You're passing on Park Hyungsik?"

Today, neither of them are feeling very motivated, so Hyukjae pulls up the Facebook profiles of his classmates and let Ryeowook play smash or pass because "it's fun to hear strangers' opinions on people you know."

"Oh, absolutely. Does that guy look like he cares where he dots his i's and j's? Hard pass," Ryeowook maintains.

Hyukjae shakes his head in amazement as he pulls back his phone. "You'll meet him one day, and you'll regret this moment; mark my words. Hyungsik is universally loved. Honestly, I'm not convinced yet Poem Person isn't him. He fits basically all of your criteria."

Ryeowook has to actively smother a knowing smirk. "What a shame."

He didn't come clean to Hyukjae in the quad that day because he panicked. Ryeowook was not mentally ready to meet the object of his affections so soon, much more confess, so he acted on impulse to buy himself some time.

Once he had it, he got curious.

It's no secret that Ryeowook had built up an idea of what Poem Person is like. The lyrics provided some insight, of course; but most of his intuition came from the handwriting itself. From what he could see, Poem Person was supposed to be intensely passionate, excitingly impulsive, and almost sickeningly romantic.

"Okay, how about this guy?" Hyukjae asks as he passes his phone over again.

Ryeowook takes one look at the screen and snorts. "Very funny. Pass."

The app is opened to a photo of Hyukjae himself posed unnaturally on a couch wearing a forward-facing snapback perched atop his head and an awkward half-smile, and Ryeowook refuses to look at it any longer before he does something he'll regret, like coo affectionately.

"Pass!?" Hyukjae repeats with mock-incredulity. "Don't you think he looks charming and witty and oh-so-loveable?"

Ryeowook indeed had a lot of thoughts about what Poem Person would look like, and 'charming,' 'witty,' and 'oh-so-loveable' have indeed flitted through his mind. Actually, Ryeowook finds that Hyukjae and Poem Person aren't altogether dissimilar.

Hyukjae is passionate about his craft, to be sure, but it doesn't occupy every one of his waking moments like Ryeowook expected. He is as much of a romantic as the next person is, but really Hyukjae is poetic, a distinction Ryeowook learns and appreciates very early on. Hyukjae is a little too thoughtful to be so impulsive, but his quick wit and ability to do/say/become whatever a situation calls for more than fulfill the quota for chaos that underlay Ryeowook's original supposition.

So yes, Ryeowook is withholding the truth so that he can slot the person he made up in his head into the person Hyukjae is, but it's been worth it.

"He looks like a brat and like his feet smell." "YAH! My shoes don't breathe!" "Get better shoes, then." "Give me the money, then." "Get a job, then." "That's not fair! Helping you find Poem Person is basically my part-time job!" "Consider it more of an unpaid internship."

Before Hyukjae takes his turn to volley back, his phone rings in his hand.

"Ah, as much fun as this was, I gotta go. I have a mini-showcase coming up, and I've been slacking on rehearsals." He shakes his phone towards Ryeowook, and the latter could see an alarm screen that reads "get your dumb ass to the gulliver center!"

Ryeowook's heart beats a noticeable thump thump all of a sudden. "Can I come with?"

"S-sure," Hyukjae says, shocked by the offer. "But why?"

That's a great question. For now, he says, "Because your internship is getting in the way of your studies, and I feel bad," but later, he'll know it's because he didn't want his time with Hyukjae to end so soon.

A grateful grin spreads across Hyukjae's face, and Ryeowook will add that onto his list of reasons later as well. "An audience is always welcome."

In no time, Hyukjae is in a practise room in the athletic center stretching his limbs every which way while Ryeowook watches as intently as possible while feigning interest in literally anything else in the room.

The bass-heavy noise music that Hyukjae puts on startles his attention back onto the dancer, and Ryeowook can no longer hide how blatantly he stares.

Hyukjae moves through the choreography so fluidly it almost looks lazy. He goes from jagged angles and harsh lines to sinewy curves and rolling waves to strong stomps and high jumps with no hesitation. He plays with the rhythm of the music, and he makes full use of the space available to him. Ryeowook is barely processing one impressive move when Hyukjae executes another one; and before he knows it, the performance is over.

"So," Hyukjae pants, "what'd ya think?"

"It's…" Jaw-dropping. Powerful. Hot. "… impressive," Ryeowook says at last.

Hyukjae smiles tightly. "Thanks. It actually needs a bit of work for the showcase, but I don't think the routine is all too shabby."

Ryeowook watches as Hyukjae watches himself through the mirror, redoing parts of the choreography over and over again at different tempos just to fine-tune his movements, and he can't help but feel like Hyukjae needed more from him.

"Um, I wonder if maybe it's lacking emotion?"

All movement halts. "What?"

Ryeowook didn't mean to say that; but now that it's out, he finds himself needing to continue. "You move well, um, obviously," he gestures awkwardly to Hyukjae's person, fighting a blush. "It looks physically difficult, sure, but what is it that you're trying to say? Like, I'm guessing you chose that song, too, right? So, why?"

Hyukjae stands in the middle of the room, arms limp by his side, and staring at Ryeowook with an unnervingly blank look on his face. Ryeowook hastily backpedals, "But hey, what do I know? I'm sure your professors will watch you and see all the nuances I can't with my untrained peon eyes. I was just… talking to talk, I guess."

"No, but I think you have a point," Hyukjae interjects.

Ryeowook perks up. "I do?"

"Yeah, like… I was so focused on trying to show what I can do with something only I could do, but that means basically nothing when any one of my classmates could learn my routine with only a week of practise. The only way I would be able to stand out is from whatever I put into it, but you made me realise I didn't put anything into it." He plops on the floor, eyebrows furrowed in consternation.

Ryeowook shakes his head adamantly. "No, no! There's clearly something there! You just need to, like, bring it out more. You have that whole idea—that this is something only you can do. You can take that, morph your routine into a testament to your need to prove yourself. Start with some trepidation, throw some desperation in the middle, and end with triumph. Honestly, I think I saw a little bit of that in your performance already. Maybe it was an accident, but now, just… do it on purpose."

"'Do it on purpose,'" Hyukjae repeats to himself. His head is down, so Ryeowook can't immediately tell what he thinks of the idea. He's ready to apologise again, even offer to go home so that Hyukjae can concentrate better, but then Hyukjae raises his head. "Alright, let me give that a try."

His eyes are filled with will and determination. Ryeowook, of all people, put those there.

He sits back and watches Hyukjae rehearse his routine over and over again, getting better and more evocative each time.

The Hyukjae before him is not a Hyukjae Ryeowook would have been able to guess based on his handwriting and lyrics alone.

Ryeowook knows basically nothing about dancing; but over the past few weeks, he's really come to know Hyukjae. He's noticed how the other is prone to express himself through movement, like when he accentuates his stories with body language and physical reenactments. It belies a comfort and confidence with his body and what it can do with which Ryeowook could never empathise. It's a subtle thing, but impactful nevertheless.

He smothers it down because he doesn't want to give Hyukjae the wrong idea, but he wants to laugh.

Only he could fall for a dancer's words first before anything else, and only he could fall for the same person twice.

~Where should I start? When should I say it? Darling, our seconds, our minutes together were beautiful.~

"Ryeowook, why haven't you asked to see my handwriting yet?"

"What?"

They had commandeered a study room in the library, but honestly neither of them are making a lot of headway in their respective assignments. Ryeowook didn't want anything to do with Organic Chemistry, but this conversation is making him reconsider his previous stance.

"Isn't that what you're into? Trying to infer people's personalities based on their handwriting?"

"I'm not into it. It just happened."

"Okay, sure, but aren't you, like, good at it now? Read mine! Tell me what it says about me."

Ryeowook, desperate to squash this idea immediately, blurts out. "It… It won't work!"

"Why not?" Hyukjae pouts.

Ryeowook scrambles. "Because I know you already. Yeah. I'll see and interpret things in a way that confirms what I already know."

Hyukjae eyebrows furrow in what Ryeowook can presume is consternation. "Sorry," he offers feebly.

Some more time passes, and Ryeowook makes mild progress on his O-Chem work, before Hyukjae speaks up again. "So if you can't do me, can you do my friend?" he asks with an excited tone that makes Ryeowook wary.

"I do not want to do your friend." You, however…

"NO! I mean: can you interpret my friend's handwriting? Here. He left it at my place last time we studied together."

Hyukjae's smirk radiates smug self-satisfaction, and with one look at the paper, Ryeowook understands why. He actively controls every muscle in his body to prevent the facepalm that's threatening to break loose.

He has to give Hyukjae props, though. If Ryeowook weren't already so intimately acquainted with the handwriting on the page before him, the other's ploy could have worked.

Regardless, he still finds himself in the position he was trying to avoid in the first place.

All the best lies are based in truth, right? "So I can tell your friend has a very high-stress major. The handwriting is cramped and small, like he can't waste a single stroke or else he'll miss something he needs to write down. Ah, see how he doesn't fully cross his t's and dot his i's? He thinks he'll be able to read his own handwriting later. He probably has decent memory or just has a lot of faith in himself."

Hyukjae nods with an impressed frown. "Huh, not bad."

It would be so, so easy to stop there, but Ryeowook can't. He loves Hyukjae's handwriting too much. "And look here," he points excitedly to a cross-out near the center of the page. "He could cross out his mistakes with a single line or a little squiggle, but he completely blocks it out instead. It suggests he has more confidence with the obvious; but really, I think he needs the reminder. Like, 'Yeah, I made a mistake. I'll move on, but I won't let myself forget. That way I don't do it again.'"

A moment later, Ryeowook realises with a jolt that he had been holding and smiling at the scrap paper a little too tenderly. He whips his head up in embarrassment, an explanation-slash-apology at the tip of his tongue, but Hyukjae doesn't seem to notice.

In fact, Hyukjae has been silent the whole time. Ryeowook chuckles awkwardly. "Am I right?"

"Huh?" Hyukjae intones as he's brought out of his reverie. Ryeowook thinks he sees something in his eyes when their gazes meet, but Hyukjae blinks and it's gone. "I'm sorry, what did you ask me?"

"I was wondering if I was right. About your 'friend,'" Ryeowook reminds, air quotes clear in his tone.

Hyukjae shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. "I think you're more right than even he's ready to admit," he says with a hand at the back of his neck and a sardonic quirk of his lips.

The sight causes an unexplainable swell of affection within Ryeowook, and he turns away. "He can take his time," he assures, eyes trained on his textbook even though he can't read a damn thing.

Hyukjae nods his thanks and turns back to his homework, but Ryeowook doesn't feel right letting it end here.

"Hey, wanna give my handwriting a try?"

~You always lift your head to look up at me. I want to take my big hands and cup your small cheeks.~

Next time they're meant to hang out, it's the weekend; and Hyukjae texts him to meet him at Bomnal.

"Both of us were here just two days ago, and we have to be here again in two days. Don't we spend enough time in Bomnal as it is?" Ryeowook complains as soon as he enters the atrium of the academic building.

"Think of it like a field trip. Come on, Wook," Hyukjae says as he leads them to the second floor lecture hall.

"Pretty sure field trips are meant to take us out of the classroom, but sure, whatever," Ryeowook grumbles as he follows along.

He's testy. He knows it, but he can't help it.

This is the first time both of them will be in Bomnal 235 at once. It feels like a turning point, like he's going to learn something today whether he wants to or not. He wonders if Hyukjae feels the same sense of impending that he does, or maybe it's just worse for him because he's in love.

As soon as they open the doors, the automatic lights flick on and douse the room with a very awake yellow.

"So… where do you normally sit?" Hyukjae asks as he motions to the empty seats before them.

Ryeowook freezes. Now that it's upon him, he can definitively identify this as the thing he was anxious about.

What if he tells the truth, Hyukjae realises Poem Person is him, and he feels awkward about it? Their comfortable but still-very-new friendship would evaporate on the spot, and Ryeowook won't have him in any capacity, much more a romantic one.

So, in another impeccable display of judgement, he decides to lie again.

"Oh, you know… I change it up," he mildly comments as he moves to somewhere near the middle of the first row. He sits down and gives an unassuming grin to his friend, who makes a face. "You're one of those people? Haven't you heard of the same seats code of conduct? You fed me some crap about curling L's when really it's your fault the balloon trick wouldn't have worked," Hyukjae jokes in that way where he's completely serious but is phrasing it with humour.

Ryeowook feels a genuine, fond grin spread across his face before he can help it, and he quickly ducks his head. "Why are we here, again?" he asks instead of dwelling on the validating comfort of being known.

"Why not?" Hyukjae asks as he moves to sit down. "This is the place it all began, right? Might as well."

Ryeowook, for his part, only stares.

Hyukjae went up to a seat in the rear right quadrant of the lecture hall. Ryeowok's own, real seat is directly in front of where the other is sitting. That can't be a coincidence.

"Um, I'm guessing that's where you sit?" he asks as casually as possible.

"Huh? Oh! Haha, yeah. It's funny, I didn't even think of sitting anywhere else. My feet just automatically guided me here."

"So funny," Ryeowook squeaks out.

"Yeah, my friend in the class actually used to sit with me, but it became very apparent very quickly that we would never get anything done if we did, so he moved down there." Hyukjae points with his foot to Ryeowook's seat, and Ryeowook's breath hitches in his throat. "Sometimes when I'm bored, I just can't help but throw stuff onto his desk just to annoy him." Hyukjae mimes a free throw shot towards the desk and smiles.

Well, if there were any doubt before in Ryeowook's mind that Hyukjae was Poem Person, it has summarily been erased.

Ryeowook hums but says nothing else, letting a companionable silence stretch between them as he acknowledges the warmth that settles into his chest when he confirms with himself that yes, he is glad that Hyukjae is Poem Person.

"Why are you helping me?" he asks, curious and without judgement. The abrupt question startles the other out of whatever reverie he had settled into during their respite, but Hyukjae bounces back quickly, as he always does.

"You know, I had to figure that answer out myself," Hyukjae answers with a laugh. He leans back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head, staring out at the empty lecture hall. "I told you I would at first because it was obvious that I was the only one in a position to actually help. It wasn't even an option in my mind that I wouldn't… But even after my sense of obligation ran out, I wanted to keep going.

"You're cool, Ryeowook. You're fun to be around, you're sassy, you're down to try anything once. You're totally comfortable being yourself, and your 'self' is crazy. Like, who else trusts in their gut enough that this person you're chasing after is worth the effort? Who else would go to the lengths to which you're willing to go just to meet him? Honestly, I think that's pretty awesome. I don't know if I could have that same confidence you do."

He tilts his head towards Ryeowook then and gives a close-lipped, self-convinced smile. "If anyone's gonna find love based on a few scraps of paper and a dream, it's gonna be you."

Ryeowook nods mutely. He hopes the distance between them is enough to disguise the blush on his cheeks.

Hyukjae faces forward again. "If I think about it, I guess I'm being selfish, too. I want to believe a love like that is possible; and if I help you find him, I'll get to see it happen for myself… I really hope this guy is worth it, Ryeowook. I think it would break my heart as much as yours if he weren't."

He is, though. He's so worth it. "Me too."

~Longing is a beautiful pain I thought I could endure.~

Ryeowook walks out of the campus mail room, and life couldn't get better.

He just picked up a care package his mom sent him; he got a 94 on his last Nutrition Essentials quiz; and Hyukjae loves the new low-fat, protein-enhanced strawberry scones recipe he tried out yesterday.

Speaking of whom, he thinks this whole Poem Person plot is going to wrap up soon. The last time they must have actually worked on a strategy to find out who Poem Person was, like, two weeks ago at least; and Ryeowook's glad he can stop pretending he has any interest anymore.

Their friendship has wholly evolved beyond the point of needing a project to work on in order to spend time with each other anyway. Why pine after a fictitious man when he has a whole Hyukjae right there, who buys him coffee lattes simply because he's Hyukjae's dongsaeng and who helps him study for his quizzes even when Hyukjae himself is stressed.

Ryeowook tells himself that with some more time, the whole mystery will just fade into an inside joke between the two of them, a white whale they can reminisce about when they're sipping soju and reminiscing… preferably cuddled on a couch and with his head on Hyukaje's shoulder.

However, his friend group did not get the memo.

"So, uh. What happened to Poem Person?" Henry asks one weekend while everyone is at Ryeo-Mi's apartment.

"Shut up!" Kyuhyun admonishes with a slap to the back of Henry's head. "Ryeowook hasn't annoyed us with that in weeks. Aren't you grateful?!"

"I actually am very curious about what happened there. Weren't you and Hyukjae supposed to find him together?" Yesung asks.

"The gen—" "Maybe I'm manifesting, Mi! Ever think of that?"

Ryeowook cuts in before Mi's feelings get even more hurt. "Yeah, we were, but honestly I've kinda given up on the whole thing."

He expects some shock, but he couldn't have predicted who would be the most affected. "You're just gonna give up on finding love!?" Mi despairs.

"Actually, the potential for a romantic relationship was never confirmed," Henry quips. Yesung gives Henry a high-five.

"It was just a little crush," Ryeowook defends. "I've moved past it, as I was bound to do eventually." He says this last part to Kyuhyun, who he knows was the most annoyed with his actions back then.

"'Eventually' doesn't end in time for finals week, Wook," Kyuhyun retorts.

"Well, now you never have to worry about it, Hyun."

"Is love dead?" Mi desponds aloud, but no one pays him any mind.

Ryeowook pats his roommate's shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at consolation. If Mi turns out to be the only casualty in this whole ordeal, Ryeowook will count this as a win.

What he doesn't count on is the fact that Hyukjae would invariably hear about it.

"Is it true?" Hyukjae corners him after Ryeowook picks up his order from the on-campus cafe.

"You know, I don't think so. I think she's just Henry's accompanist for rehearsals," Ryeowook responds genuinely, certain that the latest gossip about Henry's potentially secret girlfriend is what Hyukjae must have been referring to.

"What? No!" Hyukjae stops in confusion but stomps after Ryeowook once he gets his bearings back. "No, I heard that you gave up on finding him, that you gave up a while ago. Is it true?"

Ryeowook hesitates to sit down at the open table he found, and Hyukjae's entire posture seizes in betrayal. "Alright, got it," Hyukjae says with an edge to his tone. "Do me a favour, yeah? Never talk to me ever again."

"Wait!" Ryeowook calls once Hyukjae turns on his heel and storms off. "Hyukjae, wait!" He pays no mind to the fact that he's abandoning his belongings as he chases Hyukjae outside. "I get that you're angry, but don't you think this is a little much?"

He reaches out for Hyukjae's upper arm, but the other immediately shrugs it off. Ryeowook flinches and retreats slightly. Despite the other's obvious fury, Hyukjae is stopped in place and seems willing to actually talk to him, and Ryeowook holds onto that hope instead.

"No, actually," Hyukjae sneers. "I think this is the perfect amount of much when you find out your best friend has been wasting your time for who knows how long!"

Of all the things Hyukjae could have said in that moment, Ryeowook didn't expect that reaction at all. It stings more than he expects, cuts through his defensiveness; and despite his position in the situation, he can't help but need comfort. "What do you mean?" he asks in a confused, desperate voice.

"What do I mean?" Hyukjae repeats exasperatedly. "Ryeowook, we spent weeks together trying to figure out how to get you your dream guy! We never even got anywhere, and, and… And it's all because of you! You shot down basically every one of my ideas practically from the beginning, even after I told you how much it would personally mean to me. That is, like, the textbook definition of a waste of time!"

"You weren't having fun?"

"What?" Hyukjae demands incredulously.

"All that time we spent together," Ryeowook clarifies as he steadfastly meets Hyukjae's angry gaze. "You didn't have fun?"

Hyukjae is silent, and his body posture screams obstinate defiance, but his eyes remain trained on Ryeowook.

"You didn't come to look forward to spending time with me? You didn't spend your free time thinking of ways to make me laugh?"

Hyukjae rolls his eyes. "So what? What does any of that mean when you were just stringing me along? You… you weren't even using me!?" he exclaims, voice rising in a hysterical question. "That was literally the whole basis of our friendship, and you couldn't even do that? Like, what could you have possibly gained from lying to my face like that for all this time?"

Ryeowook gives a watery smile at the non-answer and looks down at his fingers fidgeting together. "I did, too," he says in a voice so quiet it was like he intended to keep that to himself.

It's silent for a long time after that admission. Hyukjae's lividness has dissipated, and he is only left with a disappointment so painful he doesn't want to dwell on it any further. He moves to leave Ryeowook alone outside of the cafe, but Ryeowook's voice stops him.

"W-What did you say?" Hyukjae asks with apprehension.

Ryeowook ignores the tears falling from his eyes as he repeats himself. "I'm in a rush to catch you, but you're in a hurry to leave. Should I just surrender? Now we're like an old and worn notebook filled with scribbles."

Hyukjae simply stares, and Ryeowook takes that as his cue to keep going. "Take your beautiful smile with you. Don't leave it here. You saw me with tears in my eyes."

By heart,

"I was a selfish man, but my life is divided into before and after I knew you."

Ryeowook recites lyric,

"When I first saw you, it felt like a miracle."

after lyric,

"I'm thinking of you more today. I wonder how tomorrow morning will be. Will I miss you more than I do today?"

after lyric;

"I'm honest because I don't know lies before love."

and before he knows it,

"I'd place my feelings on the thawing snow. I'd hang my wish on a disappearing star, but only if you ask me to."

Hyukjae is within arm's reach.

"It's me?" Hyukjae whispers into the scant centimetres between them. "It's really me?" he asks again when Ryeowook had simply nodded.

Ryeowook can't even help it when he recites, "Even when you ask me again, for me, it's only you." with a breathy laugh as he shyly looks away.

Hyukjae moves to gently hold Ryeowook's hand. "And you're okay with that?"

Ryeowook wants to laugh and melt and cry and run away, but instead he settles for an earnest nod and a hesitant smile. "Are you?"

Hyukjae answers him with a kiss, and it feels like a dazzling melody.

~Together, we can make all our unfulfilled dreams come true.~

#super junior #super junior fanfiction #eunwook #eunhyuk #ryeowook #jaso*#iwrew

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Jupiter’s Legacy: Choreographing Superheroic Stunts

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Stunt teams are some of the hardest working people in the industry. They literally put their lives on the line just to entertain us and yet there’s so little acknowledgement of their contributions. There is no Oscar for stunt work, but there should be. Netflix’s adaptation of Jupiter’s Legacy has secured one of the industry’s hottest stunt choreographers, one who is no stranger to superhero action, Philip J. Silvera.

If you’ve read Jupiter’s Legacy already, you know Frank Quitely’s artwork leaps off the page, splattered with intense moments of sanguineous bloodshed. Quitely’s graphic style is a perfect fit for Silvera, who says he’s always been inspired by the visceral violence of films like Goodfellas and The Godfather Part II.

“My action in the past has always had a bit of a lead pipe brutality to it,” confesses Silvera with a grin. Who better to choreograph the huge superhero brawls of Jupiter’s Legacy?

School of Hard Knocks

Stunt work has always been Silvera’s destiny. “I always wanted to do stunts, since I was a kid.” Silvera’s father was a boxer who was just about to go pro, but his fortune took a bad turn after he broke his arm and leg. Nevertheless, Philip inherited his father’s fighting spirit. After starting his martial arts training in Karate, Silvera switched over to a Shaolin-based system of Chinese Kung Fu, which he studied for about 20 years.

Silvera got his first break in 1997. He was competing in a martial arts tournament in New York City when he was approached to do an off-Broadway show called Voice of the Dragon: Once Upon a Time in Chinese America. It was a groundbreaking show from maverick playwright and noted jazz composer Fred Ho. Silvera describes it as “a bit of an urban Peking opera, really a martial arts ballet.” The show demanded he play a character, do martial arts, fight, fall, and flip on stage in front of a live audience.

As Silvera got deeper into the stunt world, his training diversified to accommodate a wider variety of roles. He studied Kali stick fighting and even trained with Cecep Arif Rahman (The Raid 2, John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum). Beyond his film work, Rahman is a genuine master of the Indonesian martial art called Pencak Silat. As a stunt coordinator, Silvera must keep pushing his training forward so he can meet the demands of his next project. “I just constantly want to keep learning different things and evolving.”

Silvera began officially working as a stuntman in movies and TV in 2005. You must work your way up to that director’s chair, and in the stunt industry, that means you’ve got to pay your dues and take a lot of hard knocks. By 2010, he got his first action and fight choreographer credit with Star Wars: The Force Unleashed II. That was followed by several coordinator roles on more video games like DC Universe Online, Batman: Arkham City, and Star Wars: The Old Republic. After an uncredited role assisting with the fight choreography in Iron Man 3, he received his first credited movie fight choreographer role for Thor: The Dark World.

Changing the Game

However, it was his work on Netflix’s Daredevil that caught the attention of both action and superhero fans. Silvera served as the Fight and Stunt Coordinator for the first two seasons of the series, and for action connoisseurs, he built a choreographic trademark for the show: the one-take fight scene. In Daredevil’s second episode, Silvera orchestrated a showstopping one-take hallway slugfest and every fan of fight choreography took notice. That scene propelled action in streaming TV to the cinematic level of big screen fight choreography. “I think most people would be surprised to hear that we designed that one-shot sequence in Daredevil in a day and a half,” Silvera says.

Silvera followed up that hallway fight with a one-take stairwell scrap in season two (an episode directed by Marc Jobst, who also directed two episodes of Jupiter’s Legacy). Hallway and stairwell fights comprise two of the three most common settings for extended fight scenes (the third being warehouse fights – there’s an innumerable amount of these in actioners because it’s just easy and cheap to find warehouse locations). Hallways serve as a device to narrow the playing field when one person must take on several opponents. The width of the hallway restricts how many adversaries can come at the hero at a time. Silvera’s Daredevil hallway fight is held in the same esteem as the epic hallway fight in Chan-wook Park’s Oldboy and is considered by many to be the greatest TV fight scene to date.

Stairway fights showcase technical expertise. The footwork must be precise because one misstep can result in a devastating ankle twist for any stunt person. Additionally, falling down stairwells isn’t easy. It requires top notch stunt people to stage safely.

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For Silvera to deliver such high-level fight choreography for the small screen was groundbreaking. Until the rise of streaming, most TV shows were more reserved with their action because it is a longer haul. A feature-length movie might contain half a dozen fight scenes, at best. An action TV series might stage that many fights in just two or three episodes, with plenty more over the course of the season. This takes an incredible toll on the stunt team, which is why many martial arts-themed TV series gas out before the season finale. This is what made Silvera’s work on Daredevil so revolutionary at the time. Now, a half decade later, many TV shows have upped their action game, but they owe a great debt to Silvera and his team. “I really enjoyed bringing Daredevil to life. Charlie Cox was amazing. That was a pleasure working with Steve DeKnight on that show.”

Since then, Silvera has tackled several super powered action icons for the silver screen, like Deadpool, Terminator: Dark Fate, and the Jaegers in Pacific Rim: Uprising. Silvera has fond memories of sitting down with director Tim Miller while working on Deadpool and Terminator: Dark Fate and setting the parameters of superpowers in combat. “It’s always that they’re really good at this, but what’s their weakness?” The audience will accept superpowers if the film stays consistent within its constructs. For Silvera, it’s about finding a new challenge in every sequence. “What I try and do is always make it super relative to the characters and then make it so that the audience can feel something when they watch it.”

Super Fights

Spanning eight episodes in Season 1, Jupiter’s Legacy allows Silvera the space to stretch his choreographic legs. “I believe the action on our show pushes the story and the characters forward, as much as it does on any of the other shows I’ve worked on in the past,” Silvera says. “And I’m super excited to see what fans think of the storytelling, the nonverbal storytelling, that happens within our action sequences.”

Non-verbal storytelling lies at the very heart of every action choreographer. The fight scenes are the climax of the story and that unspoken dialogue of conflict must rise to that or else an actioner will fail. “Nonverbal communication,” stresses Silvera, “like The Empire Strikes Back, the scene that happens between Luke and Vader.” His passion for the Star Wars franchise led him to direct “Star Wars: Scene 38 ReImagined.” It was a reworking of the first lightsaber battle we ever saw – Obi-Wan Kenobi versus Darth Vader. Silvera spliced together footage from Star Wars: A New Hope with new fight footage. Doubling for Obi-Wan was Dan Brown (Black Panther, Spider-Man: Far from Home). Vader was Richard Cetrone, who was Ben Affleck’s stunt double in Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. “Both are seasoned stuntmen in this business and have been around for a while,” adds Silvera.

“Scene 38 ReImagined” was a huge success with over 33.5 million views on YouTube. “That was a bit of a test for myself, as a second unit director and a first unit director,” says Silvera. “I wanted to see if I could add the emotional content into a sequence, that you know the character’s full story from beginning to end.”

From Comics Panels to Movie Frames

Choreographing superheroes has its own unique rules. A still comic panel is one thing. Setting that action into motion is another thing altogether. While comics are akin to storyboarding, when it comes to fights, a few panels describe that action. It then becomes Silvera’s job to unravel that into a fight with a dozen or more beats.

One of his favorite examples for Jupiter’s Legacy is the “Hilltop” sequence. In the original comic, it’s a ferocious battle told over only four panels. Silvera saw that raw brutality and constantly built on that mindset with his choreography.

“Those four panels really set the tone of our show and you’ll see that in the first episode.” He’s especially proud of this Hilltop sequence, as well as many other favorites. Two more sequences that he mentions with special pride he dubs “Tokyo Alley” and “The Vault,” but Silvera won’t elaborate on those cryptic titles just yet. “I don’t want to give away too much.” Fans who’ve already read the comic can probably guess what he’s talking about. “It starts off big and it stays that way up to the very end.”

And for those fans familiar with Frank Quitely’s spectacular art, Silvera adds “We do our best to match those panels and the emotion that he puts into them. He really set the bar for us. And I think we met it.”

Superhero Boot Camp

As with many casts, most of the Jupiter’s Legacy actors have minimal background in martial arts or stunts. However, Silvera prefers it that way. “You get to figure out their characters and their movement in a different way.” He’d have ideas for them and then see something natural come out of their body language, which he would cultivate into something new and exciting.

The cast was put through vigorous training where Silvera says they all worked extremely hard. “Literally a month of bootcamp with the lead actors training every day with our fight team and fight coordinator.” The cast would come in and work on basic movements and fight drills. “And then they would ride the wire for hours because there’s a lot of flying in the show.”

As Supervising Stunt Coordinator, Silvera is quick to credit his fight and stunt rigging team. Micah Karns is the fight coordinator and Jayson Dumenigo is the 2nd Unit Stunt Coordinator and Key Rigger, a critical role for a flying superhero show. The threesome has worked together since Daredevil and teamed up again for several successive projects including Deadpool, Terminator, Pacific Rim, and Love, Death & Robots.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

“We have such a tight workflow at this point, from the years of us working together, that we know how to expedite things,” Silvera says. “We know how to keep up the pace. And we’re definitely doing seven days a week on this show.” The stunt team worked hand-in-hand with the cast for months to achieve the action that they wanted. “I’m super excited to see them and what they did come together on screen.”

The post Jupiter’s Legacy: Choreographing Superheroic Stunts appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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fanfictional-creator · 3 years

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What is Fanfiction (Fanfic)?

Fanfiction is when somebody takes a character, universe, or story from a different scenario to create their own story. These characters and scenarios are commonly pulled from novels, TV shows, movies.

Everyone's writing process will vary, as everyone is different, so somethings within this might work for you, others might not. I have been writing fanfiction for the past 3 years. So I definitely don't know everything about everything. This is just to help clear up a few questions that I have seen floating around.

Before I jump straight into my writing / planning process; here are a few helpful links.

There are many apps to help you long the way; whether it be for a mobile device or PC.

https://youtu.be/rnZofVMjwqQ

https://youtu.be/AlQpj_dUxro

Here are some links for videos; if wanting to write on wattpad.

https://youtu.be/TEgvo8nIW-I

https://youtu.be/T07pP_gRWKY

Title Generator

Book Title Generator

Fanfiction (In Depth)

The Ultimate Guide To Fanfiction and Fanfiction Sites

Writing for a fandom I enjoy, although some believe there to be rules of do’s and don'ts. Some may say try and keep it accurate & true to canon; but that's just the beauty of fanfic; that it can stray far from being accurate to the original canon yet stay within the realms of canon at the same time.

There are many formats of fanfiction, such as;

Archive Of Our Own (AO3)

Fanfiction.net (FF.Net)

Tumblr

Wattpad

Personally I use Tumblr & wattpad, as I find it the easiest to navigate. However AO3 & FF.net have a vast library and a much better search engine designed for fanfiction specifically unlike wattpad.

Beginning

When starting; my ideas will perhaps originate from songs I have listened to, or even a simple word / title I have heard or seen; or even the simplest of concepts such as dancing in a ballroom.

A lot of my work will usually have the song title as the story title; which I use as my starting point. Now writing a story doesn't have to be in chronological order. There is no cement structure. You might start at the end, then go back to the beginning, before finishing with the middle.

Using songs for inspiration is different from including the song within your fic. A song-fic is; a piece of writing that features fictional work interspersed with the lyrics of a relevant song.

When using songs as inspiration; I take ideas from within the song; such as a key line, although never using the actual lines from the song, just the idea / concept.

Example; Brother By NEEDTOBREATHE.

Lyrics;

I ain't made for rivalry, I could never take the world alone

I know that in my weakness I am strong

But it's your love that brings me home

I’d take a section / verse and morph that into a usable idea. For this verse; the idea of having someone to return home to.

Now; once I have gotten my idea / concept, I begin to plan.

This is where apps & tools come in handy. Some apps contain certain tools that allow you to explore the character further. Such as their; height, age, looks / appearance, family / friends, personality, role within the story etc. This especially comes in handy when creating an Alternate Universe (AU), where you take canon and diverse from it, changing aspects of that character / world.

AU Definition

This is where characters are placed in situations opposite to actual events in the book/series. For example, if someone was to create an 'AU' story for the Harry Potter series, then they could write about what would have happened to Harry if his parents hadn't have died, like they did in the actual series.

Types of AU’s

Alternative timelines, contextual reassignment, "reality" swaps, crossovers, and predictive fiction.

An Example (Supernatural)

Instead of Sam and Dean Winchester growing up as hunters; after their mother died, along with their father; instead, Mary (Mother) Never died, meaning that John Winchester (Father) would never have hunted down the demon Azazel, changing the whole timeline. Sam would never have left John and Dean to go to Stanford. Meaning that Jessica (Sam's girlfriend) would never have died as they would have never met in the first place.

Supernatural - In S15, an episode aired based around an alternate reality / universe, of our version of Sam and Dean meeting another version of themselves, where things were different. Instead of John Winchester dying; he was still alive. The boys still hunted in the AU; although they did it world wide, and had a plane on stand by.

Sanders Sides

Thomas has the ability to project the different aspects of his personality in four different characters. Logic is his logical side, Dad is his moral side, Princey is his creative side, and Anxiety is his fear.

The sides have the same body - the host's one. Their appearance will be similar to each other and to the host, although with a lot of differences depending on what that Side represents. As such, they will also share several things that are inexplicably connected to the host, such as their sexual orientation.

When writing for the Sanders Sides fandom; I have a wide variety to pick from. I diverge from Canon; such as creating a world where each aspect of thomas’ personality is their own person. This is a Human AU. Other times I stick to canon; and create a piece that is accurate and true to the series. There is no right or wrong.

Idea’s

Now that I have my main idea; more will come along. Personally, I find that at times I have too many ideas; some that work well with the story and others that just don't fit. I believe that you shouldn't scrap / bin any idea. It never hurts to write them down and save them for later. I have found that later when creating a new story, something that didn't work for a prior story works for this one instead. There is also nothing stopping you from joining 2 ideas together; which I find works very well to create and experiment with.

I like to give myself the variety to choose from when it comes to anything and everything. I use pinterest when searching for dialogue / scenario prompts, quotes, images, songs etc. This can help fuel your creativity and inspire new ideas, which you can then expand on.

Example:

“Ready for another war?”

“Same war. It’s only the enemy that's different.”

This dialogue can be changed to convey different emotions of the character. Anger, sadness, realisation & clarity etc.

Songs can also help a huge amount. If your fanfic is set in a certain era such as the 1920’s.This adds to the immersion of the era, for both the writer and reader. It allows you to create a setting and write into that setting.

Swanee - Al Jolson

West End Blues - Louis Armstrong

Rhapsody In Blue - Paul Whiteman featuring George Gershwin

Ain't Misbehavin' - Fats Waller / Louis Armstrong

T For Texas (Blue Yodel #1) - Jimmie Rodgers

In The Jailhouse Now - Jimmie Rodgers

The Prisoner's Song - Vernon Dalhart

The St. Louis Blues - Bessie Smith / Marion Harris

Ol' Man River - Paul Robeson / Al Jolson

Research

Research is a big thing for me. No matter if it's a minific, one-shot, or a multi-chaptered series, I always do my research.

Example:

1920’s

Fashion in the 1920’s

Activities in 1920

Timeline / Events of 1920

Reference: People in the 1920s enjoyed many popular hobbies, including sports, film, toys, gadgets and music. The introduction of new technology, such as the addition of color and sound in movies, helped fuel some of the interests for those living in the period known as the "Roaring 20s."

Websites can give you a guideline of questions to ask for a subject, an item, a person, a band etc. From that reference I can narrow down the key points; Sport’s, Film, Toys, Gadgets & Music. From there I research further into those points, such as music - The bands & solo artists, types of music etc. There is no harm in ever doing too much research. Typically I chose 2-3 websites to take information and fact check from.

Getting ready to write!

After I have the idea down, gotten together my song playlist & prompts etc, it's time to start putting it altogether! Now don't limit yourself! Let your creativity guide you! Yes, there is no harm in preparation and planning ahead, however keep in mind what your goal is. To write. Not to create an award winning 120 chapter fanfic series. A good way to keep track of progress is make a to-do list. Break the process down into segments so as to not overwhelm yourself.

(Preparation) To-Do List:

Song Playlist - Check

Prompts - Check

Etc.

(Fanfic Writing) To-Do List:

Introduce Characters

Establish Setting

Etc.

There is no right or wrong way to go about this. A to do list is there to help you pick up where you last left off and help with organisation, as well as save time. There are apps / websites that can help you to keep organised.

Trello

Writing Process

Everyone’s process is different. Some prefer to type as they go, others prefer to draft and plan before a write / type up. Finally, uploading it.

My process.

First, I create a front page in a notebook consisting of; a title, a prompt (if there is one), song inspiration list, character’s / pairings & ships, and a summary. That is what the viewers / readers will first see when looking at my post, along with a few added extras once it’s typed up & uploaded such as; a date & word count, as well as a beta reader.

After the first main page, I begin writing. Nothing more, nothing less. I don't set myself a goal for a word count, or a time limit to get it written as these things take time, even if it is just a 100 word drabble.

I write what I want, for as long as I want. This is my first draft. It’s not going to be perfect, there are going to be mistakes, plot holes & misconceptions. This is why it's a draft. After the written draft, it's time to type it up on google docs. There, I flush out any mistakes, fix plot points, and add detail. Finally it goes to my beta reader. The beta reader marks errors and suggests improvements.

Websites for more detail

Fanlore

Fanfiction - Wikipedia

Fanfiction Terms Glossary

One Shot vs Multi - Chapter Series (Long Fic)

One Shot

One shots in fanfiction vary in their content. They usually focus on a particular character's point of view, on a particular event or it could even be a short poem. Some one shots are created as part of a challenge set by other readers. A one-shot is a one chapter fic. A short piece of writing, as opposed to a multichapter work, that can be of any length. May also have sequel works related to it, while still being a one shot.

Long Fic (Chapters)

Long fic is a term that refers to a long fanfiction. Long fic usually has multiple chapters and more complex plots.

When writing a fanfic, you won't know whether it will remain a one shot, or will transcend into a multi-chaptered story. Personally, I leave all my fanfics open to a degree, so that in the future I want to create a second part, I can. Other pieces of my written work are clear cut with a solid end, and no continuation points. It's good to always keep an open mind, but there is no pressure to create a multi-chaptered story if you don't want to.

“If you want a happy ending, it depends on where you stop the story.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing fanfic

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lieraburaaisuh · 4 years

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The Lady In White [Prologue]

Synopsis:

When the ghostly figure of a strange jedi appears on the field of battle, wielding twin white lightsabers, no one is quite sure how to react. For the droids she’s just another target. For the Jedi she’s a potential Darksider. But for the clones on the front lines she might well be a goddess.

Liera isn't sure how she came to be in the middle of a battlefield. The last thing she remembers is hiding out in an abandoned temple of dubious origins. But when she feels the fading life force of a nearby sentient all speculation is tossed aside. For Liera is and always has been a healer, and she has a job to do.

Warnings: General violence, loss/grief, and war. Some romance in later chapters, both m/m and m/f. There are hints of clonecest as well in later chapters and the side stories, although nothing explicit.

Note: This is the Third Story in my Series; The Ties That Bind. I will be adding the First and Second stories here soon. As well as the AUs spawned from this long project.

Staring at the stark white helmet laying on its side just out of reach he grimaced in confusion. Everything around him was a haze of blaster fire, cacophonous sounds of battle that rang out across the dusty battlefield. Searing pain radiated through his body, starting at his midsection. Hand trembling he reached down and pressed against his abdomen. Gasping in agony he tries to curse, but all that comes out is a gurgling cough of red foam. Closing his eyes he swallows down the metallic tang and lets his head fall back to the ground. Even if he could be saved there would be no one coming to find him until the battle was won. With a shaky breath he tries to gather his resolve but falters as another cough wracks his broken body.

‘All I want is to live. To see my brothers safe and happy.’ He wonders if it’s too much to ask. He knows that under the Republic he doesn’t have the right to wish for it, but it’s all he desperately wants. Darkness clouds the edges of his vision and a startling cold is slowly creeping through him. It isn’t enough to make him feel numb but it is almost comforting.

Just as he’s finally given in and accepted his fate, praying for his brothers and silently reciting the names of those he would soon be joining, a bright flash of light nearby draws his dull gaze. Pure white, blinding in its purity, fills his field of vision and he wonders if he might have lost his ability to see altogether. But then he should be seeing nothing at all, shouldn’t he? A gentle touch against his cheek make him choke on a gasp of surprise. Had one of his brothers come back for him? He knows he will not last long. He’d seen the absolute ruin of his digestive system, knew his lungs were at least punctured. There was no saving him now. But at least, at the very end, he could be with a brother in his final moments. Someone who would remember him not as a random clone, a number, but as a person who lived and fought and died. A true soldier.

He thinks they might be trying to get his armor off but he can’t be sure, everything feels so distant. A gentle voice calls out to him, sounding wholly unfamiliar but clear as a bell. “Shh, be still. I won’t let you go, I’ve got you.” Slowly a feeling he can only describe as a warm cloud chases away the cold numbness suffusing his body. Is this what the final few moments of death are like? Had his fallen brothers felt peaceful right before the end?

The warmth becomes a scorching heat and he cries out in pain. Gasping he opens his eyes and is confused by his ability to see so clearly. Hovering above him with an expression of intense concentration is a humanoid of a species he’s never seen before. Their skin is a milky white and their long hair is a pale pinkish blonde that reminds him of rose gold. Glowing lavender eyes, a sharp splash of color on an otherwise blank canvas, catch his gaze and hold him captive. There is passion in those eyes yet it is tempered by serenity.

As if noticing his newfound lucidity the humanoid gives him a small smile that is both reassuring and kind. “You won’t be dying today, little light.” There is a gentleness in that voice he has seldom heard in his life and it is both beautiful yet unsettling. “What is your name?”

Focusing on the words he comes to the conclusion that the one holding him is a woman. Maybe it’s the way her voice reminds him of a song or maybe it’s the feeling in the air around them. He can’t decide. But he knows he’s right.

“C-Clip, Sir.” He doesn’t know why he tells her his name and not his serial number. It just feels right.

“I’m Liera. Nice to meet you, Clip.” Slowly the warmth begins to ebb as she takes her hands away from his forehead and chest. Around him the sounds of battle reassert themselves as his awareness snaps back into place. He nearly jumps as he realizes they’re still in the middle of the engagement.

Movement behind the woman catches his eye and he has no time to think about why he’s suddenly able to focus, why the pain is no longer present. From behind the scattered debris of a downed gunship a super battledroid stomps closer, guns aimed at the two of them. Clip’s eyes go wide. Instinct kicks in and he grabs his gun, pulling it up and aiming it at the enemy even as he lays prone. “Look out!” He yells, hoping the woman gets out of the way in time.

What happens next leaves him breathless in awe.

Before he’s even finished crying out in warning the woman is on her feet, head turned to face the threat. From her hands twin blinding lights erupt as the droid opens fire. With the woman standing directly between him and the clanker he dared not take a shot, the risk of hitting her was too great. But as she began to move the gun lays forgotten in his lap, his mouth falling open to gape in surprise. From one moment to the next she went from standing in front of him, almost defensively, to carving the droid into multiple pieces of slag. The bolts hadn’t even slowed her down on her way. She’d either dodged them or deflected them.

Clip had seen jedi on the field before, usually from a distance. But he’d never had the chance to watch one up close like this. He tracked her movements, unblinking, afraid to miss any second of the awe inspiring display. Looking at her weapons as she spun then in her hands he had a moment of confusion. In all the stories he’d heard the jedi’s weapons were always one of two colors. Blue or green. But the twin sabers in her hands were both blindingly white. They lit up the air around her, bathing her in a halo of light. Her long hair, which fell down her back and stopped at her knees, shimmered like silken metal as the blades passed by in a sweeping arc.

With the droid turned into a heap of rapidly cooling scrap on the ground she thumbed her weapons off and clipped them to her belt. There was a look of disgust on her face as she turned away from the broken droid. Turning back to him, her expression softened, though her eyes were bright, appraising him carefully. Swallowing he sat up, trying to straighten as much as he was able. As she walked back to him she stopped, eyes darting down to the helmet at her feet. Almost hesitantly she picked it up, dusting it off as she did so.

“Do you need a hand up?” She asked, sounding a little lost or maybe tired.

“No, General. I’m fine.” Her face scrunched in confusion as she held out his helmet for him, to take with trembling fingers. Getting a better look at her now that the excitement had died down he wondered if all jedi looked as strangely as she did. There was no braid behind her ear, like the Padawan Commanders, but she had braided the hair at her temples and tied it back, keeping the majority of her hair out of her face. The robes he’s been trained to recognize are conspicuously missing. In their stead she is wearing a white blouse with sleeves cuffed at the wrist, a pale cream colored vest that hugs her slender curves, and fawn colored tights to match the sash-belt around her waist. A bright splotch of color draws his attention to her left arm and he blanches at the streaks of dark red soaking into the white fabric.

“Sir! Are you injured?” He blurted, getting to his feet with his helmet in one hand and weapon in the other.

“What?” She follows his gaze and sees the blood on her sleeve. “No, the blood isn’t mine.” She looks back up at him in concern and he can’t figure out why. It takes him a little longer than it should have to realize why. Looking down at his body he sucks in a breath. With some of his armor plates missing he can see the large gash in the black undersuit. Blood stains the area but he feels no pain whatsoever. Where once he’d been able to clearly see his own insides there is nothing but perfectly unharmed flesh. Like the last ten minutes had never happened.

“Wh-what?” The squeak that leaves his mouth is wholly undignified as his mind reels, trying and failing to comprehend the new information. Tearing his eyes away from his whole, unharmed, abdomen he gazes down at her with no small amount of awe. “How?” He whispers, almost afraid to ask.

“I used the Force. I’m sorry about the pain, I had to extract shrapnel from your wounds but I don’t have any medical supplies on me a the moment.” Well that sort of made sense to him. The force wasn’t really something he really understood so he just nodded.

Seeming content with his response she begins scanning the area around them, her eyes giving off a faint light as if lit from within. If she hadn’t just saved his life he might have been disturbed by it. As her eyes slid out of focus he knew she was no longer paying him any mind. Either she was seeing something he wasn’t or her mind was currently elsewhere. She came back a moment later, her eyes flicking up to him then away again. “I can feel more weakened life forces nearby.” She stated plainly.

Letting out a small sigh she looked at him fully, mouth a thin line and eyes apologetic yet determined. “I’m sorry I cannot fight with you. I have a duty to the dying and the injured.” In Clip’s opinion that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. If she hadn’t felt responsible for the wounded then he wouldn’t currently be alive and well.

“Don’t worry yourself, Sir. We can handle the fighting.” Her brows knit as a frown tugs at her peach colored lips. She looks like she wants to say something but gives up a moment later. For a jedi he’s surprised how expressive she is. After all the jedi are meant to be calm and serene at all times, showing little or no emotion.

“Force be with you, Clip.” Nodding at him she turns away and runs off. In the distance he can see a fallen brother, leaning against a chunk of rock and head bowed. Clip hesitates. He should be rejoining the fight, taking out as many seppy clankers as he could with his brothers. But… if she was going to help the injured she wouldn’t be able to protect herself at the same time. The sudden urge to watch her back finally overrode his urge to get back to the fight. Jamming his helmet back on he followed behind her at a jog, eyes peeled for danger. With her short stature it wasn’t hard to catch up quickly.

Kneeling next to the wounded trooper she placed her hands on his helmet to remove it but had to back away when the man startled and flailed. Crouching next to her, in front of his brother, he reached out and gripped the man’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Slick. The General is here to help.” Relaxing when he realized he was in no danger his brother allowed his helmet to be removed without any more fuss. Giving him a curt nod of approval Clip stood and kept watch, scanning the surrounding area for danger while the jedi worked her magic.

From this side of things there was nothing special to see as the woman placed her hands on Slick’s forehead and chest place. Only her eyes and the feeling in the air seemed to change at all. Vaguely he recognized the feeling of warmth from his own healing but now there was an undercurrent of something else he couldn’t quite place. An emotion that welled up inside him and filled him with strength… Glancing down at his brother he took in the expression of awe on his face and it clicked.

Hope. The feeling she gave off was hope.

A lump formed in his throat and he had to swallow multiple times to force it away. Tearing his eyes away from the sight he focused on his task, his thoughts tumbling over one another. When was the last time he’d felt this hopeful?

The healing only lasted a few minutes but it felt much longer. Finally the jedi pulled her hands away, giving Slick a small smile. “You’re well enough to move now. I’ve fixed the worst of your injuries but I need to save my energy. You’ll need a medic later for the more minor injuries.” Getting to her feet she stepped away from Slick to give him room to stand and turned her focus back to the battlefield. Like before her eyes began to give off a faint glow as they became unfocused, as if she were seeing into the very fabric of reality. For all he knew- she was.

“Alright Slick?” he asked, reaching down to help his brother to his feet. The awed cross dumbfounded look he got in response to his question made him grin. It took his batch mate a moment to form words.

“What the shab was that?” Clapping the man on the shoulder he looked back at the jedi with a shrug.

“I don’t know, the force?” Slick gave him an unimpressed look. He laughed and switched languages. “All I know is that she’s helping brothers, and if that’s what she’s going to do then I’m going to watch her back.” Slick nodded thoughtfully and slipped his helmet back on before picking up his own weapon.

Without another word the woman was suddenly off running again. If she’d heard their conversation she gave no indication of it. But she hadn’t given them any orders to return to the fight or stay away from her so they took her silence as acceptance and followed, on guard and ready for anything.

They made their way across the battlefield, meandering and sometimes backtracking. It honestly made no logical sense to him but he supposed he wasn’t the one with the mysterious powers. He couldn’t be sure what she was seeing that he couldn’t so he chose to trust she knew what she was doing and follow her lead.

Every now and then they would pass by a wounded brother and her expression would turn sad. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you right now.” The words sounded as if they pained her to say, like she was truly sorry she couldn’t stop their pain. But they were all highly trained soldiers, they understood triage.

The longer they remained with her the more brothers joined their group. At one point Clip almost laughed at the absurdity of it. They had acquired nearly an entire squad at this point. All they needed to do was find a Sergeant and they’d be set.

There were a few hairy moments where they had to stop and fight off an unexpected attack from a group of droids but it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle. While the jedi wasn’t as skilled as Generals Skywalker or Kenobi she was still a jedi and held her own with no trouble. The fact that she wielded twin lightsabers and cut down the droids with almost vicious intent just boosted her approval among the vode.

The only thing that was a little odd about her was her hesitation when it came to moving debris out of their way. She went out of her way to either carve a hole through it or go around it, whereas their General would have just flung it away like it was nothing. She seemed almost bashful when she explained that her control of telekinesis over inanimate objects was sorely lacking. So while she could lessen the weight of the large metal slab in their way she could not actually move it any significant distance. It took four of them together to lift the slab she indicated was in between them and their trapped brothers but they were able to move it with her assistance.

The moment it was out of her way she bolted inside the wreckage and fell upon a trooper who was covered in blood. Immediately she removed his helmet and was closing her eyes to focus on her task as the two less injured brothers eyed them curiously. Clip let the others explain as he watched the general, concerned by how desperate her movements had been. Sadly his suspicion was proven correct when her hands fell away from their fallen brother. She stared down at him, the air around her filled with a profound silence and grief he could practically taste. It was their first loss. Gently she reached up and closed his eyes, placed his hands over his chest, and set his helmet on the ground above his head. Bowing her head she clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Faas nihar juehaa. Mielhaas hiif aouul lalleea.” The words were spoken in a soft yet reverent voice and were absolutely incomprehensible to him. Looking at his brothers he wasn’t surprised to find them equally at a loss.

When she was finished she rose gracefully to her feet. The skin around her eyes was tight but her eyes burned even more fiercely than before. “If you have respects to pay then please do so. But I cannot stay here any longer. There are more lives that can be saved.” She took a deep breath and let it out again, adding a quiet, “I’m sorry.” In those two words he could hear the depths of sadness she felt for the loss of one clone and it left him breathless. There were far too few sentients who viewed them as people in their own right. But even as he and his brothers were trying to wrap their heads around it the jedi was already on the move.

By the time the battle came to a close the jedi had saved forty-one of their brothers from the jaws of death. They lost three of the men she tried to save and he could tell each loss affected the woman deeply, but she didn’t let it stop her from moving on to the next life that could be saved. If there was anything that could convince Clip the jedi were the uncontested good guys in this conflict, this did.

Orders came over the comms and they all relaxed when they realized it was over. They’d won the day and were all expected to report in. The medics were already collecting the wounded. Relief swept through them. Even the jedi gave them a bright smile from the ground before she was finally pulling her hands away from her latest patient. Sidling up next to her Clip took off his helmet and attached it to his belt, holding out his hand to help her up.

“Thank you, General. My brothers were saved because of you.” Looking up at him she gave him a kind smile and took his hand, allowing herself to be lifted to her feet. As he helped her he couldn’t help but feel that something was… off. She was moving slowly, stiffly.

“I’m glad to help. Now then, we should… be…” From one moment to the next her presence diminished and she was falling.

“General!” He cried out, catching her before she could collapse to the ground. Carefully he lifted her into his arms, sharing worried looks with his brothers. Her body was completely limp, head lolling to the side. Placing his ear against her chest he could hear her heartbeat and felt the rise and fall of her lungs. Letting out a relieved sigh he cradled her unconscious form to him.

“What do we do?” He wasn’t a total shiny but Clip was still fairly new to the 501st. He didn’t know what the procedure was for a jedi suddenly falling unconscious for no damn reason. Thankfully Lieutenant Rotor was among the group who’d decided to stay back and protect her. Already he was barking orders into the comm and calling for an emergency transport back to the Resolute.

Someone offered to take the general off his hands, but Clip refused to let her go. Covered in dried blood and dirt, her hair tangled and messy, she was still one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. Maybe more so, due to how little she seemed to care about her appearance over helping them.

“Don’t worry, General. I’ve got you.”

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decent0distraction · 4 years

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I need to talk about this cause I have no friends and my roommates are mean.

Here's context: https://decent0distraction.tumblr.com/post/615899981117800448/okay-so-im-not-saying-that-i-scrapped-my

Here's some details I just wanna talk about:

- Edward is written as depressed and suicidal, but in the way that he just doesn't want to live, but isn't necessarily trying to die. We cover this in the first two chapters.

- Speaking of the first two chapters, romance doesn't come in for a while. I didn't like how fast everything was in canon; we go from girl sees vampire, vampire obsesses over girl, girl meets vampire, girl and vampire are immediately together.

- The beginning of the story focuses on Edward dealing with thoughts of how he's nothing but a monster and that he sees himself as dead, or should have died. Sad boi hours ™

- And he proceeds to ignore his thirst and pretty much stops hunting altogether. Carlisle doesn't push, but he does try to subtly put Edward in situations where he has to hunt (telling him he needs to go with Jasper after school to avoid any issue/calling him out of school for an hour so he has an excuse/no option but to go)

- Edward's deterioration in health is purely my stupid imagined way a vampire might slowly start to "die" from starvation

- His vision will blur and he'll get dizzy if he moves too fast or pushes himself too far

- He's easily tired

- At one point, he can't read minds without getting headaches

- In the first chapter, instead of hunting like Carlisle intended for him to do, Edward just plans to sit in the woods for an hour and just vibe

- But he hears, never actually sees, a wolf; reads it's mind and it thinks about killing him

- And of course, the iron deficiency equivalent of vampire starvation gets the worse of him and he almost passes out, the 'wolf' disappearing

- The wolf is supposed to hint towards Edward meeting Jacob and the pack, and a later issue, but for now it's just for Edward to suffer and question his sanity

- Edward almost passes out in front of Jasper and our angsty boi goes all big brother on our sad boi

- He literally carries Edward downstairs, catches him a rabbit, and gets him to take it

- Wholesome content = Jasper looking out for Edward and keeping him alive

- In the first chapter, Jasper convinces Edward to go with him when he goes to buy a new motorcycle, which was hand built by our wolf boi

- And in the second chapter, Jasper and Edward walk through the woods to the reservation

- Edward is still weak and as a result clumsy from not eating, so it's a lot of Jasper helping him over roots and stuff and so wholesome ✨

- Edward is cold, cause his vampire defenses are weak af rn, and idk just go with it. Jasper gives him his jacket and it's big on him cause Edward's a bottom in this story (you can NOT change my mind)

- Jasper is low-key pissed about what Edward is doing to himself and they talk about and Jasper kind of yells at our sad boi and Edward realizes he's starving himself because he knows it's slowly killing him

- Jasper and Edward forgive each other and they make it to the reservation

- They meet Jacob, who stares at Edward

- Edward thinks it's because he looks strange; skin hanging off bone and Jasper's jacket pulled around his pale af body

- Yeah, no, sweetie. It's because he thinks you're beautiful and all that poetic shit

- "Here's where (s)he meets prince charming. But (s)he won't discover that it's him till chapter 3." (Maybe)

- I low-key hint that Sam was the wolf in the woods, but I might plot twist that shit. Idk

- (Insert explanation about Edward's body rejecting the rabbit blood here)

- Jasper calls Carlisle, takes our sad boi home

- And I wrote this stupid scene where Carlisle is really cold towards Edward and asks Jasper instead of Edward if he ate that day. He then proceeds to give Edward an IV of nutrients mixed with venom, to start to get Edward healthy again, idk

- I just really wanted a scene where Carlisle goes all doctor on his son and they become his hospital, because so far, Edward has been sort of closed off and cold towards the Cullen family and I felt like I was making them too estranged

- Edward isn't magically not depressed or suicidal anymore, but he does start to try again and this time, he has his family to help him

- Jacob has already shifted in this. So have Leah and Seth

- This means he's all muscle and short hair, and also I have this scene I really like where Edward sees a photo of Jacob with his long hair and he calls him cute and Jacob gets flustered, I'm FINE

- Jacob is told to keep an eye on the Cullens, so he befriends Edward

- But he high key likes the "weird Cullen boy"

- It's cute, ok?

- Edward slowly lets Jacob in, not understanding why Carlisle keeps warning him to stay away from Black and that reservation

- The wolves get restless and dangers arise, Jacob trying to keep Edward away from the war that's been going on between their kinds for centuries

- Edward is kinda naive to that kind of thing, until Jacob transform in front of him and I can't decide if they fight about lies and stuff

That's what I got so far that I can reveal without spoiling too much 😊

Tell me what you guys think???

#twilight #rewrite #rewriting #twilight rewrite #twilight rewriting #twilight memes #edward cullen #jacob black #edward cullen x jacob black #edward cullen/jacob black #edward x jacob #edward/jacob #twilight memes but i'm serious #i'm serious

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maaaddiexo · 4 years

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Chapter Eight | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book Two: Ribbons]

Rosemary returned to England to find things just how she left them - her father and brother missing and her mother drinking in her bedroom. But Rosemary wasn't going to give up this time. She took charge of her family as the Pevensies took charge of a country.

But it's been a year since all five of them returned to England, and when they are called back by Susan's magic horn, they return to a completely different Narnia. Magic has been dormant for centuries and men now rule Narnia but with brute force and terror.

The Pevensies know why they've been called back to Narnia but Rosemary is once again left in the dark. And with Aslan making himself sparse, the five kids are left to their own devices to answer their own questions.

Do they trust the exiled prince? Can they save Narnia again, and this time without Aslan swooping in to save them? And in Rosemary's case, why was she called back?

[Chapter Nine] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

The Narnians had been gathering deep in the woods and the walk there was warm. Rosemary had pushed up her sleeves and tied her hair up into a ponytail with her ribbon. Though most of her body was covered by her dress, the sun on her arms and the back of her neck felt nice.

"Hey, Rosemary?" The green-eyed girl looked to her right, where Susan had slowed down to walk beside her. Susan had pulled the sides of her hair back, exposing her cheekbones and ears which were usually covered by her thick hair. The look suited her, Rosemary thought. "Lucy and I were talking last night. I asked her why I didn't see Aslan, and I guess that applies to Peter too. She didn't know and I was wondering..."

"If I do." Rosemary looked around the woods they were trekking through. Part of her expected to see Aslan sauntering through the woods too, but she only saw every other creature of Narnia. No lion. "I've been thinking about it since Peter asked. Maybe it's because we're all older and we don't need someone to follow. To believe in. Lucy's not even ten yet."

"But you saw Aslan when you arrived here."

"That was different. He was there when I arrived. I didn't have to look for him. You guys are."

"Lucy said that maybe I didn't want to see him, but that's ridiculous. Of course I want to see him. I just want to know he's still out there."

Rosemary shook her head. "You don't have to see him to believe he's still out there, Susan. I think if you put your belief in him before your hope to see him, you'll find him. I've seen him and so has Lucy. Believe he's still out there and you'll find him."

Susan smiled gratefully, placing a hand on her friend's upper arm. "Thanks, Rosemary."

"Of course, Susan. If Aslan hadn't found me then I know I'd be in the same boat as you and Peter."

"Speaking of Peter," Susan's tone turned teasing. She grabbed Rosemary's right hand and held it up. "Nice ring. I noticed Peter's wearing his too."

Rosemary flushed, snatching her hand away. "Oh, shut up."

Susan laughed, catching the eyes of her siblings and Trumpkin up ahead. They looked at her and Rosemary curiously but soon turned back around and kept walking with the others. "You two are totally made for each other."

•

The final destination was Aslan's How - a mound of dirt with underground tunnels running for miles facing a large open field with a neglected stone arch on a square slab of stone. Weeds had grown through the cracks. Rosemary stood beside Peter for a moment, staring at the obscured temple and the blue sky. As they crossed the field, lingering centaurs and fauns gathered at the entrance to the How, prepared to greet their long lost kings and queens. They raised their swords to the clear blue sky before lowering them forty-five degrees.

Peter grabbed Rosemary's hand and walked with her and his siblings under the arch of weapons. Everybody else walked behind them as they approached and Rosemary got a glimpse of what she had missed.

Inside the How, fauns, minotaurs, and dwarves were working hard under the torchlight, forging weapons and armor. Like when they had first made their way through Aslan's camp, the creatures stopped and stared.

"I wonder if they still think we look funny," Susan observed. Lucy giggled and they continued walking, exploring their surroundings.

"It may not be what you are used to, but it is defensible." Caspian assured as the Pevensie boys and Rosemary.

"I don't doubt that," Rosemary laughed. "You could get lost in here."

"Guys." Susan was at the back of the main chamber. "You may want to see this."

Around the corner, images frozen in time were portrayed on the walls. Memories. One was of Lucy and Susan riding on Aslan's back when they had gone to Ice Castle for reinforcements. Another showed the Pevensie siblings standing in front of their thrones for the first time.

"It's us."

Rosemary ran her fingers along the wall, stopping at an image. It was her and Peter, lying in the bedroom on her last night. She was curled into his side, her eyes closed. "I'm in these too."

"What is this place?"

"You don't know?" Caspian grabbed a second torch and led them around the bend and down into another chamber. This one wasn't lit and Caspian had to dip his torch in a mystery liquid to light up the room. The fire spread around the circular room, illuminating carvings on the wall and the broken table in the middle.

In a trance, Lucy walked forward and touched the Stone Table. At one point, it was above ground. Whether it was buried by the Telmarines or hidden from them, she didn't know.

"I think it's up to us now," Peter announced, staring at the carving of Aslan with reverence. It was the biggest of all and in the middle of the room. You couldn't not be drawn to it. Even from a picture, you could feel Aslan's power.

Rosemary shared a secret look with Edmund, recalling what she had told him. She was proud that Peter had let go of his hope for Aslan's appearance and was taking responsibility. He was doing exactly what a king would do.

•

Peter found Rosemary at the top of the How. "I've been looking for you for fifteen minutes."

Rosemary smiled at Peter as he sat down next to her with a huff. "You must really need to talk to me."

"And see you," Peter admitted, loving the way she tried to suppress her smile and blushed. "I love your smile." Rosemary blushed harder and couldn't hold her beaming smile back any longer. "And there it is."

"What do you want, Peter?"

"A lot of things. To win this war without losing anybody, to stay here forever, to spend more time with you. What do you want?"

"I wish I could've spent more time with you when we were here last. I wish I could've watched you become King and watch you grow."

Peter hummed, looking at the trees in the distance. "If only we could change the past."

"Unfortunately, that's a magic trick Narnia can't do."

"I like to believe the past better prepares us for the future. Maybe we didn't spend enough time together in the past, but we can make up for lost time." Peter gently grabbed Rosemary's hand, staring at the ring on her right ring finger. "I've called a meeting to discuss battle strategies, and if they agree to my plan, I don't want you coming with us."

"What?" Rosemary pulled her hand away. "Why not?"

Peter reached for Rosemary's hand again. If she didn't agree to his proposition then he might scrap the plan altogether. He wasn't going to let her get hurt. "It isn't what you think. I know you're capable of holding your own but that isn't why I don't want you coming with us. The plan is dangerous and there's a lot of grey area to work through. But when it's all over and we go back to England..."

Peter was losing his nerve, Rosemary could tell. "Peter, what is it?"

He huffed. "I want to take you out for dinner, and bring you flowers, and watch you walk down the aisle. I want to marry you, Rosemary. But I can't do that if I lose you."

Rosemary didn't know what to say. Was this where she told Peter she loved him? She'd never loved someone in a romantic way. Was she in love with Peter?

"Say something, Rosie." Peter was looking at her expectantly and desperately.

"Sorry, you, uh, you kind of dropped a bomb on me there. I like the name Rosie and I want you to keep calling me that - even after we leave Narnia. But I don't like being sidelined."

"I know. But I can't look out for you out there."

"I'm the Protector, Peter. How am I supposed to protect you from here when you're out there?"

"You protect me in more ways than one, Rosemary. On the battlefield is one way, but when you look out for my siblings and make us all smile, you're looking out for us. For our lives and for our happiness. That's why you're the Protector."

Rosemary felt Peter's warm breaths on the crook of her neck when she hugged him. She tangled her fingers in his hair and laid her head on his shoulder. "Okay."

"I will look after Susan and Edmund while you look after Lucy and the How." Peter pulled away to stroke her cheeks. They were soft, a complete opposite from her hands which were rough and calloused from working on her family farm. "Together, we can protect them."

Rosemary smiled. "Together."

[Chapter Nine] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #chronicles of narnia #prince caspian #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #lucy pevensie #william moseley #peter pevensie x oc #peter pevensie x fem!oc #peter pevensie imagine #peter pevensie series #peter pevensie fanfiction #love #romance #fantasy #action #adventure

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