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#very very upset that adam faced absolutely no consequences
moonlit-han · 3 years
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stray kids’ reactions to their s/o having a bad relationship with their parents ↠ all members
genre: reaction, angst, hurt/comfort word count: 3k warnings: brief descriptions or mentions of verbal/emotional/physical abuse, emotional manipulation, dysfunctional family relationships, alcoholism, swearing request: yes a/n: to the one who requested this: i hope that, if you have a dysfunctional or abusive relationship with your parents, you’re able to leave the environment safely. or, that the behavior changes or stops soon. make sure that you have somewhere safe you can go and at least one other person you can talk to and who can help you. be safe, darling!
✧ masterlist & tag list info in bio ✧
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bang chan
chan would be in utter disbelief that people could act like that
he kept repeating that parents should care about their children
that the yelling and screaming should stop
he would, honestly, have a very low opinion of your parents from the moment he found out everything they’d said and done
he’d not be one to make rash judgements about people,
but there are some lines he holds firm on
you’d long ago learned to go blank when your parents started on their shit
it didn’t matter if it was aimed at you
or at each other
but yelling, blaming, and cussing wasn’t at all what you wanted to experience or be around
chan would make damn sure to be there anytime you had to visit your parents
he didn’t want you to feel alone and small ever again
he had very clear boundaries with your parents
(not that they really respected them, though)
but that didn’t stop him from walking right out of the house, your hand in his, if they tried controlling him
chan had long ago perfected the art of getting you out of your parents’ house at the first sign of trouble
he’d always know when something bad was about to happen between you, too
chan would do everything in his power to make you feel better every time you were feeling shitty because of your parents
he firmly believed that no parent should stifle their child like that
and should never yell or strike you
n e v e r
and don’t get him started on the emotional manipulation
.......
he’d always comfort you after seeing your parents on those rare times courtesy required you to see them
the day you’d told chan all the abuse you’d endured, he simply held you as the both of you cried and cried
and he’d held you all that night, too
really, chan would hold you every single night
and soothe your frantic breathing when the nightmares caught up with you
once, he’d used a phrase that your mother was fond of when she was trying to guilt you into doing things,
you’d gone blank and stopped hearing him
from that day forward, he never used the phrase around you again
chan was adamant that the two of you would not act like your parents in any way
if he was upset, he’d go for a walk and then come back later to talk calmly about whatever had been upsetting
he never took things out on you
no emotional manipulation whatsoever
and the idea of laying hands on someone in anger was abhorrent to him
chan would be absolutely committed to making you feel safe and loved
lee minho
minho was, honestly, pissed
he was pissed that you were dealing with shit from your parents
he was pissed that you didn’t seem to have a chance to rest these days
he was pissed that he felt utterly useless in the face of your unhappiness
he’d noticed that you gazed into space more than usual
that you were sleeping more
all minho wanted to do was comfort you
but you were keeping to yourself
and, worst of all,
not asking for help from him
when you came home from work late with your eyes red-rimmed
minho immediately picked you up in his arms
and took you into the bedroom to cuddle you
over the next hour, he listened as you explained how you’d gone to your parents’ house
and how they hadn’t let you get a word in edgewise
that wasn’t anything new, and, all things considered, they hadn’t treated you too badly
at least no one had decided to slap sense into you
as you’d tried to tell them that you’d just moved in with minho
you wanted them to be happy for you,
but they were scornful and insisted that you were too young at 23
that you were throwing your life away by moving in with your boyfriend
you didn’t care
not really
but something in you needed them to know.
so now that you were back home
and in minho’s arms, you completely fell apart
more than you’d fallen apart on the drive home
you’d only let yourself sniffle as you drove bc you knew you’d crash otherwise
but now you could cry and cry and cry
and let yourself get tugged into the torrent of emotion that flowed through you
minho just rubbed your back and murmured sweet nothings to you
then helped you shower and change into your pajamas
before tucking you under the covers
so you could finally let yourself rest
meanwhile, minho made you some tea and a couple pieces of toast
hoping the honey he’d smeared on top would help you feel better
but really, just needed his arms around you
seo changbin
you’d been at your parents’ for a family gathering
and came back home with a blank look in your eyes
knowing that things were strained between you and your parents,
changbin was ready to support you however you needed
you kind of fell into his arms
and just started crying
your body shook and it took long minutes for you to calm down
changbin wasn’t quite sure what he could do,
besides comfort you and make sure you were safe
he was angry that the situation between you and your parents was worse than he’d known
as you gulped out the story of your mother taking you into the kitchen
and hissing thinly veiled insults, telling you that you were selfish,
changbin heard the blood pound in his ears
if he could make your mother shut up, he would
he wished the two of you could live together
but you were still in college and couldn’t exactly do that easily
so, he hoped that all the time you spent together
and the fact that you were taking so many classes
was enough to get you through still living at home
it was still hell for you, though
you hadn’t realized how bad it was until you started dating changbin
and he’d told you that no, your parents trying to guilt you into not going to college in favor of taking care of them was not normal nor okay
you were glad you had changbin to give you perspective
he was the sweetest man you’d ever met
and you were in awe of how he fought for your right to autonomy
you couldn’t resist feeling overwhelming tenderness for him
all he wanted to do was treat you with as much respect and love as he could
like chan, changbin was incensed that parents would treat their child, or children, like that
and would definitely have a few sharp words to say to your parents
he wouldn’t exactly care about the consequences
there were simply things that were acceptable and some that weren’t
and he cared about you too much to not say something
he would do small, sweet things for you
just to see you smile all the more often
changbin made a point to tell you just how much he loved you
every
single
day
hwang hyunjin
as hyunjin watched you crumple on the doorstep of your house
he knew something was wrong
rage filled his mind when he saw you crying so brokenly
he had no idea what had happened
but he could guess and it made him
utterly furious
how dare they
how dare your father be such a bastard
if hyunjin could, he would spirit you far, far away from home
he wanted you to be safe
hhhhhhhhhhh
………….
he strode forward and sank down on the step next to you
you tried not to rely on hyunjin too much
the last thing you wanted was to be codependent
but with such a crappy home situation
you needed some sort of support
and your boyfriend was the best support you could ask for.
he was understanding
he would fight for you as long as he could
and wanted to make all the hurt you’d experienced go away
he knew that wasn’t necessarily possible
bc emotional wounds are difficult to heal
and need a long time to work through
but he’d be there for you
with his warm arms around you,
things seemed a bit less bleak
but you still couldn’t believe that your father had just threatened to throw you out of the house and to hit you
to punch your lights out
your mother had tried to intervene
but he simply wouldn’t listen
you’d grabbed your phone and just kept inching toward the door
hoping you’d make it before anything bad happened
so now you were there on the stoop, sobbing
you hadn’t even noticed hyunjin until his arms were around you
he’d been on his way to come see you
but now he was your protector
he held you like a piece of pottery that had broken
and he was putting you back together
like you were now kintsugi
a piece of pottery that was broken but now repaired with gold
the unseen cracks in your soul slowly,
so slowly
being filled with hyunjin’s care and love
han jisung
jisung would be the one to sneak you out of the house at midnight
just so he could see you
and so you could have time free of your parents’ control
you’d go to the park near his house
and sit under the trees or feed the ducks
as soon as he got his license
and could drive others around
he’d come pick you up to go to school 
and drive you home,
making damn sure to take all the longest routes he could
you’d told your parents that you had an after-school club,
one that lasted all the way until 5 pm,
all just so you could spend time with jisung
and not be at home
you’d spent many a night with jisung,
crawling back into bed early in the morning after having slept together in the back seat of his car
his parents weren’t too fussed about what he did,
especially since they knew your parents treated you like shit.
in the spring semester of your senior year of high school,
jisung’s parents had invited you to simply live at their house instead of your own
or, at least spend the weekends there
it helped
it more than helped, since you were happier than you’d ever been when you finally brought as many of your things as possible to jisung’s
it was lucky that jisung’s parents were such wonderful advocates of your safety.
they spoke to your parents and convinced them to let you spend more time with jisung
….granted, they neglected to tell your parents that jisung was your boyfriend of three years
but that didn’t matter
a good friend would do much the same for you
so, you practically moved in with jisung for that semester as you applied for colleges
and finally gone a week without shaking
jisung was determined to help you work through the anxiety your parents’ treatment had done to you
anytime loud noises made you start shaking or freeze up,
jisung would just calm you by cuddling you
and distracting you with any and everything he could think of
in time, jisung’s presence and love helped you heal
lee felix
felix wouldn’t understand why anyone would want to be so mean
what was the point?
when you’d started dating…
felix tried to be kind to your parents, he really did!
but when you’d brought him with you to see your parents
and you’d gripped his hand so hard that he was afraid his circulation would be cut off,
he knew something was wrong
felix had whispered, “you okay, babe?”
but you’d only been able to grip his hand harder
felix had just politely made an excuse about needing to go somewhere
and gotten you both out of there
you’d explained everything on the way home,
felix simply holding your hand the whole time
and trying not to cry
you’d gotten used to the shit your parents threw at you
but with felix’s heartfelt response
and his support,
you really did think about how wrong and twisted it was.
the alcoholism in your mother’s family had finally manifested
and turned your mother into....
just a bit of a monster
you were far too used to hiding in your room as she raged downstairs
and then ignoring the reek of alcohol that lingered in the carpet the next morning
it was difficult to get through school sometimes
but felix being there definitely helped
he’d bring you little crystals that he’d left out in fresh water and moonlight
to help clarify your energy and mind
slowly but surely as felix was more solidly your boyfriend
his support was invaluable
he was there for you when you needed him
and understanding when you needed time to yourself
felix read up on how to help people deal with emotional trauma
and made sure to employ strategies he’d read.
he didn’t want to do the wrong thing,
didn’t want to inadvertently hurt you
((not that he’d ever be capable of that, though))
he would give you all the cuddles he could
felix would literally try to cuddle the sad out of you
he was convinced he could do it akhfdsjfhg
when his arms were around you,
you believed his cuddles would make everything better
and honestly, they did
felix’s capacity to love was endless
kim seungmin
seungmin, like minho, would be so damn angry
and i mean,,,,,
a n g r y  p u p
akdfghkjsdfhgakfdghsdkjf
he wouldn’t put up with any shit from your parents
and it didn’t help that they were totally against you having a boyfriend
for every reason they could think of
if either of them said anything shitty to you in his presence
he would be like a simmering cauldron of rage
seungmin never
and i mean never
would dream of yelling around you
or at you
or anything like that
any rage he felt toward your parents wouldn’t be let out anywhere near you
seungmin knew better than to do that
he didn’t want to trigger something in you.
whenever your parents were particularly horrible
seungmin would just hold you
you’d moved as far away as you could from home
and then met seungmin
so when the two of you travelled,,,,,
reluctantly;;;
to your parents’ home for any important holiday or birthday or whatever
((even though you really didn’t want to be anywhere near them))
seungmin became all the more protective of you
when seungmin felt you were becoming overwhelmed by the controlling and manipulative behavior of your parents,
and when you’d tried and tried and tried to set boundaries with them
but they still wouldn’t listen,
he would hold you all night long
so tightly you thought you would burst
but burst with contentment and the feeling of absolute safety
yang jeongin
jeongin’s caring and sweet nature only extended so far
he had no love for your parents
none at all
you’d told him all the ways in which they’d scarred you
emotionally, physically;;;;
and he’d felt like he was about to explode
he’d thrown his arms around you and just repeated “i’m sorry” over and over again
jeongin would try to be mature about the situation
but also wanted to just scream
he’d dutifully write down all your triggers
and make damn sure to never cause you to feel uncomfortable because of him
but jeongin would also be unsure as to how to deal with your parents
while he’d want to confront them,
he also wouldn’t have the experience to deal with bad relationships
not because he’s young or anything
just that his life is full of love
he’d want to protect you
and make sure you’re okay at all times
jeongin wouldn’t give a shit about what your parents thought of him
why should he when they treat you poorly?
he’d probably buy you little sweets
so that if you’re having a bad day,
at least you have something tasty
and he’d try to come up with things to take your mind off your parents
and sometimes that would just be kissing you
sweetly and soundly
so that all you could think about
and feel
and know
is him and all the love he feels for you
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wahoo-shem · 3 years
Text
Only Love
I see you try to turn away
I hear the words you want to say
I feel how much you need to hide
What’s happening inside you tonight
Aziraphale had never been to Crowley’s flat. Now that the angel stood at the threshold, he realized that he had never been welcomed into any of Crowley’s abodes over the years. It was always drinking at the bookshop or smuggling wine from a monastery, never quiet evenings in the demon’s home. Watching Crowley fiddle with the unnecessary keys to the flat, Aziraphale shook his head to clear it of phrases such as “demon’s lair” and “snake pit”.
“Bathroom’s down the hall if you need to wash up,” Crowley muttered as he shouldered the door open. “Can I get you anything?”
Aziraphale stepped cautiously through the doorway, glancing around instinctively. He was so used to avoiding the obstacles of his bookshop that the sparse decorating left him feeling strangely on edge. There was a statue, an angel and a demon it looked like, sitting on a pedestal. They seemed to be in conflict, the demon overcoming the angel as the angel strained against the demon’s might.
“Angel?”
Or perhaps thought Aziraphale distantly, they’re not in conflict at all. Maybe the demon is holding him down so he doesn’t topple off the edge.
“Aziraphale?”
Was the angel about to fall, or was he trying to jump?
“I’m making you some tea.” Aziraphale felt the press of Crowley’s hand between his shoulder blades, gently steering him towards the sitting room.
“Oh, yes I’m sorry,” Aziraphale shook his head. “Tea sounds lovely, thank you.”
Crowley nodded, only turning from the room once he saw Aziraphale sitting comfortably on the couch.
Come meet my eyes one moment more
Our eyes are different than before
This night, so beautiful and strange
This night begins to change who we are
“You have a lovely home,” Aziraphale offered.
There was a snort from the kitchen. “You hate it, don’t you?”
“No, no I didn’t say that. It’s very…spacious.”
“Ah, very high praise that is,” Crowley’s teasing voice carried into the sitting room. “That should get me a spot in ‘Spacious Flats Monthly’”.
Aziraphale huffed. “I’m sorry my dear, really it’s lovely I’m just used to a bit more substance is all.”
The thunk of a mug on the counter. “That’s funny, I always thought it was called clutter.”
“It is not clutter, they are very important and cherished literary works. Just because you can’t figure out my organizational system doesn’t mean I don’t have one. I’ll show it to you next time you-”
Aziraphale stopped mid-rant. The scuff of Crowley’s shoes in the kitchen had stopped, the only sound remaining being the rising whine of the kettle. A soft click, the burner, and Aziraphale swallowed.
“Ah,” his voice wavered. “I suppose it doesn’t much matter now does it.”
Don’t turn away, it’s only love
Quietly coming to you
Whispering through you
Crowley was sitting beside him on the couch, a mug of Earl Grey pressed between Aziraphale’s palms. The demon eyed the beverage, wary of tremors on its surface. Aziraphale had been near silent since their previous conversation, only offering a polite “thank you” for the tea. His gaze remained on the far wall, his body far too still.
“Adam seemed like a good kid,” Crowley offered. Aziraphale gave a small hum in reply.
“You were right,” Crowley continued. “It’s probably for the best that we weren’t involved. Who knows what would have happened today if we had been.”
Crowley watched Aziraphale’s fingers tighten around the mug minutely. The demon sighed and sank further into the cushions.
“Of course, we were there anyway. And now we get to pay the price for it.”
Aziraphale hummed again, slowly lowering the mug into his lap.
Crowley rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Aziraphale’s gaze remained distant, but his head had tilted slightly towards his friend.
“For all of this, I mean…” Crowley sucked in a breath. “The…the bookshop, for the thing with Heaven, for being here, and you’re going to have to go to bloody Hell tomorrow –”
“Crowley.” The angel faced him fully now. “Those things aren’t your fault.”
“I know, I know the bookshop was just an accident, but I’m still sorry about it.”
A crease formed between the angel’s brows as he set his mug on the coffee table. “Not just the bookshop, Crowley. None of this is your fault.”
Crowley’s head rolled along the back of the couch to face the angel’s worried eyes. “Well, it was all just a domino effect of stopping the Apocalypse. And whose idea was that?”
“Yours,” Aziraphale said firmly. “And it was the right thing to do, no matter the consequence.”
“Aziraphale-”
“Yes, my bookshop is…gone. And yes, I am very upset about that, I won’t lie to you and say I’m not. But Crowley, it could have been so much more. It could have been the world, it could have been those children at the airbase. It could have been – ”
Aziraphale’s breath hitched, his eyes suddenly glassy. “Crowley, it could have been you.”
Take my hand, it’s only love
Let it come through you slowly
Don’t be afraid, it’s only love
Crowley’s lips parted as he watched the first tear spill from the angel’s eyes. Aziraphale did not break his gaze, ocean eyes meeting onyx glass.
“Yes, I defied Heaven, I could never have joined their cause in good conscious, you only gave me the courage to see my severance through. And yes, I will be walking into Hell tomorrow, but don’t think for a second that I would rather you go in my stead.”
Aziraphale’s lip had begun to wobble, his voice following suit. “I’m terrified for you in Heaven. You have been forever offering me choices that you no longer have. I always had the chance to beg for Her forgiveness, to – to pass you off as some temptation, to fall if necessary. But you…your next step was destruction. I tried so hard to keep you from that, but you still came back to me anyway and I-”
“Aziraphale hey,” Crowley whispered, hands reaching towards where the angel’s were tangled together with white knuckles. “I know, it’s okay.”
“I was so cruel to you –”
“Nah, you’re an angel remember?”
Aziraphale sniffed. “I think we’ve both learned how little that means today.”
Crowley wedged his thumbs between the heels of Aziraphale’s hands, gently prying them apart to hold each within his own.
“It means something when it’s you,” Crowley murmured. “I don’t call those other buggers in Heaven ‘Angel’ do I?”
Aziraphale swallowed. “You don’t talk to them at all.”
“You’re right, I don’t,” Crowley agreed nodding. The angel’s fingers were curled tightly around Crowley’s, nails pressing crescent moons into his palms.
“I heard this rumor you see,” Crowley spoke, hushed. “That angels were these beings of good. Disgustingly kind-hearted and always seeing people as better than they are. As far as that definition goes, you’re more of an angel than anybody else I’ve ever met.”
Aziraphale offered a small smile. “I’ve heard demons were beings of torment, meant to destroy all things good and wonderful.”
“Yeah well,” Crowley’s lips turned up slightly. “I’ve heard those things mean so little today.”
We touch, the dark begins to stir
We can’t go back to where we were
Don’t be afraid to make it real
Don’t be afraid to feel tonight
Aziraphale loosened his grip, Crowley releasing his hands to allow the angel to wipe away his tears.
“I’m being quite silly, aren’t I?” Aziraphale said with a self-conscious chuckle.
“No sillier than usual.” That earned Crowley a slight smile and a huff of frustrated mirth.
“We’ve got it all figured out and I’m sitting here sniveling as if it’s all gone wrong already.” Aziraphale finished dabbing at his eyes and began to fidget with his tie and waistcoat.
Crowley nodded. “That’s right. Agnes has us all sorted. And after it’s all over, we can go out somewhere. Anywhere you like, my treat.”
Aziraphale pouted. “Absolutely not. You’ve done so much already I could hardly put you out again.” The angel’s eyes widened suddenly, hands stilling in their task.
“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale gasped. “You’ve done so much today you must be exhausted!”
“I’m okay. Besides, I was making tea –”
“No, Crowley, this time you’re putting your needs first.” Aziraphale rose from the couch, grabbing the now tepid cup of tea and bustling towards the kitchen. “I’ll straighten up out here, you go clean yourself off.”
Crowley watched as the angel disappeared behind the kitchen doorframe. He could hear the gurgling of tea running down the drain followed by the rush of water from the faucet. He focused on the racing water, trying to drown out the pulsing in his ears.
I should probably get up, Crowley thought to himself as his feet refused to move. Aziraphale is just in the other room, so I should wash up while he’s busy. Aziraphale is just in the other room to give me some space to wash up and he’s just in the other room so I can go clean the soot off and he’s just in the other room -
“Crowley?” Aziraphale was no longer in the other room.
The angel stood in the doorway between sitting room and kitchen giving Crowley a concerned look.
“I thought I lost you too.” The words scraped Crowley’s throat raw.
Aziraphale’s face fell. “Yes, I know. I truly said some awful things to you, I’m so sorry that they hurt you so.”
“No,” Crowley shook his head. “I thought I lost you.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, fingers rising to his lips. “Oh, you thought…you were talking about the fire, weren’t you?”
Crowley nodded, afraid that any words he tried to form at the moment would morph into a sob. Aziraphale moved quickly towards the couch, dropping to his knees and clasping Crowley’s hands just as the demon had done for him.
“I’m so sorry Crowley. All this time I had thought you were talking about our fight I didn’t realize…I’m here now, dear. I’m here in your home, I’m safe with you. You’re safe here Crowley.”
Crowley shook his head. “M’safest in the bookshop.”
Aziraphale ran his thumbs over the demon’s knuckles. “Yes, yes I figured as much. All of these years I tried to keep you safe by turning you away, when all this time you’ve been trying to show me that we really are best together.”
“It’s okay,” Crowley swallowed. “It all worked out, didn’t it?”
“In our usual bumbling manner,” Aziraphale smiled gently. “Fashionably late as you’d say.”
Crowley let out a wet snort. “Some of us are fashionable anyway.”
Aziraphale hummed. “I’d hardly call your current state fashionable, dear. We have a big day tomorrow, go wash up and get some rest, you certainly need it.”
Aziraphale released Crowley’s hands, but the demon made no move to get up.
“Crowley?” the angel questioned. “You’re not injured at all, are you? Do you need help getting to the bathroom?”
“No, no I’m alright I just…” Crowley slowly removed his glasses, twisting the earpiece between his fingers.
“What can I do for you?” Aziraphale asked gently.
Golden eyes rose to meet the angel’s gaze. Aziraphale had read an article once describing how insects could remain trapped in amber for thousands of years past their death. These creatures, meant to have perished, had been preserved despite the everchanging world around them. Crowley’s eyes were like that sometimes. Within these depths of amber, there lay hope and kindness that should have long since been destroyed with his Grace. But Crowley had maintained these parts of himself, only allowing these rare moments of affection to emerge in trusted company.
“I thought I lost you,” Crowley replied, eyes bright.
Aziraphale carefully removed the glasses from Crowley’s grip. “Then I shan’t leave you again.” It was an impossible promise, one they both knew must be broken in the morning. But in that moment, they could believe that it was true, because they both knew that it was meant.
“Come now,” Aziraphale murmured, rising from the floor to hold out his hand once again to his friend. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Don’t turn away, it’s only love
Only a touch that frees you
Let it release you
Aziraphale sat on the toilet cover, Crowley leaning against the shower door, waiting for the water to warm. Crowley had disrobed, albeit slightly abashedly. There was no embarrassment regarding their bodies, it was all flesh and skin arranged to contain something greater, but there was a strange intimacy in exposing unmarred skin against the soot and grime that covered his clothes. It felt like peeling back a shell to expose a soft underbelly, like shedding skin.
“I’m surprised you don’t own a bath,” Aziraphale said, glancing about the cramped space.
Crowley shrugged. “Not really one for sitting still am I?”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “You slept for almost a century.”
“Mneeeeh yeah but, my brain was shut off so it wasn’t a problem.” Crowley slid the shower door open enough to stretch his hand into the stream. He pulled his hand out, flicking the lukewarm water on the bathroom’s floor, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin.
Crowley turned towards his friend. “Seems like something you would like though. Lounging about in a warm bath with bubbles and a rubber duck. A book to read, a glass of wine, some chocolates perhaps?”
Aziraphale offered a small smile. “Oh no, I never considered that. A smidge to hard to explain that to Head Office if they happened to drop by.”
“It’d probably do you some good,” Crowley mused, reaching his hand back into the water. “Second most relaxing thing to a nap if you ask me.”
“Seeing as you don’t have a tub here, I suppose I’ll have to decline.”
“I’ve got the shower though,” Crowley pointed out, sliding the door open wider. “You could have a go when I’m done.”
“Oh no that’s alright,” Aziraphale replied, waving his hand in the air. “Really I would find it far more relaxing to stick to routine tonight. There’s been a few too many momentous changes today for me.”
“And what’ll that be then?” Crowley asked, stepping into the spray.
Aziraphale shifted on his seat. “A cup of hot tea, a comfortable chair, a book if you happen to have any around here.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Crowley replied. Aziraphale could hear the staccato rhythm of water striking the shower tile as Crowley shifted about.
“M’gonna leave the door open if that’s alright.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright, I don’t mind,” Aziraphale replied. “Easier for conversation anyway.” Crowley chuckled and Aziraphale heard the snap of a shampoo bottle being opened.
“So, when do you wanna try it?” Crowley asked.
“The switch?”
“Yeah. Not right now obviously, but do you wanna do it tonight or in the morning?”
“The morning I should think,” Aziraphale replied. “Today has already had a lot of –”
“Big changes, yeah.”
Take my hand, it’s only love
Let it come through you slowly
Don’t be afraid, it’s only love
Crowley peered around the shower door, white suds dripping from copper strands.
“You know what I just realized?” he asked.
“What’s that?”
“When Beelzebub came up, they didn’t have all those boils and blisters and things.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“No I mean, ugh, hang on,” Crowley disappeared behind the door again to rinse the bubbles from his hair. Aziraphale watched the blurred mosaic of cream and scarlet behind the dimpled glass.
“That means,” Crowley elaborated, peering around the open door with a bottle of conditioner in his hands. “That when Hastur pops up, he chooses to look like that.”
Aziraphale frowned. “Well, I don’t think he can help the frog.”
“Warlock told him he smelt of poo. Hastur chose to smell of poo.”
“…and this means?”
Crowley grinned. “The point is that it’s funny. Parfum de Hastur: Poop de Toilette.”
Aziraphale winced. “I don’t think that’s the proper French.”
“Oh, you’re one to talk.”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes and the two fell into a brief silence broken only by the spatter of water.
“Aziraphale?”
“Yes dear?”
“Can I ask you to do something kind of weird?”
“Weirder than the assignment I covered for you in Copenhagen?”
“I still don’t know why I was asked to do that. And it depends on your definition of weird.”
“What is it then?”
Crowley appeared around the glass door once again. “I can’t see my back; did I get all the gross off?”
Aziraphale stood from his seat. “Turn around, let me have a look.”
Crowley turned slowly; eyes glued to his feet. He heard Aziraphale tut behind him.
“Good grief, the entire middle of your back is just one large smudge. How did it even get this way, I thought you were wearing your jacket?”
“You ever get snow in your jacket in a snowstorm?”
Aziraphale saw fragments of charred pages swirling through the air. “Ah. Point taken.”
Crowley sighed. “Alright, let me try this again. Bloody arms have too many bones in ‘em to reach back there.”
“Allow me.”
Crowley looked over his shoulder, honey gaze meeting determined blue. “I can do it, it’s no problem.”
“Nonsense,” Aziraphale admonished, peeling off his jacket. “Just pass me your soap and your loofah. I can reach it.”
“Loofah?”
The eyebrow. “Crowley.”
“…fine, here.”
Don’t close your eyes
Don’t hold it in
Reach out to me
Let it all begin
Aziraphale stood outside of the shower, jacket folded on the bathroom counter, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows. Crowley remained in the shower, back turned to the angel while Aziraphale’s hands ran over his skin with sudsy water.
“You’re warm,” Aziraphale noted absently.
Crowley hummed, eyelids beginning to droop. “I have the water up high.”
“Your hands are always so cold I just assumed that the rest of you was as well.”
“Nah, s’just cold in London.”
Aziraphale ran his fingers over Crowley’s shoulder blades, pressing gently into the muscles there until he earned a contented hiss. “There’s a saying you know, about cold hands.”
“What’s that?”
“Cold hands, warm heart.”
“Shuddup,” Crowley murmured, smiling slightly when he heard the slight rumble of Aziraphale’s laughter.
Crowley let his eyes fall closed as he felt broad hands run up and down his spine. He was sure that the soot was long since gone, but he dared not move. After a day when both had thought the other lost, the solid presence of Aziraphale massaging teakwood suds across his skin was comforting.
“Turn around please,” Aziraphale instructed, gently pressing against Crowley’s side.
“Front’s clean.”
“I know,” the angel answered, and Crowley did not argue.
Crowley opened his eyes slightly to turn towards the angel, head still lowered. He felt Aziraphale’s fingers wander over his stomach before coming to rest over his chest. Aziraphale let out a shuddering breath, and Crowley raised his head to meet the angel’s gaze.
Aziraphale’s smile wobbled. “I just wanted to feel your heartbeat.”
Crowley did not break eye contact as he raised his hands to press Aziraphale’s palm flat against his heart.
“S’right here angel,” he murmured. Aziraphale nodded slowly, flexing his fingers against the exposed skin. Reaching out with his free hand, Aziraphale peeled one of Crowley’s hands free to place it against his own heart, warm water seeping through the tattered cloth of his waistcoat to the tattered heart underneath.
“Right here,” Aziraphale whispered.
They did not move for a long while, each placing their hearts in the other’s hands, feeling loose threads stitch back together.
Don’t be afraid, it’s only love
Only a touch that frees you
Let it release you
Toweled dry and drowsy, Crowley lay in his bed while Aziraphale sat up beside him. The only light that shone in the bedroom was the soft lamplight that lit the text of Aziraphale’s book. It was one the angel recognized, a collection of the complete works of Shakespeare that Aziraphale had gifted Crowley as a thank you for one thing or another. He did not comment on the fact that the book naturally fell open to the final page of Hamlet, the page that Aziraphale had inscribed.
“Let me know if I’m keeping you up at all.”
Crowley grunted. “I’ve slept through louder.”
“Quite the accomplishment I’m sure.”
Aziraphale reached toward the mug on the bedside table, full of fresh herbal tea.
“’Ziraphale?”
“Yes dear?”
“Do you mind if I…?” Crowley shifted towards the angel slightly.
“Not at all my dear.”
Crowley rolled over, scooching forward until he could rest his head comfortably in Aziraphale’s lap. Aziraphale threaded his fingers through copper locks, running his fingers through still damp hair. He felt Crowley slowly relax beneath him, the weight on his thigh increasing as the demon’s body went lax.
“Goodnight my dear,” Aziraphale whispered.
Take my hand, it’s only love
Let it come through you slowly
Open your heart and show me
“Angel?”
“Yes, dear?”
“You know…don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Good. That’s…that’s good.”
“And you? You know?”
“Yeah. Yeah I know.”
“Good. Rest now my dear, I’ll watch over you.”
Don’t be afraid, it’s only love.
__________________________________________
AN: Hello! Here is my contribution to @jukeboxomens. The lyrics are from the gorgeous song “Only Love” from The Scarlet Pimpernel. The lyrics scream “night after we separate ourselves from our respective sides so we can acknowledge our love for each other as what it is, only love, something untarnished by outside forces or who we were meant to be, rather it is as pure as love itself because we choose for it to be”.
While the nudity in here was by no means meant to be sexual in nature, I’m going to tag this NSFT (Not Safe For Tumblr) for those who would rather not have any sort of nudity on their dash, written or otherwise.
I can’t wait to see everyone else’s contributions!
Be kind and be well!
228 notes · View notes
fortheloveoffanfic · 3 years
Text
Behind Closed Doors
Keanu Reeves x OFC (A/n- I hate these moodboards sm)
Masterlist. Behind Closed Doors Masterlist
Warnings- Angst, medical emergency, sexual tension
Chapter 3 Taking Blame
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One month later After they'd gotten engaged, Keanu had been politely adamant in insisting that Miranda get to know Matt and Poppy better; take them out, spend time with them after their tutors left for the day and drive them to swim and ballet occasionally. As expected, she'd been reluctant, and even when Miranda did begrudgingly agree, Emma had been asked, or rather persistently urged, to join her. Of course, Miranda had dismissed Keanu when he protested that the entire purpose of her taking them was to spend time with the twins alone, arguing insistently that it was Emma's job to take care of them.
That had been nearly a month ago, and after one trip to the mall, two swim meets, three weekly ballet practices, spent with Emma trailing three paces behind Miranda, holding the children's hands along with whatever bags they had, Miranda had finally agreed to watch the children on her own and Keanu had let Emma have some time off.
Using her time liberally, Emma had gone to lunch with a couple old college friends, and then for a few drinks after. It was past seven when she finally returned, and from the minute she walked through the side door from Keanu's huge garage, the strong aroma of baked goods washed her senses, peaking Emma's curiosity, drawing her towards the kitchen. She didn't think Zelda had stayed that late.
Much to her surprise though, it wasn't the older woman in the kitchen, instead, it was Miranda standing amid the mess, a tray of grayish brownish cookies laid out on the the breakfast bar, dressed casually in white lounge pants and loose lace blouse, some of her hair pined away from her face. Surrounding the tray, was an assortment of ingredients, most of them looking like they'd been bought at a high end organic food shop. "Miranda?" Emma said slowly, beckoning the older woman's attention.
"Emily!" She spun on the absent heel of her ballet pump, and Emma gnawed on her lip to quell her annoyance. It was still extremely irritating when Miranda got her name wrong, but she'd given up on correcting her, deciding that she was more than likely doing it on purpose. "You're home, finally. Zora left….." she trailed off, waving her hand dismissively, "Some time ago, but thankfully you're here to clean up. Try one, they're peanut butter cookies. Totally organic," she shoved the tray closer to Emma.
"Okay," she cringed, wondering how bad organic desserts could be. She'd heard the stories, how they tasted like cardboard, grass and other things that most people wouldn't readily put in their mouths. Miranda stared at her intently, clearly waiting for Emma to take a bite and so, deciding that a cardboard cookie might be easier to endure than her boss's fiancée whining, she nibbled to the edge, just enough to get a taste. Eyes widening in surprise, she went in for a bigger bite, humming at the surprisingly good taste, "This is actually……"
"It's good right? Apparently Keanu thinks you baking is the gold standard or whatever," and once again, Emma wasn't sure if Miranda's compliment was actually a compliment.
Stammering, she just nodded, "It is good, you made them for the kids, do they like them?"
"Mhm!" With a triumphant grin, Miranda started walking out of the kitchen, reaching the mouth of the hall, "They’re in the playroom, and since you're here you can take over now!"
Not even bothering to respond, Emma just shook her head, shrugging off her leather jacket, draping it over a chair at the kitchen table, knowing the sooner she got to work, the better. The first thing she did was start clearing the remaining ingredients from the counter, barely glancing at names and labels until something caught her eye, "Miranda!" Emma yelled, panicked, not caring how upset she'd get, "Miranda!"
Seconds later, she came hustling into the room, muttering about how rude and incompetent hired help could be. "What do you want now?" She spoke through gritted teeth.
"Did you put this in the cookies?" Hastily, she held up a bag half filled with wheat flour, the plastic packing clutched tightly in her fist. Her heart was probably beating a mile as Emma anticipated a response.
"Yeah," Miranda scrunched her nose, still upset by Emma's scolding tone, "So what, it's good-"
"Didn't you read the list?" Already she was dropping the flour, not caring if it spilled, making a bigger mess than before, lunging for her handbag and rummaging for her keys, "Matty, Pop!"
"What list?"
"The fucking allergy list!" Emma sneered, too jolted to stop and worry about Mirada's precious feelings, "It's right there on the fridge,” she pointed hurriedly, and just as she was about to call for the kids again, Matt came running into the room, his face pulled with fright.
“Emma!” He ran past Miranda and straight for her, grabbing her thigh to get Emma's attention, “Come quick, something’s wrong with Poppy! She started coughing and-” He was on the verge of tears and there was an anxious bounce in his stance.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s okay,” Emma quickly kissed his hair, standing again to go get Poppy, “Everything’s gonna be okay, but I need you to be a big boy and wait by the car for me,” after that mishap, there was absolutely no way in hell that Emma was leaving Matt alone with Miranda, not when she was pretty sure she had a case of anaphylaxis on her hands, “I’m gonna go get Pop, okay?”
Nodding he ran off, and Emma went in the other direction, choking a sob when she reached the playroom, finding Poppy on the floor, gasping for breath, angry red patches on her skin. Without thinking twice, her instincts took over and she scooped the girl up in her arms, laying her head on her shoulder. Cradling Poppy’s head, she ran out to the garage, almost slipping on the tiles in the process, “It’s gonna be okay baby, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you, okay?” Tears were hot on her cheeks, but Emma knew that she had other things to worry about, her own emotions could be seen to after.
“What should I do?” Miranda came to stand beside her, wringing her hands as Emma got Matt into the car seat. “I swear I didn’t know that she was allergic-”
“Look I don’t have time for this,” not even realizing that she wasn’t wearing a jacket, Emma was already in the driver’s seat, getting the posh SUV started. Ideally, she should have taken Miranda with her to keep a check on Poppy while they drove to the nearest hospital, but she couldn’t bring herself to deal with the woman while she was also trying to keep Matt calm and his sister alive. Not without starting a fight at least. “Just call Keanu, lock up the house and then meet us at the hospital.”
The automatic door started reeling upwards, and Emma was backing out, “Are you sure I can’t-”
“You’ve done enough Miranda,” She backed out, “We’ll be at L.A General,” and with that, Emma backed into the street, shifting gears and then speeding off, hoping that she’d get to the E.R before it was too late.
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Curled up next to Emma in the pale green sofa of the pediatric waiting room, was Matt, fast asleep. It was just past eight, and if they were at home, she knew he’d still be bouncing off walls, nowhere near ready for bedtime, but Emma had passed his tire off as a consequence of the hustle and trauma, it was certainly enough to have her eyes heavy. But Emma couldn’t sleep, not when the doctors hadn't yet come to update her on Poppy’s condition. By then, in just about an hour, she cried, hyperventilated quietly and almost screamed several times. All she could think of was how Poppy having that life threatening reaction was all her fault. She shouldn’t have left Miranda alone with them, she should have told her to read the list, checked on them instead of stalling in the kitchen. Something, anything.
Sitting across from her, on one of the single seats was Miranda herself, worried, though not half as frenzied as Emma. Maybe she was just good at keeping it at bay. They hadn’t spoken since she’d gotten there, instead, Miranda had opted to anxiously flip through magazines provided while Emma had struggled through trying to get Matt to have a sandwich from the cafeteria and a little carton of milk for dinner, almost losing her mind when he fought her, but eventually getting him to have some of it. And like she couldn’t bare to sleep, she was also too sick to her stomach with guilt to eat.
Her thoughts had left her sinking, and when Matt had succumbed to slumber, Emma had let the rest of the room fade to nothing, one mantra playing on loop in her mind, ‘just let that sweet little girl be okay.’ Keanu had been unreachable, so they'd left several voicemails, and Emma vaguely remembered that he’d mentioned that he had a meeting about a movie he'd worked on as a producer and then another with his agent, though, when he came though the white double doors, motorcycle helmet in hand, his eyes were red, his hair a mess there was an urgency in this long strides. “What the hell happened?” Were the first words that tumbled out of his mouth as he looked between Emma and Miranda, who both stood at his entrance.
Immediately, Miranda rushed to his side, sinking into his side and letting his arm go around her waist. Before Emma could process his question, Miranda was the one speaking, “I have no idea,” she shot Emma an unreadable look, though at the last second, there was devilish glimmer in her green eyes, “Emma came home and made them snacks, and next thing I know Poppy’s having a reaction.” Figures that out of all times, Miranda would remember her name, it would be then.
Her jaw hung slack and for the longest minute, Emma was at a complete loss for words. Though, her mind came up with a long list of the things she wanted to say, what the fuck? Being at the very top. “I….” She stuttered, wanting to instantly clear her name. But then, in a rush, Zelda’s words came back to her, Miranda always gets what she wants and stay out of her way. “I…” Even if she did tell the truth, Miranda was Keanu’s fiancée, who would he believe anyway? The hired help or the woman who he wanted to be the mother of his children. Emma was pretty sure she already knew the answer, best not to fight it, especially since she was clearly already on Miranda’s bad side. “I’m sorry,” fighting tears was hard, and the anger that heated up Keanu’s face was frightening, “I didn’t mean to- to- I just-”
Cutting off her stammering, moving his hand from Miranda’s waist, tossing his helmet to a chair and finally running both his hands through his hair. “How could you be so careless?” He hissed loud and venomously, “You could have killed my daughter,” the only reason he wasn’t full on yelling was because Matt was sleeping nearby, but Emma could tell that it was barely holding Keanu back and the low tone didn’t make his words sting less. “There’s a list for a reason, you know that. But now, my daughter is in the hospital because you were careless! What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I am so, so sorry Keanu,” hot tears streamed down her face, from tired burning eyes. Her hiccupped breaths made Emma feel like a child being scolded at recess and all she wanted to do was have a fissure in the floor open up and swallow her. “I would never hurt Poppy, not intentionally, and I swear, as soon as it happened-”
“She came and told me,” Miranda interjected, intent on only making the situation worse, a hint of a smirk threatening to twist her lips, “And I told her that she had to take the children to the hospital immediately. Poppy could have died, for God’s sakes!”
A strangled sob threatened to wake Matt, and Emma had to clasp her hand over her mouth. How could someone be so outrightly vicious, going as far as shoving the blame on another person. “Maybe hiring you was a mistake,” Keanu determined, and Emma’s eyes went wide, definitely not prepared for what came next, “Maybe we need to reconsider you as their nanny.”
“What?” Emma swallowed thickly, that couldn't be it. From the minute they met she knew that Miranda hadn’t liked her, but fired? Never seeing the twins again or Keanu, she didn’t think it would go that far. “Please don’t-”
“I think you’ve said enough,” Keanu raised his hand, motioning for Emma to stop, passing it over his face before turning away.
Emma needed that job, and she adored those kids. Hell, she might have even been falling for Keanu, but she was not prepared to be humiliated even further. And maybe, if Miranda was going to be a permanent part of the Reeves household, it was better that she didn’t stick around. She could put up with a lot, but being someone for an entitled celebrity to cast undue blame on wasn’t one of them. Passive aggressive insults, snide remakes, being a bag holding mouse and walked all over, she could take. But being humiliated in public, for something she hadn’t done? Being treated like she was an inept child and not worthy of having an explanation or a chance to clear her name? That was where she drew the line.
“You know what Keanu,” Emma felt around her bag, eventually pulling out the keys for the SUV that she used to drive around the kids, “Miranda,” she hissed vehemently, “Maybe I should save you both some time,” finding a spot of courage, she strode up to him, Emma shoved the keys to Keanu’s chest, not caring if he got a hold of them or not, “Cause I quit.”
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From the minute he held the keys in his grasp, feeling her fingers brush his and subsequently watching Emma walking out of the waiting room, Keanu knew he’d made a mistake. Emma couldn’t just leave, his children adored her, he…...well, he wasn’t too sure about what he felt for her, but he did know that he didn’t want to lose her. The whole firing quip had been an empty threat, fueled by stress and anger. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, “Mandy, you stay here,” he started walking off, hoping to catch Emma before she could leave the hospital.
“Where are you going?” She grabbed his bicep, “You can’t just leave me here with him,” Miranda gestured to Matt, still curled up sleeping, not knowing that the nanny that he’d started looking up to had just walked out on them, and it was all his father’s fault. “Besides,” she reasoned, tone even and cool, “If she wants to leave, you should let her. She’s lazy and irresponsible.”
“Wha- no,” Keanu shook off Miranda's grip and by extension, her words, “Emma is not lazy, she works her ass off for my kids, and irresponsible? It was a mistake,” in an instant, his mind was changing and Keanu was regretting the way he’d handled things with Emma. She was obviously devastated knowing that she’d put Poppy at risk, and he had just made it worse, “Allergies happen, she has to learn. And I do too. I'm sorry,” he began the walk to the doors, “But I have to go find her.”
Keanu hadn’t meant for things to go awry, or to force Emma to quit, but he had just been so upset; worry and fear morphing into anger, causing him to lash out. In her three months with their family, that was the first time that she’d made any sort of mistake. Emma had probably committed the list memory and believing that she could make such a careless mistake was becoming increasingly hard. It just didn’t make sense. Emma treated his kids like they were her own, and that was only one of the many reasons why Keanu couldn’t lose her.
Thankfully though, he was able to catch up to her just as she was headed for the curb, arms wrapped around herself to combat the night’s chill, her sleeveless cotton shirt, with a little knot over her navel not really doing her any favors. “Em!” He jogged up to her, speeding up when she walked faster, “Emma, please, just wait.”
“What?” She turned, olive cheeks tear stained and taking on a reddish tint, illuminated by the street laps lining the parking lot, rage and hurt intermingling, “What do you want?” She heaved, and Keanu hated that he’d made her cry. She didn’t deserve to cry, she didn’t deserve anything he’s given her back there. Emma was a marvelous person, who was exceptional at her job.
“I’m sorry,” Keanu breathed, shaking his head, stepping closer, “You’re the best nanny Matt and Poppy have ever had; they love you, they listen to you and they’d miss you a damn lot if you left. I’d miss you,” his features softened, his eyes pleading, “I shouldn’t have flipped out on you like that, I wasn’t even there and mistakes happen. I know that you wouldn’t put either of my kids in danger,” he slumped his shoulders, and Emma looked away, swiping at her eyes. She was fighting shivers too, Keanu could see it; it had rained earlier that day, and a distinct dampness along with an uncharacteristic chill still hung in the air. Not thinking much of it, just not wanting her to catch a cold, Keanu shrugged off his riding jacket, stepping closer and reaching around Emma to drape it over her slender shoulders, taking the opportunity to grip them after, “Please don’t leave us Em. I'm begging you.”
“I’ll stay,” she clenched her jaw, wiggling out of Keanu’s grip, “But not for you, I’m staying for those kids. And next time you want to accuse me of trying to kill one of your children, maybe you should dig a little deeper first."
“What?” Knitting his brows, Keanu watched as she started towards the hospital’s entrance, his coat swallowing up her frame, not even offering one backwards glass before going through the automatic doors.
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Three Days Later The house had been exceptionally quiet since they’d returned from the hospital, Keanu had asked Emma to tell the tutors to take the rest of the week off, and Poppy had been recovering with her brother almost constantly at her side. The doctor warned them that Poppy’s allergy to wheat could have been deadly if they hadn’t gotten there sooner, and when Keanu had hugged Miranda in relief, while Emma was still wearing his jacket, she had to pretend it didn’t sting.
As a direct, though relieving side effect though, Miranda had been actively avoiding her, and Emma could tell that Keanu was too. That was, until late one evening, after Emma had put the kids down for an early bedtime and had resigned to her own room, getting into comfortable shorts and a loose camisole after her hot shower, deciding that a glass of wine and a movie on her laptop would be the perfect end to an easy Friday. The knock on her door and been soft, lacking urgency, and when she pulled it open, seeing Keanu on the other side, she was actually surprised, “Keanu?”
“Hey,” he smiled sheepishly, dressed like he’d just come home, still in his jacket and everything. The same one he’d lent her back at the hospital. She wondered if he’d washed it, or if he had let the fading scent of her favorite perfume linger against his skin.
Before he spoke again, Keanu faltered, almost losing himself as he drank her in, tiny cotton shorts boasting her smooth, toned legs, the fabric of her top stretched across her chest and Emma's long, drying tresses swept over one shoulder, leaving the slender column of her neck exposed. A wedding band that hung on a thin gold necklace settled against her skin, Keanu knew it was her father's, she'd mentioned when he asked if it belonged to someone else, someone like a husband. Remembering himself, Keanu took in a breath, trying to pull himself out of the trance that he'd fallen into, “Can I come in?”
Nodding, Emma stepped back, pulling the door open a little more, “Your house, your bedroom,” she tried to return his smile, still feeling the tension between them, not sure if it was a good tense or a bad one.
“It’s your room,” Keanu countered, serious, though not harsh, “As long as you’re here with us, its your home too, and your room.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he bent his head, dark mane curtaining his handsome face, smile fading. “I think I owe you an apology,” he shuffled his feet awkwardly, “No, I know I owe you an apology.”
“Keanu-” Emma tried to stop him, though he cut her off, not the way he had the last time, that night, it was softer, as he pleaded with her to just hear him out.
“I really need to say this,” Keanu raised his head, his whiskey gaze meeting her hazel orbs, and he tentatively toed a step closer, “What I said the other night at the hospital, I was way out of line,” he sighed, going slow so so he wouldn’t fumble over his words, “What I’m trying to say now is; I know it wasn’t you that caused the reaction.”
“What?” Baffled, and immensely relieved, Emma felt a mountain of stress that she hadn’t known was there, rolling off her shoulders, “How?”
Chuckling dryly, Keanu shook his head, moistening his lips, “When I came home, and saw those cookies, I knew it couldn’t have been you. I mean, you bake, but not with organic peanut butter and almond milk. I had my suspicions back at the hospital, you probably know that list better than the back of your hand,” he raked his nails through his beard, “And then I asked Matt, and he told me that it was Miranda that made the cookies. So I'm really, really sorry, about all of that.”
“Oh,” the soft exhale left Emma’s parted lips, and truly, she couldn’t believe that she was actually getting an apology from her boss. Not sure of how to proceed, she gnawed on her lip for a second, “What’re you gonna do?”
Huffing, Keanu smirked, “Nothing. Knowing Mandy, she’d just deny it anyway. Besides, it was an accident,” If Emma wasn’t mistaken, she could have sworn he sounded a little bitter.
“Thank you,” Emma smiled, happy when Keanu returned the gesture, “I know you didn’t have to apologize, but it means a lot to me that you did.”
“Uh, yeah,” grinning breathlessly, they lingered like that for a moment, until the air grew flustered, and Keanu noticed her wine glass on the nightstand and computer on the made bed, mumbling about how he should get out of her hair.
Though, when he was on his way out of Emma’s room, he absently grabbed his right shoulder, rubbing and rolling the joint, “You okay?” She halted him, “That looks like it hurts.”
“Yeah,” he winced, trying to downplay it, even if Emma could see right through his façade, “Went to the gym this morning, now I’m starting to think that my trainer was right when she said I’ve stayed away for too long. Nothing to worry about though, just a little sore.”
“Maybe I can help,” she had no idea where the suggestion came from, or why she hadn’t tried harder to keep it inside, but there was really no going back anyway. Clearing her throat, Emma blushed, “Why don’t you take off your jacket, and sit on the bed?”
Just as flustered, Keanu inhaled deeply, wanting to oblige, but not sure if he should, “You don’t have to-”
“I want too,” taking initiative, Emma approached him, leaning up on her toes, her eye line barely meeting the back of his neck as she urged his jacket off, folding it in half and draping it over the arm of an accent chair. His biceps strained against the sleeves and Emma swallowed the little flirtatious comment that sat at the tip of her tongue. “Sit, please. I insist.”
Nodding, Keanu went over to bed, sitting on the edge as instructed and then watching intently as Emma crawled up behind him. Her bare knees grazed him as she adjusted herself, and it wasn’t long before he felt her small hands on his shoulders, kneading slowly. Her fingers applied the perfect amount of pressure, and when she rubbed the base of her palms over them, the sensation was close to orgasmic, “Shit, Em…..” Keanu groaned, feeling the tension start dribbling away, “That is…..amazing.”
Giggling musically, she just carried on. The muscles beneath his t-shirt were far firmer than what she expected from someone his age, and touching him like that, seemed more intimate than Emma had intended. “That’s good, cause you are so tense. You’ve gotta take it easy Keanu,” she chuckled.
“I know, its just….I’ve got a lot on my plate,” he voice dropped lower as he closed his eyes, submitting to the pleasure. It had been a long time since he’d let someone take care of him like that, since someone even offered to take care of him like that, and not even Miranda’s touch felt that way, so warm and soothing. Keanu would be lying if he said he was okay with it ending. “I’m just glad I have you though.”
“Oh?” Emma slowed down, leaning forward so her unrestrained breasts were pressed against Keanu’s back when her face reached the side of his. By the time he turned to face her, their lips were a mere inch apart, and it wouldn’t have taken much for her to just kiss him. “Well I’m glad I’m here for you,” she whispered, her hot breath fanning his face.
“I need to ask you something,” Emma could have sworn that Keanu was leaning in, and his eyes searched hers, longing reflected.
Mesmerized, Emma barely registered his words, only anticipating what she thought might come next, “Okay.”
“I uh….” his gaze fell on her perfect, plump lips, “I was just wondering, would you go to Paris with me?” Her heart leapt and while it wasn’t the question she’d been hoping for, Emma was already excited, “With me and the kids I mean.” Suddenly, as fast as it was created, the moment was gone, and embarrassed, Emma pulled away, trying to refocus her attention of Keanu’s stiff shoulders, “I have to be there by next month for a premiere, and since I’m gonna be spending my birthday there, I thought I’d take Matt and Poppy too. Obviously, if you have other obligations here, I wouldn’t want you to leave them.”
Disappointed and confused, Emma’s response was void of enthusiasm, “No, no I don’t,” swallowing tightly, she tried not to cry, hoping her shame wasn’t audible, “I’d love to go, part of the job, right?”
Keanu took a minute before he responded, though, when he did, his somber tone seemed to reflected hers, “Yeah, I guess so.”
*****
Tagging- @harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana @keandrews @greenmanalishi @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea
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hargrove-mayfields · 3 years
Note
Autistic max? I’m all in -🦖
yes!! Max being on the spectrum is one of my favorite headcanons! Here’s a bit of my thoughts and hcs for you anon! <3
okay so first i wanna talk a little about where this hc came from! this idea was born in my head for a multitude of reasons, but the general summary is this:
-she misses a lot of social+emotional cues! she didn’t pick up on just how annoyed Mike was with her in the gym and kept pushing until El intervened, she didn’t detect any of Lucas’ panic or frustration when he was explaining the upside down to her until he touches her, and when el is jealous and just not interested in meeting her, she seems to be completely unfazed by that until she walks away. also every scene she has with Billy, he’s very shut off and she seems to be confused about what she’s expected to say, missing that he’s angry until he’s lashing out, and idk to me it just seems like she doesn’t really have a grasp on understanding others’ emotions!
-similarly, she only seems to react in the face of immediate danger, as if she’s a lot of the time unaware of how bad things truly are around her. like when she’s helping to find dart without even knowing what’s going on, driving a whole muscle car and going down into the tunnels without a hint of fear, seeming barely concerned when the mindflayer was about to drop through the ceiling. it’s almost like she has trouble fully processing the consequences of certain things, which could also explain why she sneaks out even though she probably knows what Neil is like and the fact that it could potentially put her in danger.
-the way she dresses just screams tactile sensitivity! she doesn’t ever wear anything flowy, any scratchy materials, and even at the snowball, where we see Susan fussing over her, she’s still dressed for comfort. what young girl with a mother clearly interested in making her pretty is going to get away with wearing jeans to a school dance if she doesn’t have sensory issues?
-also, whenever she gets upset she seems to shut down. like she almost never talks to Billy after he yells at her unless it’s necessary, when her and Lucas are talking on top of the bus it definitely seems like she’s struggling to voice her feelings or put words to her emotions, when Billy’s in the sauna, after he’s activated she starts turning in on herself, and after his death she’s just sitting in his room. like maybe she doesn’t really understand her own emotions that well either.
I’m not really viewing any of this as like, solid evidence or anything btw, these are just some things I’ve noticed about her as an autistic girl her age and living in a very similar situation that I think are neat and relatable!
onto the stuff I literally made up because I love her!
-Susan gives me autism mommy vibes. Like, making it her identity that she has a child with autism, and at times that can get super frustrating for Max because she hates being her mom’s little trophy daughter, gossiped about at all the potlucks so people feel sorry for her. Her absolute least favorite thing is “She’s such a handful.” and when Susan pulls the I’m so lonely because of taking care of you card to make her feel bad. Especially because she doesn’t feel very taken care of, once she’d hit a certain age her mother decided she’d be alright without all that “kid stuff” and basically tossed her into the world on her on. (hence why she’s Billys responsibility)
-In the 80s (and still now if we’re being entirely honest) it was very normal to just throw a casual r slur into conversation and it kills Max every time her friends say it, especially Mike because she thinks he’s being mean and doesn’t like her. She doesn’t know how to explain to them that that hurts her feelings because she doesn’t even know how to bring it up that she’s autistic. Billy tells her once to try to cheer her up that he could beat them up for her but she cries even harder because that’s what she doesn’t want, is for them to think she’s overreacting. He feels bad and tries to make up for it bringing it up with some of the moms of the group and asking that they tell their kids to stop using that word ever.
-In California she was in special ed classes, but Hawkins Middle deems that not necessary for someone of her “functioning level” (yuck) and she gets landed in coed instead. It might’ve been alright if that was how she started her education, but she was already used to classes of four or five kids like her, and she just cannot learn in that new environment. So she does really, really bad in school her first year in Hawkins. She feels kind of self conscious around her friends because they’re all so smart and her grades make her feel stupid even though it’s not her fault, and that’s why she kinda drifts towards being close with El because she struggles with learning things too.
-Smells are probably her worst overstimulation triggers. Things like cigarette smoke, fresh brewed coffee, her moms perfume, cooking and baking smells, the automatic air freshener thing, candles. Pretty much anything stronger than the smell of water is just overwhelming for her, especially if there’s something else already working her up, because then a whiff of something too strong can put her straight into a meltdown. Billy decides to quit smoking for her (he’ll never admit that, he’s adamant that it was because it was messing with his lung capacity and he’s trying to work out) and he also does things like buy Susan a new, less offensive perfume for her birthday and open windows to get stuffy air out of the house. They never really talk about what that does for her but like, that’s part of how they start getting closer, is when he starts making little accommodations for her like that.
-In addition to smells, there are very specific sounds she can’t stand. It’s not all loud noises, some of them like the rev of Billy’s car or a bass guitar at an outdoor amphitheater are some of her favorites, but the ones she doesn’t like, she really hates. Things like styrofoam, dishes hitting off of each other, something scratching against ice that builds up in the freezer, TV static, the toaster popping up or the oven beeping, and people who can’t chew with their mouths closed (looking at you Billy, keep that gum in your mouth please) all make her feel gross. She’ll try to physically shake off the way those sounds make her feel but sometimes they’re just too much and she shuts down for a while until she gets to hear something else. In that case usually really quiet music or someone talking to her quietly can reel her back in.
-Her interests vary a lot! The longest she’s ever held one special interest was a Miss Piggy phase! Susan liked that she was showing interest in a feminine character because of a lot of her si’s were tomboyish, but Max liked Piggy because she knew karate and punched people who laughed at her or tried to make her feel bad about herself! She has all sorts of Piggy collectibles, like toys, bed sheets, posters, books, mugs and watches! Otherwise her interests and fixations tend to come and go pretty quickly, like one week she could want to know everything there is to know about pro skaters, and the next she’s into the history of circuses! She liked cars for a little while and Billy was really excited to indulge in that and let her get familiar with the camaro, but she shifted to video games pretty soon after and he had to let it drop.
-Another interest that’s also pretty constant for her is nature! Not only for the sensory experience of it, listening to leaves rustle and birds chirp and water rush, but also all the knowledge about it. She can identify any type of flower, grass, tree, critter, or fungus! When she’s melting down and needs to be away from the house, she asks Billy to take her to the state park so she can just sit and be quiet and calm down on a fallen tree or a swing set somewhere. They do have some woods behind their house but she’s too afraid to venture out there and prefers to be out with her brother anyways.
-Stims! She’ll fiddle with zippers and buttons and loose threads constantly to the point that they buy her three or four of the same jackets and shirts for when she inevitably breaks them. She also chews on sleeves and hoodie strings a lot. Other tactile stims she favors are string tricks and braiding and tieing knots! Braiding her and Billy’s hair is something she’ll do anytime she needs to feel grounded, and she has a whole bunch of those little wooden boards that kids use to learn how to tie their shoes to tie knots with. She also always has a pocketful of yarn, and her favorite thing to make with them is a spider web or a star!
-Sort of related to her fascination with string is that her shoelaces never ever match, she has like a whole drawer in her room full of different ones to change them out! (and she has Miss Piggy Bow Biters to put on them!)
-She’s also a very verbal stimmer at times! Giggles for days with Max, if she’s excited, happy, nervous, whatever, she’s giggling. Humming and mimicking too, like if she hears a sound she likes she’ll try to make it, whether it be part of a song or something she hears outside. But if she is sad she’ll get as quiet as a mouse.
Idk these are just like my sort of canon compliant hcs I guess? Like what I feel would be true for her in the timeline and storyline of the show!
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randomfandomimagine · 4 years
Text
I Still Love You (Jaskier x Reader)
Characters: Jaskier, Geralt
Fandom: The Witcher
Tags: Angst, songfic
Warnings: Mentions of blood and injury
Word Count: 3k words
Requested by @caritobbg: Hello! Could you write a ficlet with Jaskier and a Fem!Reader where they are with Geralt in a tavern and, as she saw Jaskier flirt with other women, she was encouraged to sing a song that she would have written (it occurred to me Love of My Life by Queen) and then she runs from there to the woods when she finishes singing it and is attacked by a werewolf. Jaskier goes off to look for her alongside Geralt who was also concerned and had given his friend reasons to realize how she felt about him?❤️
A/N: This is angsty and bittersweet but I quite like how it turned out, hope you like it! 
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Jaskier x Female Reader
_
Everything about him seemed absolutely flawless. You were so madly in love with Jaskier that you found even his flaws endearing. For this very reason, you couldn’t help staring at him and admiring his handsome face, and the way his soft brown hair fell over his piercing and beautiful ocean blue eyes, which fondly stared at you.
He seemed to have noticed you were quite absent, because he chuckled and tilted his head at you in an adorable way.
“What’s the matter, Y/N?” Jaskier asked you, gently nudging you and accompanying the gesture with a bright grin. “Are you tired, love?”
“A bit” You admitted, still lovingly staring at him. “Although it’s nothing that your company can’t fix”
“You’re such a flatterer” He fondly wrinkled his nose, leaning in to tap his finger against your nose. “As if your lovely company isn’t a blessing”
You stared at each other in silence for a moment. Seeing his bright grin stirred something within you, reminding you how beautiful it was and how smitten you were.
“If you don’t mind…” You started, trying to confess what had been eating you inside for such a long time. “I wanted to tell you something, Jaskier”
“I’m all ears, love” He absently leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms and intently listening to you. “What is it?”
“You may know already…” Although you nervously chuckled, you truly hoped he had noticed something. As perceptive as Jaskier could be, he seemed completely oblivious to the nature of your affections. “But the truth is I see you a certain way”
“Uh-huh… go on” He nodded his head, even if his eyes were now focused on something that seemed more interesting to him than you. “Sure, right…”
“I have stopped talking” You told him, even if you knew he wasn’t listening at all.
“You’re absolutely right, Y/N” Jaskier continued to nod his head as though he was catching every word you said, which he clearly wasn’t. “But if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to tend to”
Like moved by an invisible force, the bard quickly scurried off to the other end of the tavern. The murmur that surrounded you filled your quietness, though it was not enough to fill the true void of the silence.
Jaskier had found an attractive blond woman who he started enthusiastically talking to. The mere sight was too painful to stand and so you turned your head away.
He seemed to find her to be better company despite the fact that he had never seen her before. Somehow, she was more enticing than you even if you and Jaskier had known each other for so long now, even if you had traveled together and endured countless hardships with each other.
Your eyes suddenly stung with unshed tears. In an attempt to distract from that woe, you searched Geralt with your gaze. Soon you spotted him sitting at the table still, enjoying his solitude in peace as he calmly drank is ale. For the first time since you started traveling together, you understood why he isolated himself in such a way. It was the only way to avoid getting hurt.
With a will of their own, your eyes searched Jaskier once more. He was dedicating her that smile, the one he usually saved only for you. Or so you thought. You could have sworn you felt how your heart broke, as though it was made out of glass and it shattered into a million pieces, causing the shards to consume you from the inside. At the same time, however, a burning anger erupted inside you. Did he not see how much it hurt you? Did Jaskier not realize how deeply in love you were? Or did he just decide to ignore it and continue courting other women? Whatever the case, you were tired. Tired of waiting for him, of holding on to hope that he might reciprocate someday, that he could love you back.
Forgetting about the pain and trying to hold on to that anger, you walked directly towards him. Not paying mind to the woman he was so bluntly flirting with, you shoved him a little.
“Oi!” He complained, watching you up and down in a mixture between confusion and outrage. “What’s the matter with you, Y/N?”
“I’ll tell you in a way you can finally get it through your thick skull, bard” Even if you were still angry, your voice only held all that pain that you felt inside.
Jaskier frowned sadly, frozen in place even as you took the lute hanging from his back and claimed it as your own. You felt his eyes follow you as you adamantly stood on a table and began strumming the chords, gathering the attention from everyone at the tavern. Geralt’s golden eyes fell on you as well, and you paused as you exchanged a glance with him. Recognizing the resignation and empathy in his eyes, you continued on. Ready to finally pour your heart out to Jaskier, or at least what was left of it.
That song had been hidden for too long, locked in your heart and in your mind. You were never brave enough to bring it out into the world, especially not when the bearer of your affections was unbeknownst to it all. It had been a difficult decision, but you had chosen his definite friendship over a possible romance, but you couldn’t handle the consequences any longer. That romance would never exist. It was but a mirage, an impossible daydream.
Moved by the sorrow that made your chest hurt, you began singing the ballad you had composed, that one which so perfectly explained your feelings as he hadn’t been able to recognize them on his own.
Love of my life, you've hurt me You've broken my heart, and now you leave me
When your eyes met with Jaskier’s, a lump formed in your throat. His saddened frown had only deepened as he intently listened to your every sung word. His face, however, blurred as the tears inevitably arrived to your eyes. In spite of it all, you pushed through and carried on.
Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me Because you don't know what it means to me Love of my life, don't leave me You've taken my love, and now desert me
It all suddenly became too much. The song was interrupted by your strong sobs and you felt unable to continue. The world became a place too hard for such a hurt girl like you. Shaking your head, you jumped down the table and returned by his side. Your bottom lip trembled as you reached him, and yet you still tried to lift your chin up in pride.
For once, Jaskier was rendered speechless. He observed you in silence, and the distress in his beautiful lively blue eyes somehow was yet another blow to your bleeding heart.
“You’ve broken my heart” You repeated as though the song hadn’t ended, angrily pushing the lute against his chest and facing your back to him.
“Y/N… did you write that?” He finally asked once you did. When he realized you weren’t turning back to him, a sudden urgency arrived to his voice. “Wait, h-hang on!”
His heart wildly raced, bringing a dull ache to his chest with every beat. Jaskier felt guilty and stupid, having been too frivolous to truly understand. You had been trying to tell him something important, and he only got distracted by a pretty face. As if you weren’t beautiful and right in front of him all along.
He blindly followed after you, yet a strong had pushed against his chest to keep him in place. Jaskier tried to pass the witcher by, but Geralt was adamant on intercepting his friend.
“Leave her”
“N-No! She’s upset and-“
“She doesn’t want to talk to you right now, Jaskier”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you really that fucking stupid?”
“What?”
“You really didn’t realize her feelings?”
“Well, now I do… She was trying to tell me but-“
“She’s been trying to tell you ever since she joined us”
“Come now, Geralt… If I were to truly believe every woman I talk to is enamored with me…”
“Yes, but that one really loved you. And she just walked away”
Jaskier froze in place, quitting his attempts to go over the witcher’s block. He gulped, realizing the implications of what Geralt was saying. It made your behavior all the more understandable while at the same time all the more heartbreaking. And it was all his fault.
“Jask… you stupid, stupid man…” He chastised himself under his breath before looking back up to his friend. “We should go after her, should we not?”
Geralt’s expression suddenly shifted, from utterly annoyed to alert. The bard had seen that expression many times, and a nasty feeling arrived to the pit of his stomach.
“W-What?” He uttered in fright. “What is it?”
“The woods” Geralt clenched his jaw as he retrieved both his swords. “It’s filled with werewolves”
“Shit” Before the witcher could say anything else, Jaskier began running.
He ran outside of the tavern, leaving behind his long forgotten female companion. He ran like he had never run in his life, completely ignoring the way his heart hammered against his ribcage or the feeling of not having enough oxygen in his lungs to breathe. Jaskier run as though the most important person in his life was in danger, because she was.
Perhaps he had been too blind or too stupid to realize you were the person he cared for most, but you were. Perhaps he had been completely oblivious to the feelings you harbored for him, but you did nonetheless. And it was his reckless behavior that gave you such spite, caused by him, that threw you to venture into the lion’s den.
As he ran breathlessly, not caring to wait for Geralt, Jaskier realized… he would never forgive himself if something happened to his dear Y/N. _
By the time they arrived into the woods, it was nighttime. The pair had looked for you in many other places, being sure to check quickly in case the worst case scenario was the reality: you had ventured into the dangerous woods on your own, feeling sad and miserable and being more vulnerable to an attack.
Jaskier couldn’t breathe, he could not focus as his mind could only return to you. He heard it just as he immersed further into the woods, with Geralt closely following behind. A woman was screaming, and he shivered at the thought that it was his beloved Y/N, who was in deathly peril.
“Y/N!” The bard yelled back, already moving to go to your rescue.
“Jaskier” Geralt stopped him, pulling back at his doublet. “Wait”
“What?” The aforesaid replied in outrage. “Y/N is out there, probably scared out of her mind right now, and it is all my fault, and you want me to w-“
Another sound interrupted him, one that took his breath away. It had sounded like a wolf howling, but the bard had enough experience thanks to the witcher to realize it was no ordinary wolf. No, that sounded far too strange to be a normal creature.
“A werewolf” Geralt muttered, pulling out his silver sword.
“How can you be so sure?” Jaskier stuttered, intently looking at his friend.
With no need for words, the witcher only pointed a gloved finger upwards. Following that direction, Jaskier realized what he was saying. There was a full moon looming over them, magical and mysterious as well as intimidating, if not for herself, for the creatures that lurked in her name.
“I’ll get the werewolf” Geralt whispered, finally letting go of him. “You circle around it and find Y/N”
Determined, Jaskier nodded his head and stepped away from the place the howling sound had originated from. He was adamant on his mission, as finding you seemed the most important thing he would have to do in his life. He only prayed that you weren’t injured.
Searching for any signs of your presence, he moved slowly, too afraid to miss any of the signs that you might be close by. The dry leaves crunched beneath his boots, yet no sound seemed loud enough to overpower that of his racing heart and his erratic breathing. His hands nervously closed and opened as his fingers nervously fidgeted.
“No…” Jaskier suddenly felt dizzy when he spotted something crimson staining the leaves. “Y/N?”
They were only a few droplets of blood, but it was more than enough to have Jaskier stop in his tracks and bend over weakly. His stomach churned, his mind was racing with terrible thoughts of what could have happened to you.
“Y/N? God, I hope you’re alright” He whispered. “Where are you, love?”
Just as he took another step, something caught his attention. A whimpering noise sounded to his right, and so he didn’t think twice to head in that direction. What he found was a figure, huddled behind a tree trunk, hiding her face on her knees and bawling her eyes out.
“Y/N!” Jaskier threw himself to his knees, gently laying a hand atop your shoulder.
“No!” You moved away from his touch, waving your hands in the air as though trying to swat him off you. “Don’t hurt me, please!”
“It’s me! It’s me, love, it’s Jaskier!”
When you dared look up, he paused. You were still breathing rapidly, tears rolling down your cheeks as your bawling started coming to a halt.
“T-The werewolf!”
“It’s alright, Geralt’s gone and get it”
The air turned cold as you grew silent. Jaskier watched you in anguish, wanting to ask if you were alright but nearly fearing he had lost the right to even ask that. It was his fault that you were there on the first place. Bearing heavy thoughts of your own, you remained quiet. You locked eyes with Jaskier as contradictory feelings overwhelmed you.
Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me Because you don't know what it means to me You will remember, when this is blown over And everything's all by the way When I grow older, I will be there at your side To remind you how I still love you
Back, hurry back, please bring it back home to me Because you don't know what it means to me
“I’m sorry…” He whispered, even though his voice came out strangled and it was barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Y/N, I’m-“
Much to his astonishment, you threw yourself to him. Your arms urgently wrapped around his neck as you cowered into his shoulder. All possible unwell within you both seemed to vanish as you collided in an urgent embrace.
“Oh, thank the gods I found you…” Jaskier sighed in relief, cradling your head as he held you tightly against him. “Are you hurt? I saw…”
“It scratched me…” You pulled away, holding your arm up to show him the garments torn to shreds and the superficial wound still pouring blood. “But it didn’t bite me”
“Thank the heavens…” He embraced you again, being taken by such relief that he now experienced an entire different kind of dizziness as he gingerly pressed your frame against his chest. “I’m so sorry, love, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t been so bloody stupid”
You were silent as you let him hold you. While your fresh wound was a duller ache, your head hurt as your love for Jaskier as well as your resentment for his demeanor fought for dominance within you.
“You’re mad, aren’t you?” He uttered, knowing how to interpret your silence. “I don’t blame you, honestly, I would-“
“Now you know” You interrupted him, realizing he was about to ramble as he usually did. “What do you have to say about it?”
“Yes, it is absolutely my bad” Jaskier vehemently nodded his head. “Had I realized what your true feelings were, I could have saved you so much pain and… I suppose I just didn’t see the signs that you-“
“Jaskier” You only called him, bearing unshed tears in your glassy eyes.
“I don’t know” He honestly replied, feeling more genuine and vulnerable than you had ever seen him. “I don’t know if I love you back, I just know that I care about you”
“I still love you…” You stuttered, letting out a nervous chuckle to hide the fact that your tears had overflown and were now rolling down your face once more.
“And I… I love you too, but… I don’t know in which way I love you, I just know I was terrified out of my mind when you ran away” He sighed, passing a nervous hand through his thick brown hair. “I might realize I hold romantic feelings for you soon or I might not, but… I want you to know that you hold a special place in my heart one way or the other”
Not knowing what to do or say, you only nodded your head. Feeling uncomfortable, you instead tried to stand up and Jaskier didn’t lose one second to help you to your feet.
“I promise you one thing, though” He tenderly held your hand. “I won’t ever allow myself to hurt you like this ever again”
“Okay…” You could only mutter, still recovering from the pain that day held for you.
“Come here, love” Jaskier wrapped his arms around you a third time, this time never wanting to let you go. He clung on to you, just like you were. Perhaps you loved each other in different ways, and whether that would change or not, you had each other at the moment.
The bard looked up when he thought he heard something. In the distance, he spotted Geralt standing there, carrying the blood stained sword. The two looked at each other as they were facing one another, and nodded their heads. They didn’t say anything, only resigning themselves to the way things ended. There was nothing to say anymore after all.
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firewoodfigs · 4 years
Text
amendes honorables
Summary: Riza Hawkeye is appalled to discover that her fifteen-year-old daughter has indicated interest in a boy. Her husband thinks she’s being a little bit of a hypocrite.
(thank you @waddiwasiwitch for hosting @moms-made-fullmetal-2020 ! ^_^)
read on ao3
~x~ 
Roy Mustang was having a very hard time trying to contain his laughter while lazing on the bed with his morning coffee in hand.  He was trying, really - his absolute, darnedest best - palms over mouth, holding his breath, distracting himself with boring, draggy books about legal positivism. But try as he might, it was very, very entertaining to see his stoic Captain, now beloved wife, getting so riled up over their daughter’s predicament.
Between the two, everyone always assumed that he would be the overprotective parent, but Roy knew better. He knew his wife like the back of his hand and had correctly predicted that she would be the paranoid parent who would impose a stringent “no-dating-until-you’re-an-adult” rule. Of course, every rule came with loopholes, and the definition of an “adult” was left up to her (legally, it should have been eighteen or twenty-one, but Roy believed that in Riza’s mind it probably ranged between thirty to forty, or more).  
“Stop laughing, Roy. This is serious!” Riza exclaimed, thoroughly flustered by the fact that their daughter had been the recipient of so many confessions, letters, chocolates and whatever frivolities teenage boys thought girls their age enjoyed receiving on Valentine’s Day.
Given how attractive her parents were it was no surprise that Rae Mustang was the apple of many young boys’ eyes at the juvenile age of fifteen. With thick, raven black hair like her father’s, her mother’s sharp features, and eyes like wood smoke in autumn - a lovely blend of her parents’ - it was hardly surprising that boys were attracted to her like moths to light, and while some girls were envious of her for winning the genetic lottery others had graciously accepted defeat.
Her mother was of course, acutely aware of this curse, or blessing, whatever one might choose to call it, and had taken it upon herself to confiscate gifts and letters she had received on that wretched holiday, on the excuse that it was hardly inappropriate for a girl her age to receive such things, and really, what did boys know about love at that age?
Riza had declared over dinner that night that professions of undying, profound love at that age were nothing but intricate lies designed by deceitful young boys, and Rae shouldn’t bother herself with it.
(Roy wanted to call her out for being a hypocrite there and then, but she shut him up with a threatening glare before the first syllable even left his mouth.)
In response, she’d nodded dutifully before returning to the steak and frites on her plate - courtesy of her father, who had taken it upon himself to “whip up a fantastic dinner for my lovely girls on this holiday about love” and “blessed it with a chef’s kiss” afterwards, but alas.
Alas. Her little girl had inherited their talents in covert operations and somehow managed to hide a very important gift and letter from her mother’s prying hands, and it didn’t take a genius to guess that it was gifted by someone she was interested in.
Riza had been utterly mortified when she found the traitorous piece of evidence sandwiched in between her chemistry textbooks (Rae had attempted to use some kind of alchemy she’d learnt from her Uncle Ed a few weeks prior to seal it, but there was something faulty with the array that foiled her plans in the end), which therefore led to the current situation of her pacing frantically around their room as she rambled on and on to her husband.
(She still didn’t know whether to be disappointed or proud of her daughter for possessing such a natural penchant at hiding things, but it was probably the former.)
Finally, she stopped pacing and turned to glower sullenly at her husband, who was hiding his laughter behind a book that he was pretending to be engrossed in. “I think she should be grounded, Roy. We can never know for sure if she’s been secretly planning dates behind our backs with this - this boy - mmph -” her words were muffled by a passionate kiss and a suffocating embrace.
“Relax, Riza,” he chuckled as he held her close in his arms to soothe her frazzled nerves. “We don’t even know what the boy is like. What if he was like me when we were younger?” He lifted his index finger and thumb to his chin, as if stroking an imaginary beard (Riza and Rae had conspired together to shave that blasphemous mustache off his face in his sleep) and pretended to be deep in thought.
Riza balked. “I didn’t like you when I was fifteen, Roy.”
He put a hand up to his heart in mock hurt. “Don’t be cruel, Riza. I know you did -”
“You did, I didn’t. Back to the topic at hand. I believe the appropriate punishment would be to ground her, and she most certainly owes us an apology for lying and hiding such scandalous affairs behind our backs.”
“Alright, alright,” he raised his hands in surrender, hoping it would ease the scowl on her face. It did somewhat, and so he decided to help his daughter with a little… negotiation. “You can ground her if you think that’s proportionate and necessary, but let’s give the boy a chance. We could have him over for dinner,” her frown was returning, and he hastened to add, “which would give us the perfect chance to interrogate him and analyse their rela - friendship, of course.”
The thought of being able to question him excited Riza just the slightest. She did love a good cross-examination, after all, and no one would touch her daughter without first crossing her. “Fine,” she relented. “I’ll talk to her tonight.”
Roy grimaced at that thought. His wife could be the living personification of the Spanish Inquisition when she put her mind down to it, and he hoped that it wouldn’t be a bad mix with the notorious teenage hormones that plagued everyone at fifteen. “Be nice, Riza.”
~x~
“You can come in, mom,” came her daughter’s trembling voice from behind the door.
Well. It seemed like they were already off to a bad start. As she opened the door slowly she could see her daughter’s quivering frame hunched over her literature homework, the likes of Austen and Bronte all strewn across her table messily as she tried very bravely to hold in her tears.
She groaned internally. Already, Riza felt her resolve weakening, and it was difficult to remain angry at such a sweet child (she often wondered what she and Roy did to deserve such a lovely daughter, but her husband deemed it necessary to discuss, in great detail, how Rae was made, so she never vocalised that thought ever again). She sat on the corner of her bed and beckoned for Rae to come sit with her, and as soon as she sank into the duvet as she placed a comforting hand over her shoulder.
So much for being strict.
Before she could even say anything, though, Rae started apologising frantically, words tumbling out of her mouth like a gushing stream. “I’m so sorry, mom, I know I shouldn’t have lied to you and I know I’ve disappointed you and I know I shouldn’t have and I’m just, I’m so sorry,” she stuttered, choking over her sobs. “I just… I know it would’ve upset you, but he’s… he’s a really nice boy, but I know what I did was wrong, and I’ve let you down, and I’m so -”
“Rae,” Riza called, her tone stern but gentle. “Okay, one thing at a time. I’m not going to lie, I am disappointed that you hid this from me, and there will be consequences, but I forgive you. I always will,” and she pulled her in for a hug, stroking her soft tresses tenderly as Rae sobbed into her shoulder and threw herself into the embrace.
… It truly was a challenge trying to pull a stern hand on her daughter. Her colleagues would’ve found this incredulous, and she never thought austerity was something she would ever struggle with, but Rae had proved her wrong. While she was supposed to be at the age of rebellion - Riza supposed this was it, the defining act - her daughter was quite the little darling, full of sunshine and joy, and it made it very hard to remain angry with her for long. In some ways, she reminded her a bit of Alphonse, although Rae had been adamant that her Uncle Al was wrong - dogs were better than cats.
Another point to Rae.
And though it was equally difficult to swallow her pride and admit that she had overreacted a little, just the slightest, over the gifts that had swarmed her table, she supposed it would only cause Rae to feel like she couldn’t trust her. “You… you can tell me these things, Rae.” Riza wanted to say she wouldn’t get mad, but that would just be an outright, blatant lie. “It’s better than hiding, or lying.”
“Really, mom?” her eyes glistened with hope, and really, it was hard to say no to a face like that. Riza would give her the stars and a mountain made of gold and diamonds if she just asked for it.
“Yes, really. In fact…” she remembered her previous discussion with Roy. Compromise, Riza. “You can invite him over for dinner one of these days.”
A watery smile crossed her daughter’s face, and it was so hopeful that Riza couldn’t resist chuckling a little. “But you, young lady, are still grounded, and will continue to be so for two weeks.”
She nodded glumly, as any other fifteen-year-old would be at the prospect of having to come home immediately after school, but otherwise relented and gave her mother another hug. “I understand, mom. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, I forgive you.” She grinned at the thought of being able to grill this young man, both literally and figuratively. “So, when’s a good time for dinner?”
~x~
Riza had been… surprised, to say the least, when she opened the door to come face to face with a tanned-skin boy with white hair and distinctly red eyes that shone like a dreadful mix of rubies and garnets.
An Ishvalan.
Her immediate response had been to apologise to Rae instead - for how could he bear to look at her and Roy in the eye and seriously say that he was alright with who they were? If he’d bolted there and then, or threw the bag of cookies that he’d painstakingly prepared as a present in her face out of anger or animosity, Riza would have honestly accepted it and forgiven him regardless.
But instead the boy - who introduced himself as Elyas - had proceeded to remove his shoes before asking politely if it would be alright to come in, holding out the dessert he’d prepared with such a delightful eagerness and enthusiasm, and really, it was impossible to reject him.
“Of course, come on in,” she said invitingly, swallowing the bile rising in her throat as she observed Roy’s equally shocked expression. But he said nothing, only smiled welcomingly as he set up the dinner table and thanked him for the wonderful gift.
She’d almost lost her composure when he mentioned that he was an orphan, when Roy asked about his family, but as if reading her mind Elyas immediately sought to qualify his statement with “I’m very sure you two had nothing to do with it, Mr and Mrs Mustang. They died in an accident not too long ago, not because of the Ishvalan War. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, we should be the ones apologising. I understand if… if you are uncomfortable being here,” Riza whispered quietly, suddenly feeling like an incorrigible mother.
Underneath the table, Roy stretched out his hand to rest a palm on her thigh, rubbing soothing circles with a padded thumb. She responded in kind, knowing that the same sentiments, though unsaid, were on his mind as well.
Elyas, though, amazed them all by thanking them. Them, a pair of cold-blooded war criminals.
“Ah, well,” he rubbed the back of his head awkwardly with an open palm. “I’m alright. If anything, I’d like to thank the both of you for rebuilding Ishval. My parents often emphasised that it was General Mustang’s office that improved the lives of many Ishvalans because of the trade relations with Xing, and we’ve all benefited greatly from that.”
He flashed them a sunny smile, and his eyes conveyed everything they needed to know - that’s in the past now. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Mustang, and thank you for having me over for dinner.”
“Not at all, we’re more than happy to have you here, Elyas.” Riza was unequivocally sure that she owed Rae an apology instead, and vowed to speak with her again tonight.
Her husband had offered to do the same as they stood at the sink together to wash the dishes, but after what happened she thought it best to speak with Rae separately herself first, and so his only response was a reassuring, understanding kiss to her forehead.
“We’ll work it out together, Riza.”
~x~
“Can I come in, Rae?” Riza knocked hesitantly, the nausea and guilt that had settled in her gut previously making an unwelcome resurgence.
“Of course, mom!” Rae skipped happily to where her mother was as soon as the door was open and gave her a tight hug. “Thank you so much for tonight.”
“Not at all,” she smiled weakly. “I think I owe you an apology, Rae. I… I wasn’t expecting him to be an Ishvalan.” Her daughter was not ignorant to the sins that they had committed decades ago, because she’d made it her personal duty, alongside Roy, to explain history accurately to her - for both of them had agreed that it would be worse if she found the truth out by herself.
And Rae, kind, innocent Rae - bless her heart - had accepted the harsh reality of who her parents were with a grim nod, but after a few hours of introspection she’d knocked on their door to tell them that she still loved them regardless, and that she was proud to have parents who were working so hard to rectify the injustices they’d committed.
But this… this was quite a different story. She wasn’t sure if Elyas was just being courteous earlier, or if he was genuinely alright with who they were, with the wrongs they’d done against him and his hometown and entire culture. How could he? “I do apologise, Rae, if I’ve ruined anything.”
“What? No, mom, you didn’t! When I sent him off at the porch just now, he said that he really enjoyed dinner - said that you and dad are great cooks - and that it was an honor getting to know the both of you personally.” She grinned giddily, like a young girl happily in love. “I… I know why you feel that way, mom. But believe me, you can believe whatever he said. He’s the most genuine person I’ve ever met, and…” her feet shifted in embarrassment as she confessed quietly, “that’s one of the reasons why I…”
“Why you like him?” Rae nodded shyly, pink mottling her pale cheeks flatteringly.
“I see. Well, I can understand that, Rae.” She bent down to whisper a secret in her ear, one that only she could hear - just in case her ridiculous father was snooping around somewhere trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. “I liked your father when I was fifteen, too.”
Rae giggled and smiled brightly at her mother when she heard her admission. Then, looking up at her mother curiously with her best set of puppy eyes, she asked, “Does that mean I’m not grounded anymore?”
“No, you still have a week more to go, Rae,” and while her daughter responded with a petulant, disappointed sulk she could still see the happiness sparkling in her eyes. “But feel free to ask him over for dinner anytime.”
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itsclydebitches · 4 years
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On top of the show giving character flaws that apply to everyone, they also give character flaws that also don’t apply at all. They try to say Yang has a problem with her temper, but we never actually see this problem at play until a situation appeared where she just seen her friend get stabbed. Am I to believe that Yang seeing her friend get stabbed is supposed to be a culmination of a flaw we’ve never actually seen. Yeah she loses her temper, but she never acted irrationally (1)
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Personally I do think there’s evidence of Yang having a problem with her temper. Quite a bit, actually. Whether or not RT did enough work to persuade every viewer of this is in question, but I likewise don’t think we can ignore what’s there: 
In her introduction she jumps straight to beating up/dismantling a bar when the owner is a creep. This includes (prior to creep behavior) angrily grabbing him by the balls to get information as quickly as possible. Losing a few strands of her hair results in fury powerful enough to set the whole room aflame. 
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Throughout the series we get nods to how others perceive her temper, most notably during the festival. When Neon insults her Yang reacts with anger instantaneously and we cut to Ruby’s “Oh, here we go...” cuing us in that this sort of reaction is normal for her. We likewise get Port characterizing her power-ups through her anger: “and you wouldn’t like her when she’s... upset.” Yang is someone who, in the middle of initiation, activates her semblance and starts screaming about how everyone else needs to chill. 
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We see how her emotions - anger and impatience - encourage her to make hasty - and often incorrect/dangerous - decisions. Like jumping to the conclusion that Ozpin is spying on them. Or jumping to the conclusion that bird powers are a curse. Or jumping to the conclusion that trusting Robyn couldn’t possibly have any downsides. Yang is driven by her emotions, her wants and her needs in the immediate moment, not the logic of the situation. 
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Likewise, Yang is someone whose fights are frequently characterized by “Charge ahead and hit them as hard as you can” because that emotion gives her a power up. Yang accumulates that energy and dishes is back once she’s pissed off enough to use it, whether she’s slamming her fist against a grimm, Roman’s mech, or Adam. Like the situations above, Yang jumps to the conclusion of, “All I have to do it hit it straight on and I’ll win.” 
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Tai’s criticism was not “You use your semblance too much.” Nor was it “You’re not allowed to be angry.” Rather, the criticism is, “Because you’re an emotional person and because that emotion is tied to your semblance, you’ve come to completely rely on taking a hit and then just dishing it back two times harder. But that doesn’t always work. There are fighters who are too smart for that and situations that are too delicate. You can’t always win by powering up your semblance and hitting things really, really hard and the fact that you’ve never learned to come up with back-up plans is a problem. You rely on your semblance because you don’t know how else to approach these situations, i.e. emotionally.” 
Or, to put it another way, “Think before you act.” Yang didn’t think before she attacked Adam head on and it cost her an arm. Tai isn’t saying it’s easy to think in those situations. He doesn’t even say he expected her to manage that the first time around (everyone knows Yang is a first-year student whose entire role at Beacon is to learn this kind of stuff. She was never meant to face off against someone like Adam at all). Rather, the lesson is that next time Yang needs to try and remember to go a little slower and not rely on “Hit them hard” as a means of solving every problem she encounters. Learn from this mistake. 
Yang absolutely has a temper and she does let that temper drive her. We see it again in Volume 7, first with a small thing - That bot pissed me off with a flash so I’m going to punch it - and then with a much larger thing - Ironwood is pissing us off so let’s just go tell Robyn about his plan. Yang often doesn’t think through her actions. That’s not the same thing as acting irrationally, but it’s almost as dangerous. Yang is a personality that punches first and asks questions later. She’s someone whose temper is tied to her impatience and that impatience leads to (again) action without thought to the consequences: I’ll just beat up the bar owner. I’ll just accuse Ozpin of hurting my mother and uncle. I’ll just run after two maidens alone. I’ll just attack Adam head on. I’ll just tell Robyn this confidential information. Everything is a quick, first come first serve reaction based on her emotional state. Once she sees a path - usually a violent path - she takes it when most of the time she would be better served to hold back for a bit and spend more time thinking things through. 
Yang’s semblance is just a metaphor for that thinking: when life hits her she can just hit it right back with an extra kick. Easy-peasy. Problem is, post-Volume 3 she’s supposed to discover (more on that below) that this kind of thinking can’t solve most of the world’s problems, so Tai encourages her to start thinking differently via her semblance. AKA, if I can teach my kid to find ways to beat others without relying entirely on her semblance as a finishing move, the semblance that reflects this flaw in her overall character, I can hopefully, as a result, teach her to do that in her everyday life as well.” 
The real problem is that Yang hasn’t learned this. She hasn’t improved at all in this regard throughout Volumes 6 and 7. The concept of a semblance reflecting a larger flaw was already complicated enough (given that fans tend to assume Tai is literally saying, “Don’t use your semblance ever”) but things got worse when Yang failed to put this lesson into practice and yet the story claims she’s improved. So fans (rightly) ask, “Why is Yang supposedly working on this ‘flaw’ but she’s doing the exact same stuff she’s always done?” RWBY - alongside the added complication of her PTSD - simply didn’t write that growth well, if arguably at all. But the overall attempt at an arc seems to have been: 
Yang gets angry very easily 
Yang uses that anger as a means of taking down foes via her semblance
This leads to Yang charging head-first into situations without thinking them through because hey, it’s always worked in the past
But then Adam showed that this technique won’t always work. Indeed, relying on it can have devastating consequences 
Now she must grow using her semblance as a reference point. Learn to control your emotions in battle and analyze a situation rather than simply attacking it head on. Doing that will allow you to tackle any other “foe” in a similar manner, whether we’re talking about how to get to Atlas, or how to respond to Ozpin, or how to handle Robyn. The semblance is a reflection of the larger problem, not the thing that actually needs fixing. Yang needs to learn how to control her temper enough to keep from jumping to conclusions and/or choosing what appears to be the easiest path rather than the smartest one. This flaw is just most apparent in her choice of attacking enemies head on using her semblance 
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Text
A concept: Upon his 12 th birthday, Adam grows wings and a crown of horns not unlike Satan in the tv series, and Aziraphale and Crowley guides and teaches him through the concept of being an immortal supernatural being, and how to accept himself.
####
"Adam," Aziraphale coaxes, as soothingly as possible. He sits on the edge of Adam's old wooden twin, strangely at home amongst the backdrop of hand made spacecrafts and messily glued science projects in Adam's cramped bookshelf. "Come now, my dear boy, I can't imagine something so terrible as to scare US away, will you please tell us what's wrong?"
"It's weird!" Adam cries, and Crowley only barely manages to cover a sigh of exasperation. It was leagues better than a while ago, which had been an adamant 'Go Away!'
(He was sure if Adam truly wanted them gone, however, the two of them would still be in Aziraphale's bookshop with no recollection of prior afternoon.)
 Pepper had called them-Crowley's mobile, earlier that afternoon, during lunchbreak. Adam is absent from school, which was not unusual on itself,**but it had been what she had said after that had rattled their nerves.
Pepper insisted that Adam had been sick, and has refused to leave his room for two whole days. Crowley had assured her that this was about as possible as a content, crippled farmer is to heavily injure the head of the italian mafia.
Pepper had not backed down, and had demanded their immediate presence anyway.
They had gotten worried.
It barely took a miracle to convince the Youngs that they had been visiting diatant relatives, and that they had come straight over upon receiving news of Adam's illness, the horrid virus businesses these days, Deidre, don't you know? Absolutely dreadful.
Upon opening the door, the cloaking wards had greeted them with as much force as a ton of blankets on the windpipe, and a miserable little lump on Adam's bed.
Aziraphale turns to him, helpless in the face of childish hard-headedness, and even despite his angelic demeanor, Crowley had been nonetheless impressed by his overall patience. He settles, finally, on Adam's other side.
"Look, mate." Crowley sighed. "Whatever pubescent horror you're suffering through that is you apparently think is bad enough to get away with skipping school is only as bad as you let yourself think. Believe me, both me and Aziraphale were around when adults were first invented, so we don't exactly need medical degrees to tell what's normal and what isn't, alright?"
"You've gotten all of us so dreadfully worried, my dear." Aziraphale says softly. "You needn't even show us; just tell us what's gotten you so upset, and we'll figure how to help you from there, how does that sound?"
There is a heavy, considerate pause from the miserable bed-blanket lump, and when he finally speaks more than three words at a time, they are muffled and reluctant.
"Just...don't make fun of me."
"Of course we won't," Crowley says gently, not when it might seriously injure the young man's pride. There was a very limited amount of bullying that he tolerates, of all ages, but more so that discrimates young problems. Just because it was a common problem doesn't make it any less distressful, after all.
There ia another pregnant pause, a visible intake of breath from beneath the sheets. The cloaking wards that have been masking the boy and hisHis emotions underneath the blanket relaxes almost visibly, helping the two supernatural relax almost without concious effort.
The blanket falls away.
Aziraphale inhales sharply. "Oh, dear."
Adam had....wings.
They were similar to their Aziraphale and Crowley's own-which are black and white mostly by professional default , unique in all the ways that matter. The colour, for instance, is a distinct russet and gold teal, wet with moisture not dissimilar to that of newly hatched birds. Adam sits hunched, expression twisted in that of pain, tear-racks down his boyish cheeks -likely from their respectable weight, primaries brushing his bedroom floor-and shoulder blades bruised and tender, crimson from the joint connecting the wings to his body, as if they had forcibly torn themselves from his beneath his very flesh.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
"Oh, Adam," Aziraphale breathes, his face contorted in thinly veiled grief. "Oh, my poor boy,"
Something in Aziraphale's voice must've snaped something inside him, because Adam breaks into barely controlled sobs, throwing himself into Crowley's outstretched arms, and Crowley himself only barely sparing himself from being poked in the eyes by the crown of horns that now adorn Adam's temple.
He wastes no time pulling the 13 year old child into a suffocating embrace, as tight as he needs it to be. Out of his periphery, the two occult and ethereal beings share only a strong, all-consuming thought.
'Shit.'
#####
The esteemed reader might be  wondering what, in loving tarnation, might be going on. Think of it this way; Upon the awakening of his long long dormant powers on his birthday, and the consequent adventure from that point on, an eleven year old child of such freshly discovered reserves of  power had only such forthought to realign reality in a way to to completely change the matter of  things in default, besides thoughts of those individually set aside. Frankly, the Powers that Be didn't do much to discourage his hold on them. Individuals with such permanent holds on Reality are so few and far in between, after all, and it has been so long since they've had a master so sweet and kind.
(Take it this way; in a fit not unlike the thought process of most human children, what Adam basically had wanted at the airbase was to relinquish his throne, and to deny his destiny. Both of these objectives had, technically, been accomplished. But altering the fabric of time, and rearranging solid hard facts- such as the past circumstances and occult bloodline- takes a whole lot more effort than a single passionate wish by an emotionally compromised child. So while there is a mindsweep of a global scale, and people suddenly seem to find themselves to have returned to lose an entire Monday, Adam was still no less an AntiChrist than Crowley was  any less a demon.)
####
It had happened last Friday.
(Adam was reluctant to share the experience, likely unexcited to relive the memory, but share it he did, probably in hope they could do something about it.)
He had been startled awake by a tingling, painful sensation in his back, and a dreadful migraine. Twisting onto his back, it seemed, only made it worse. Unable to return to sleep, he had decided, instead to wash his face on the bathroom down the hall.
It is only in the light that he notices the blood on his pajama shirt.
(It is only downhill from there)
######
(This is a very early draft and the idea wouldnt stop bugging me until it was out there. I call it That's A Double Negative and it's up for adoption if anybody wants it. I'll try to finish it. Maybe.)
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cinnonym · 4 years
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SQ angst: Emma lies about something.
My, I'm rusty. Sorry it took me so long, but I wanted to give it my best at this point. Thanks again for the prompt and I hope you enjoy what I made of it. Viva la SwanQueen ^^
It wasn't like Regina had been serious anyways, so it didn't matter that Emma lied, right?
Besides, Emma thought, "lie" was a big word. "Tweaking the truth" fit much better, and it got "truth" in it, right?
And even if Regina had been serious and Emma did lie, a bit, it hadn't been about an important matter, right? There wouldn't be major consequences, right?
Wrong.
"It's not your aversion to spas that's upsetting me," Regina assured Emma, and the disappointment in her dark eyes was potent enough to make Emma look down on her feet in shame. "It's the fact that I thought I could trust you."
"But you can!" Emma sputtered, well aware that evidence suggested otherwise. "Really, Regina, I do kinda like massages. Partly. The aftereffects! I like the aftereffects, I just don't - "
"You just don't like the massage itself," Regina interrupted sharply, "I get it. What I don't get is why you didn't tell me this before I got you coupons for your birthday. Why you didn't wish for something else when I asked you what you'd like to have. Why you didn't stop me from making a purchase you knew you wouldn't enjoy."
Emma flinched as she remembered the three-digit number at the bottom of her gift card. "I'm sorry I made you waste so much money," she said sheepily.
Regina blew out an exasperated sigh. "This isn't about money, Emma. It's about me wanting to make you a pleasant gift and failing to do so because you are afraid of voicing your real opinion."
"I’m not afraid!" Emma protested, her offense only intensifying when Regina rolled her eyes.
"Maybe that was inartfully expressed - “
“I’m not afraid!”
“ - but you are missing the point here, which is - “
“No! Stop acting so high and mighty and - ”
“Which is,” Regina continued unwaveringly, though the looks she was shooting Emma grew increasingly dirty, “That you could have just told me you didn’t like massages. It’s not like I would have gotten mad, unlike now, when I am indeed starting to feel annoyed by your absolute unwillingness to own that you did wrong.”
“Oh, is that so?” Emma snapped. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was being unreasonable, but she would rather die than admit it to Regina's superior pout. “Tell me, Regina, how can I be the bad guy here, after I pretended to love the present you got me, after I suffered through three, no, four massages, after everything I did to make you feel like your gift was a success?”
“But that is exactly the problem, Emma.” Regina’s voice was very cold in comparison to Emma’s heated rant. Somehow, it made her sound just the more angry, like the calm foreboding a terrible storm. “You lied to my face, multiple times, and you utterly fail to see why this is intolerable.”
Intolerable.
“You’re being absurd,” Emma bit out, because at this point, offense was all the defense she had. “You’re turning this into a much bigger thing than it is.”
Regina shook her head, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Am I now? Tell me, Emma, how you lying to me isn’t a big thing?”
“It was only a birthday present!”
“Which I wanted to be perfect for you.”
“Why?”
That last question came out much louder than intended. Like a panicked wild animal it had broken through Emma’s carefully constructed filter, blunt and harsh and ringing with truth. Regina stared at her, the crease that had formed between her brows slowly vanishing as realisation dawned on her face.
“Why not?” She asked, careful all of a sudden. Emma wanted to turn back time, to look away, to do anything that wouldn’t make her feel so trapped in Regina’s gaze. But there was no escape.
“Why wouldn’t I want to make you a perfect birthday gift?” Regina repeated. “Why would you think that?”
“I dunno,” Emma murmured, her heart aching to just walk away, make a run for it. “I didn’t think that.”
“Yes, you did,” Regina said, and Emma somehow found herself nodding along. “Please talk to me Emma. What part of me asking you about your birthday wishes made you feel uncomfortable?”
Nothing, Emma wanted to say. Everything. But both of these answers would be lies. And Regina had been quite adamant about those. And so, inhaling deeply in an attempt to slow her frantic heartbeat, Emma met Regina’s patient eyes with new determination.
"It was new, I guess. Nobody's ever asked me what I'd like to have before. I panicked."
"And said yes to the first thing I proposed because you didn't feel like you deserved to have a choice," Regina whispered. Her hand reached for Emma's. Grateful for the support, Emma squeezed it softly.
"I suppose."
Regina sighed. "Oh, Emma."
"Its not a big deal," Emma murmured, trying to shrug it off. But Regina wouldn't let her.
"Yes, it is. Being together means being there for each other, and I want to be here for you. I want you to trust me with your struggles, as I want to be able to trust you with mine. And I want to make you perfect presents because I want you to be happy. Because I love you!"
Emma swallowed and nodded, unable to speak. Regina moved forward to press a soft kiss against her lips, gentle and forgiving. Then she leaned back, her voice serious once more.
"But I don't fancy being lied to, Emma. For whatever reason."
"I know," Emma whispered, again desperate to look away but forcing herself to meet Regina's eyes. "I'm sorry."
Regina quirked her lips into a half-smile. "Just be honest with me the next time. And now tell me what present you really want."
"But my birthday was months a - "
"Shh," Regina made, waving Emma's objection away with a flick of her hand, "You need to learn to listen to my questions. I said, what present do you want?”
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mysticmelove · 5 years
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Hi! I really love your writing! Can you write a fic where MC has been nothing but supportive of Jumin while he was dealing with the consequences of V and Rika actions, but one day Jumin finds her crying in the arms of a character of your choice. She was crying because she is mad at V and Rika for treating him like that, causing him so much pain but she feels she can't show her pain to him and complicate things more for him (is basically how I feel lol) make it pretty please? Thanks!!
*Follow the event of the Secret ending, with the change of MC ending up with Jumin rather than Seven.
Hidden grief
(Jumin x MC) [slight angst]
.
The days, though to the outside world were nothing out of the usual, only seemed to be rolling over slower and slower with each passing day. The events had rattled the whole group without a doubt: Yoosung was absolutely distraught about everything he had come to know, Seven couldn’t even find the words to describe how betrayed he felt, Jaehee was struggling to keep things in line as she felt she had to, Zen didn’t know how to react, and Jumin… Jumin tried so very hard to ignore the situation and get on with life as normal. That was the default answer to every problem at its core. Continue as normal and there’d be minor consequences to the actions which had been unforeseen; his work wouldn’t suffer and neither would he. Yet, MC knew otherwise. 
They hadn’t been together long but he had felt more comfortable in her presence than he had in anyone else’s. He hadn’t been afraid to express himself and his feeling around her; she was his haven, his sanctuary, and the light he so dearly loved. But Jumin was mourning- grieving the death of the closest friend he had and questioning the friendship he so dearly relied on in his youth and up until now. He may have appeared as level headed and stoic to everyone else but MC could see so clearly past that, he was aching and hurting but was so adamant it was the opposite. 
His mind, bless him, was a mess. The threads within his head tangled relentlessly, forming kinks and knots to a scale he’d never experience before. MC could clear his head within an instant but this was just too big to simply be tackled by her angelic words or actions. Still, he had to keep that demeanour she knew in tact the best he could; his threads and issues would no longer just effect him, he had his love at his side, and his fiancée mattered to him more than anything else. The memories of his, now seemingly irrelevant, youth played repetitively in his mind with every passing second, but life had to continue and he had to keep things as normal a physically possible- for the business, himself, and MC.
“Jumin, darling… Are you coming to bed?” His fiancée’s voice filled the small space of his home office from where she stood in the doorway. Her voice was quiet, caring, and as gentle as ever and she clutched as the fabric of her nightgown over her chest. 
Jumin tapped his pen on his desk, his eyes now struggling to stay focused on the sheets of paperwork before him. “I have an important meeting tomorrow.”
Quiet as a mouse, MC’s footsteps were barely audible as she stepped closer to his desk. “It’s so late, Jumin…” her voice was calming as her hands moved to hold herself reassuringly. 
“I know,” he looked to her figure, she was barely shaking- cold- and tired, he pitied her for the situation he had inevitably put her in, “I just need to get this finished.”
“You’re overworking yourself… You need time to rest after what’s happened.” Jumin’s eyes subtly met her’s; they were so full of pain and anger but he wouldn’t say as much.
He was quick to ignore her comments: “Go to bed, MC. It’s not good for your health to stay awake until these hours.”
“And your health?” She questioned, her tone more adamant now. “I need you to be okay as well. Please, just come to bed.” Her pleas were heartfelt and genuine as the fabric in her knuckles creased into a mess of wrinkles. 
He swallowed thickly, “I need to get this done.”
“Fine.” MC sighed heavily as she released the material she had been holding captive in her frail hands. “Well, I’m going back to bed,” she turned reluctantly to leave the room, here eyes pinned on the oak flooring. 
Jumin watched her, full of so much regret when he realised that she had only wanted what was truly best for him in the situation. “MC,” he called for her weakly as she crossed the fresh hold of the doorway. She hummed in response, back still facing him. “…I love you…”
MC’s eyes scrunched together at his words; he hadn’t said that in a couple weeks and she had to stop her tears from spilling. Nodding to herself, she took a deep breath: “I know…”
Defeated, MC made the silent walk of shame back to their bedroom to fall asleep alone in that king sized bed once again. Then again, that had just become the routine, hadn’t it? She’d beg him each night to rest, to just lay down with her and let his mind be at ease for the first time in a long time, but he’d become distant. Distant to her at least. His job was at the forefront of everything and she knew he meant no harm by putting space between them while he healed the best he could, but it was painful nonetheless. She didn’t cry that night, she hadn’t been reduced to tears from the emotional strain everything was causing, yet it was an extremely restless night. 
.
Maybe it had been another week- MC had completely lost track of the days between keeping herself in check and trying to be the emotional support her fiance needed. It was draining to try and get through to him: so many nights were spent telling him to just rest and forget the job for one second, mornings were spent telling him he couldn’t possibly go into work when he hadn’t slept more than an hour at a time, visits to the office were fruitless, and then there were the joyous nights where he’d breakdown completely.  
It would only ever be when he thought she was asleep; he’d let all those pent up feelings go and just cry for hours on end, occasionally he’d even vent his feelings out loud- his words venomous and disgusting, so unlike Jumin. Sometimes she’d let him cry, just give him time to be by himself, but most of the time she’d creep out of the bedroom and just sit beside him. MC told him everything was okay and that it was okay to feel that way, her words often fell upon deaf ears but she was there for him. She was there every second of every day to pick up the pieces V and his psychotic fiancée had so abruptly dropped.
MC had tried in the beginning to keep a level head and ignore her feeling in the situation, of course they were inferior to how her husband was feeling. However, after all the time she spent watching the effects of their actions play out she’d only grown to feel complete and utter anger towards what they had let happen. It vexed her beyond belief but as long as they once were one of the most important aspects in Jumin’s life she couldn’t dare tell him how she felt about everything.
After multiple hints of her agitation and how exhausted she was, Zen insisted they spend the day doing something fun while Jumin was at work to take her mind off of things. MC didn’t agree at first but it didn’t take much convincing to get her to leave the penthouse. It was, without a doubt, one of the most relaxing days she’d had in a long time. They had brunch together, went to a spa, got facials, you name it and Zen had suggested it. He knew just how to clear her mind of all those intrusive thoughts and was glad to listen when she just wanted to talk. 
The ‘talking’, as such, came in the evening after she’d offered for him to stay and eat dinner with her after getting the expected news that Jumin would be working late. They’d both had minor amounts of alcohol when he asked the simple question of ‘Are you dealing with everything okay?’ MC hesitated at his words for a moment before she nodded uneasily: “I’m fine…” she took a deep breath as she looked to the glass beside her, “Jumin is more hurt than he’s letting on though.”
“I assumed as much.” The woman was shocked to hear such a response: Zen wasn’t too fond of her fiancé and everyone was well aware. He continued: “I mean, there’s no way anyone can continue as normal in that situation.”
MC sighed heavily, “I think… I think he’s trying to stay strong for everyone else… But I don’t want him to be strong for me.” 
“He’s protecting you.”
Reclining, she choked on her words: “I know, but I don’t want him to protect me. He needs- He needs to look after himself.” Zen watched her silently with concern spread across his face as she watched tears threaten to leave her eyes. “He’s still grieving. Alone and upset in his own secluded head space where I can’t help him… And I fucking hate them for doing that to him!” Those final words came off of her tongue with an amount of spite and hatred she had not even expected to come out of her, all the while tears were now streaming freely down her flushed cheeks.
“Don’t cry…” he barely spoke above a whisper as he crossed the space to sit beside her, wrapping a gentle arm around her shoulders and caressing her hand. 
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I just- I don’t want him to have to feel that way.”
Zen hushed her: “You don’t need to apologise, MC. You’re hurting as much as anyone else and of course it’s hard to see him suffering in silence.”
She nodded trying to calm herself and stop the out pour of sudden emotion, wiping the back of her hand across her face. Zen just let her breathe, rubbing her back in assurance to show he was just there for her. 
Like clockwork, the sound of the door opening was heard throughout the penthouse, followed by an agitated exhale of none other than her fiancé. MC gasped, making a quick attempt to hide the fact she’d been crying. However, Zen didn’t hesitate to stop her, grabbing her hand and giving her a look which told her everything would be okay. 
Jumin’s voice erupted, as deadpanned as it had been for quite some time, “MC, I’m sorry I missed—” He stopped in his paces when he saw her crying in the other man’s arms. “MC… What… What’s wrong?” He took a few steps closer, hesitant and cautious like some worried animal. 
“I’ll leave you two,” Zen stood from the chair, rubbing a circle on her back once more. “I’ll see myself out. MC, if you need anything just call me, okay?” MC nodded to him, her breath still held captive in the back of her throat. 
Jumin almost didn’t acknowledge the other man as he passed him, his eyes too focused on his love crying before him. A pang of guilt hit him as he saw her weep; he felt it to be one of the only true emotions he’d felt in awhile. “God… I’m so sorry, MC. I hadn’t even stopped to think of what I was doing to you,” Jumin was down on his knees before her before she would interrupt him.
“You- you didn’t cause this, Jumin,” she croaked through broken sobs. He looked up at her in confusion, his eyes full of more colour than those dull ones she’d been looking into desperately for weeks. “I’m just upset about all you’ve been put through.”
“…What?”
“Jumin, they’ve caused you so much pain.” MC explained bluntly, her hands clutched in her lap. “I know you want to be strong but I know how much you’re really hurting.”
He paused, his mind filtering through both the good and bad memories of his ‘closest’ friends. “No… No. They meant me no harm.”
“I know,” she cooed, her hand cupping his cheek and she watched his face grimace and grow with confusion. “They probably didn’t… But you are hurting, Jumin, and that’s okay. This isn’t a normal situation and you need to express how you really feel or things aren’t going to get better.”
“But I’m fine,” he pleaded.
“I haven’t seen you smile in so long,” she sniffled and smiled pitifully. “We both know that’s not true.” He fell completely silent, his eyes focused on something she could not see. “…It’ll get better… You’ll heal and we can deal with this together, okay?” MC smiled again, rubbing a finger over his cheek, growing slowly wetter as he let himself breathe a sigh of relief. 
His eyes met her’s, looking truly into those eye’s he’d fell so deeply in love with, “…I love you…”
“I love you too.”
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polly-chan · 5 years
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V for Vendetta and The Anarchy
V for Vendetta is a British graphic novel written by Alan Moore and illustrated by David Lloyd. I really love this comic and that’s why I want to share with You an analysis about it. 
“Remember, Remember! The fifth of November, the Gunpowder treason and plot; there is no reason why the Gunpowder treason should ever be forgot”: in 1605 Guy Fawkse tried to blow up the British Parliament, performing the first revolutionary act in his country to end the English monarchy. His plot, however, is discovered and he is sentenced to death. As the graphic novel (and movie too) teaches History is written by the winners while losers become the bad guys and for this reason they teach us to remember ideas and not men: men can fail, but ideas are immortal. V for Vendetta takes place in a post apocalyptic world upset by a nuclear war, the united kingdom has sunk into chaos until the emergence of the Norsefire party intimating positions and promising to making England great again, ending up creating a police state. Norsefire is the fictional Nordic supremacist and neo-fascist political party in which people are indoctrinated through the media and five organs rule the dictatorship: the Finger (the hitting police), the Eye (controls everything with the cameras), the Ear (which intercepts and spies over the citizens), the Nose (the scientific police) and the Voice (i.e. the television, led by Prothero). Strength through Unity, Unity through faith: Good win, Bad forgiveness and as always England dominates.  All minorities are oppressed: Muslims, homosexuals, dissidents, in all totalitarianisms there is always a target. Moreover, it’s a strongly male-dominated dictatorship. Totalitarism places control of the lower classes by the higher classes, which in fact are the minority. The goal of totalitarianism is to create a scapegoat on which to vent popular anger and justify ethically questionable actions. 
Evey is a sixteen year old forced into prostitution who is about to be raped by the Finger, but V saves her. When Evey asks him who he is V answers that “Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am is a man in a mask” (as Pirandello would have said), the identity is a consequence of the showing of the Ego and therefore it makes no sense to ask a masked man who he is since the function is hidden. Here we can see how the mask plays an important role in this story, becoming an important symbol of freedom and we’ll see why soon.
V presents himself with a very long, poetic and dramatic speech, in which he declares himself the protector of the Vox populi: he is an avenger of people. A shakesperian hero who seems to see all London as its stage. A musician, ready to give a show. He turns to the statue of justice saying he loves her, but she is a woman of easy virtue and has betrayed him:
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She has prostituted herself with a uniform, this because the extreme search for justice leads to the loss of freedom. This is why V found his new lover, the Anarchy: philosophy separated from Marxism because of Bakunin’s inspiration, according to which it is necessary to overcome the capitalist system and abolish the State, but without going through a phase of socialist transition and immediately abolishing the state, because even socialism is an oppression. 
The music that V leads at the feet of Old Bailey turns out to be the prelude to a gigantic explosion, a demonstration of violence that arises from classical music. Then government begins media manipulation showing how mass media should not be trusted. Adam Satler is a clear reference to Adolf Hitler, but also to Margaret Tatcher: as a matter of fact, the comic is born as a criticism of her ultra-conservative and liberal government that ignored the needs of the poorest in favor of large companies. Satler says they have to remind people why they need them (like the metaphor of Hegel’s servant): in the comic strip he is clearly fascist, but he is not a monster: He is obsessed with Faith (the super computer that analyzes the situation), he prays and he is also a fragile figure. Moore shows that even fascists know how to be human, there are no absolute bad guys. 
TV is intercepted and V’s long speech begins, He wants to remind England of what he has forgotten:
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The government is already trying to shut it down “Because while the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn’t there?”.  Communication is the alliance among men, while the truncheon is the short way to impose a vision without the other can accept it. 
It is the people who elected Hitler, but he understands why: there were so many problems, war, terrorism and disease. All dictatorships, we always start with a  crisis. A Man promised to bring back the truth, but in exchange for silent consent. The destruction of Old Bailey serves as a reminder that justice and equity are perspective and not words. 
V begins to kill several senior members of the party who command different organs of the dictatorship. But who the real terrorist is? Who decides the difference between those who fight for or against the freedom? We can consider totalitarianism as a closed system where not all ideas are allowed, therefore those who repress ideas and freedoms are the real bombers of democracy.  Evey is the anti-revolutionary one who wants to change totalitarianism from within without realizing that great freedoms and constitutional values ​​we owe to them thanks to violent revolutions and no dictator voluntarily surrenders their privileges. Moreover, for V there are no certainties, only opportunities and “People shouldn’t be afraid of their government. Governments should be afraid of their people”. The revolutionary act is the necessary means to reach the end, the lesser evil. 
V is a Shakespearian hero and he often mentions it, also obviously inspired by the Count of Montecristo. Wearing a mask V is no longer a man, but an idea and so he can be free to say what he truely thinks. to be human without limitations.  V explains to Evey that “Anarchy wears two faces, both creator and destroyer. Thus destroyers topple empires; make a canvas of clean rubble where creators then can build another world. Rubble, once achieved, makes further ruins’ means irrelevant”: 
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The destructive face is the active and superhuman nihilism that destroys power, to return to the terrible state of nature of Hobbes. The creator one wants an order without the head, not without rules. This is what anarchy dreams about: a society without a head, where people cooperate on a solidarity basis and are able to determine themselves.
By the way, V forced the people to break free as he forced Evey through the prison deception, but he ends to realize that the choice of what the new world will be is not up to him. In full anarchist style he dies for not becoming the next leader, but leaving to the people the possibility to decide for themselves:
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kainosite · 5 years
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Les Misérables 2018, Episode 4
If I post the review before the next episode airs in the US that counts as “timely”, right?
The Good
• Extremely South London Éponine is the best thing in this series.  From the moment she steps into Marius’ room, their interactions are absolutely perfect.  Her crass attempt to offer herself to him and her delighted wonder when it fails, Marius’ appalled, half-paralyzed bewilderment at the whole situation and his awkward charity, Davies’ made-up slang for the écu, “You’re a star, are you sure!?”,  Éponine code-switching at the end and then grabbing the bread on her way out, even the noncanonical, nonconsensual kiss – the whole scene is spot-on from start to finish.
As is her reunion with the rest of the Thénardier clan.  The coarse sisterly banter and Azelma’s look of joy when Éponine hands her the stale bread, Thénardier’s petulant ranting, his violence towards Éponine and Mme. Thénardier’s weary indifference to it, his immediate attempt to crush Éponine into submission when she shows any sign of independence or self-worth – it all paints a vivid picture of Éponine’s world, and the juxtaposition to the scene with Marius makes it very clear that her infatuation with him is not about a crush on a boy but rather about getting the hell away from all this.  And I love that she grabbed her five francs back at the end.
• It’s interesting that the miniseries with the most graphically awful Toulon also has the most determinedly reclusive Valjean, and it’s consistent with his experience in Montreuil-sur-Mer as well.  In the novel Madeleine’s fall is precipitated by his carelessness towards his subordinates, first with regard to the consequences of his factory’s morality policy and then with regard to Javert’s feelings.  But that’s all pretty indirect, and Brick Valjean could reasonably feel that he was the victim of an arbitrary misfortune and that if he’d been a bit luckier everything would have worked out fine.  Westjean, on the other hand, was hunted from the moment Javert showed up in town and was personally responsible for Fantine’s downfall.  From his perspective, his attempt to participate in society must seem like a catastrophe.  He might well wonder whether it’s possible for someone in his position to do any good at all, given the debacle in Montreuil.  Both guilt and prudence suggest it might be better to just give up and become a hermit.
• Cosette’s little convent friends.  This miniseries has consistently gone out of its way to place the female leads in community with other women, and it’s nice to see.
• Rivette continues to be excellent even with a silly moustache.
• The Mabeuf + Marius timeline continues to be nonsensical, but I enjoyed their meet-cute and Marius was charmingly obtuse.  I also enjoyed Davies’ commitment to Georges Pontmercy/Mabeuf, which is the only explanation I can think of for why Mabeuf might keep a collection of old newspaper clippings about Georges in his attic.
• Gillenormand is still pitch-perfect.
• This episode was not Quinjolras’s finest hour, but he was extremely done with Marius’ shit, which though not particularly Brick-accurate is a quality I always appreciate in an Enjolras.  Giving him Combeferre’s “To be free” line was inspired.  I’m also impressed by his ability to adjust his rhetoric to match his audience – “Think of the poor veterans living in poverty!” is the way to win Marius to the side of revolution, if anything will.
• The juxtaposition of Javert’s lonely, cheerless bedtime routine and Valjean broodingly watching Cosette at the piano could have been filmed by a Valvert shipper (Look!  They’ll never be complete without each other!), which in a way I suppose it was.
• The police patrolling the Luxembourg Gardens while Cosette is looking around in raptures was a nice subtle touch.  This series plays up the Valjean vs. Cosette conflict more than I might like, but it does a very good job of showing you where they both are coming from.
• THE HANDKERCHIEF SCENE!
• I do appreciate Westjean’s ongoing commitment to self-branding.  Also the fact that they included the chisel scene makes the Coin of Shame a nice piece of foreshadowing.
The Meh
• I suppose it makes sense for a Cosette raised by Shouty Valjean to shout a lot herself.  This Valjean + Cosette pair actually articulate their needs and desires and communicate them to each other, instead of repressing everything and sinking into silent depression.
On the one hand, that’s healthy.  Good for them.  I know people are concerned about the tenor of their relationship, but frankly Westjean has done a better job than Brick Valjean of raising Cosette out of the unquestioning silence of her abuse.  They both adopted a kid who “had suffered so much that she feared everything – even to speak, even to breathe”.  Only Westjean has a kid who doesn’t exhibit the exact same trauma symptoms six years later.
On the other hand, who are these people?
• I do not appreciate Javert’s medal, but I very much appreciate Javert’s resentment of his medal while there’s still a Valjean on the loose.  If we’ve gotta go Bread Crimes let’s really commit to it.
• Sister Simplice is convinced the outside world has become more dangerous.  Sure, I guess?  1823-25 when they came into the convent was a relatively calm period, and there has just been a successful revolution.  Still, this seems like a good time for the show to mention that.
• “Wow,” I thought, “What a perfect choice for the Rue de l’Homme Armé!”  Oh wait, it’s the Rue Plumet which is still mostly orchards at this point.  That said, the garden is fantastic.
• Marius’ wet dream was actually okay.  After the Éponine Peep Show Incident I feared the worst, but there was nothing terribly wrong with it.  Marius had vaguely sexual thoughts about Cosette, his subconscious pulled a bait-and-switch and transformed her into Éponine, at which point he went “Nope nope nope DNW!” and awoke in a cold sweat.  This is not at all an unreasonable thing for Marius to dream, especially in an adaptation that’s dangling Éponine’s sexuality in front of him as aggressively as this one is.  The key theme of Marius/Éponine from Marius’ end, which is that he’s not attracted to her because he understands it’s immoral to fuck starving child prostitutes, comes through loud and clear.
• What a weird way to do the Chaîne scene.  I can see it happening: most Valjeans would never intentionally expose Cosette to a sight like this, but because Westjean is stuck with a Cosette who actually asserts her needs, he has to push back much harder than usual in order to maintain their secrecy.  He doesn’t show her the Chaîne to punish her or upset her – it’s clearly an ill-judged attempt to convince her The World Is Bad and win their argument from the day before, and perhaps also to start a conversation about his own past which will explain why he’s a paranoid recluse.  A bit manipulative perhaps, but that’s well within Valjean’s repertoire, and he’s thoroughly punished for it by the narrative since the whole scheme ends up backfiring horribly on him.  Cosette is not just appalled by this glimpse into the brutality of their society but repulsed by the convicts themselves, and the viewers get an explanation for why Valjean will be so adamant later that Cosette must never learn his true history.
I do think the Chaîne scene is important for explaining Valjean’s Cosette Issues so I’m always glad when an adaptation decides to include it, but on balance I think it works better when they stumble across it by accident.
• The attempted kidnapping at the Gorbeau tenement was fine.  Points for including the chisel and all the “neighbors” slipping into the room, minus points for Valjean punching everyone.  I’m not sure why Valjean thought paying off Thénardier would help anything, but then Valjean has never been the king of good decisions and this Valjean less than most.
The Bad
• I appreciate Valjean’s aspiration to spend the rest of his life hiding in a hole.  I do not appreciate the hard sell on Cosette taking the veil.  It just makes him seem selfish and inconsiderate of her needs, to a degree that he isn’t in the novel.  His “I thought we’d found a home here together where you could grow up and I could grow old, and you could grow old, and I could die, and you could die, and we’d be buried and we’d be together forever! :D :D :D” line is hilarious and adorable in the way it expresses the tragic limits of his aspirations, but I would sacrifice it in order to lose this scene.
• After holding down the fort on costumes and set design for two episodes, the Prefecture of Police sadly let us down this episode.  You guys were doing so well!  No uniforms, no illegal tricolors in 1823 like some adaptations we could mention *cough2012cough*, but now it’s 1832 and suddenly everyone is dressed like an officier de paix and Javert has a medal and they’ve still got the fleur-de-lys up.  Also that blah jacket of navy serge is not what the Prefect of Police’s uniform looked like in the 1830s, lmao.  I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s fancier than that now.  That thing Chabouillet was wearing in the 1978 movie is also not remotely what the Prefect’s uniform looks like, but at least they bothered to slap some gold braid on it.
I will grudgingly accept the uniforms as a visual representation of the increasing professionalization of the police, Not!Gisquet’s Légion d’honneur is a reasonable reward for him apparently allowing the July Revolution to happen, and I do appreciate them swapping the portrait of Louis XVIII for Louis-Philippe inside, but there’s no excuse for Javert’s medal or the flag.
• Surely the entire purpose of casting Josh O'Connor as Marius is so Marius can be shy and stiff and awkward, and emphasize these qualities by having a face that consists primarily of nose and ears?  Otherwise you could cast someone who actually looks like Marius.
I know everyone shouts a lot in this and he probably needs to be able to shout back to keep up with Cosette, but from his very first words to Gillenormand he’s far too assertive and confrontational.  Part of the charm of Marius/Cosette is how isolated and naive they both are, and how these victims of childhood abuse are able to find in each other a safety they might not find in anyone else.  (Marius’ damage is obvious, and while Cosette’s is more subtle her tendency towards unquestioning acceptance would leave her incredibly vulnerable to the Tholomyèses of the world.)  This adaptation portrayed this kind of mutual refuge very well with Valjean/Fantine, of all things, so it’s weird they didn’t think to do it here.
Of course, Bambersette is healthier than Brick Cosette in some ways so maybe she doesn’t need it so much, but they still need to sell us on the pairing somehow.  Meet-cutes in the Luxembourg are all very well, but handkerchief sniffing can only get you so far.
• I see Fantine’s inability to put her hair up like a respectable woman is hereditary.
• If we have to see this much of the principal-tenant of the Gorbeau House I want to see some parrots, dammit.
• Éponine has a job and we have no reason to assume she’s bad at it, so I’m not going to say she wouldn’t do a sexy peephole dance for her new neighbor the law student.  At this point she knows nothing of Marius’ virtuous chastity; all she knows is that he’s young, male, richer than her, and she’s probably going to be forced to sleep with him for money at some point.  This scene could happen.
But we sure as fuck didn’t need to see it.  Stop sexualizing the starving child prostitute, Davies.  It’s disgusting.
• Speaking of things not to sexualize, why the hell does the dressmaker assume Valjean is Cosette’s sugar daddy and not her actual relative?  It made sense that everyone thought so last week because Valjean was being super shady.  It makes sense for Thénardier still to think so, because Thénardier is Thénardier.  It makes absolutely no sense for random strangers to assume it.  It’s the nineteenth century!  People die in childbirth!  There’s a cholera epidemic!  Teenage girls need their fathers to take them clothes shopping because all their female relatives are dead.  This is not such an unusual scenario that anyone would remark on it, or make highly offensive insinuations about a customer.  And why doesn’t Valjean just introduce himself to people as her father???
Mild, mild Valjean/Cosette is Brick canon and I don’t think we can justly criticize an adaption for including it, but every random passerby shouldn’t be remarking on it.
• On my first viewing of this episode, I assumed that its portrayal of the Amis as tiresome drunken louts could be explained by the fact that Andrew Davies simply didn’t like Enjolras, and probably not the other Amis or the June Rebellion very much either.  The superb barricade sequence in the subsequent episodes demolishes that theory.  Never has it been portrayed so well, and certainly not in any English language adaptation.  But that leaves me at an absolute loss to explain what Davies was doing here.  This is our first introduction to the Amis: they should be likable, so that we will like them.  They are not.
The irony is that it’s not particularly hard to prosecute a case against Enjolras, if you want to complicate his heroism a bit.  Enjolras is ridiculous and slightly insufferable!  Enjolras is a guy who thinks “Citizen, my mother is the Republic,” is a coherent and comforting response when his best friend musically drags your Napoleon eulogy.  I mean, just look at these twats in hats in the Théâtre de la Jeunesse adaptation.  They are highly mockable!  And on a more somber note, Enjolras led a revolutionary cell that misjudged the public mood so badly it got a hundred people killed to no useful purpose.
But Enjolras is not deliberately trying to orchestrate a battle to the death over France’s system of government.  Enjolras had the chance to battle to the death only two years ago, and he’s still here.  What Enjolras wants is to jump up on Lamarque’s casket and have all the National Guards and the troops of the line wave their muskets in the air and say “Yeah, fuck that pear-faced buffoon!  Down with the king!  Vive la république!”  That’s why his side have been quietly trying to propagandize and subvert every military unit in Paris for months, which Davies knows, because Enjolras mentions it himself in Episode 5!  If the monarchy could be overthrown without any bloodshed at all, that would be ideal.
And Enjolras has too much dignity to throw food at anyone, even Grantaire.  If we must take a swipe at Enjolras through the medium of food fights, Courfeyrac should throw food at Grantaire and Enjolras should give him a pious lecture about wasting food when so many are starving.  That wouldn’t be in character either, but it’s at least within shooting distance of proper characterization and it highlights annoying qualities the characters actually have.
• Speaking of annoying qualities characters don’t have, when Courfeyrac is coming off as sleazier than Tholomyès you are doing it wrong.  Courfeyrac knows girls you don’t have to pay, beyond the usual ‘showing them a good time’ expenses.  He does not have to take his dorky virgin friend to a brothel to get him laid!
• Grantaire is a drunk, but he’s a grandiloquent drunk.  That is... his entire characterization.  How could anyone get this wrong?
• That fucking brothel scene.  WHY.
If you must do a Sexual Awakening of Marius plotline, and evidently Andrew Davies must, I think the correct sequence is this: Courfeyrac and Grantaire take him out beyond the barrières and try to set him up with cute girls.  Marius is having none of it, of course; he’s too shy and awkward, girls are scary, he doesn’t want a fling.  Then he sees Cosette in the park and he’s smitten.
A visit to a brothel Courfeyrac is too classy ever to patronize is not in the cards.  The sole redeeming feature of this scene was the fact that Enjolras declined to attend.
This episode was a return to form, and by form I mean the Thénardiers were fantastic and everything else was incredibly fucking uneven.  While I can’t say that this Gavroche will make fun of Enjolras’ rubbish beard, I can say this Gavroche would make fun of Enjoras’ rubbish beard, and that’s what really counts.
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froglegsz · 3 years
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okay!!! i finished!!! its over
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chibiauthorchan · 5 years
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The Hetalian’s Guide to the Galaxy
Wow, long time no post! I heard @alifeasvivid​ talk about a crossover between Hetalia (maining USUK) and the novel The Hitchhickers Guide to the Galaxy. The source material for this project I wrote for an English class back in high school belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and Douglas Adams respectively. For those of you who have read the latter you will notice that yes, this is strikingly similar. But I had a lot of fun writing this when I did and putting in tons of fun Easter eggs. I hope you enjoy! (P.S. Tumblr messes with the formatting, sorry)
Contents: THGttG, Preface and about a fourth of Chapter 1 (it’s really long) Word count: 2,178 Warnings: Alcohol mention, aliens, impending destruction of the Earth Summary: Arthur Kirkland woke up hungover, thinking this was just going to like any other day. Well, it wasn’t.
This is the story of a terrible, stupid catastrophe and some of its consequences. All of which except said consequences happened on a Thursday.
This is also the story of a parody of a book named after another book that was dreamt up by an 11th-grade girl set in an alternate universe from both her own and the one of the original book named after another book. The book that the book was named after is known as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy- which is not a book that originated from Earth from any of these universes nor was it published on any of these Earths. The book named after that book is in fact found on earth, but only in the universe that this 11th-grade girl comes from as this is the only universe where such a book exists. This story that parodies the book named after the other book and shall be called The Hetalian’s Guide to the Galaxy because this girl is a lover of puns. You see, the universe this parody of a book named after a book has characters from one anime series known as Hetalia placed into the world of the book named after the book. It’s a pun as fans of this anime are known as Hetalians. A pun is a joke based off of wordplay that in fact does not originate from any of these Earths so the earth fellow who thought himself clever from inventing the joke form was, in reality, reusing a billion-year-old idea that had long died out everywhere else in any of these universes.
Nevertheless, the book that the book this story parodies is named after is a wholly remarkable book.
In fact, it was probably the most remarkable book ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor- of which no Earthman has ever heard of unless one comes from the universe in which this 11th-grade girl comes from and that individual has also read the book named after the other book¹. Much of these first three pages this girl has found unnecessary to the plot and it is being skipped over. Thus one could say this is also an abridged parody of a book named after a book. The one only slightly necessary piece of information relevant to something that will come later is that there are two books. One known as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and one known as the great Encyclopedia Galactica which was only mentioned one other time in the entirety of the book named after the other book.
So, with that out of the way let’s get to the good stuff. Which follows as thus.
The story of this terrible, stupid Thursday, the story of its extraordinary consequences, and the story of how these consequences are inextricably intertwined with this remarkable parody of a book named after a book begins very simply. 
It begins with a house.
¹The 11th-grade girl writing this project would like to apologize in advance for all of the ways this parody will take twists and turns and make no sense as it talks about parodies of books named after books and the different universes the worlds these pieces of the puzzle come from. It is not her intention to confuse, this is simply the format of the book named after a book that this story is a parody of. This parody will also include plenty of British English slang as in both the book named after a book and in this parody our main character is an Englishman. Yes, long only semi-necessary footnotes such as these are found in this book named after a book and the parody will follow suit in style.
This house stood alone on the edge of a small town. It wasn't very special. Thirty years old, made of brick, and had four windows with a size and proportion with the rest of the house that was anything but aesthetically pleasing. The only person to which this house held any special value was a man named Arthur Kirkland or is it Dent? For the sake of this parody and in order to prevent confusions between the main character from the book named after a book (who's first name just also happens to be Arthur) the main character of this parody is known as Arthur Kirkland. In the universe of this parody the main character's differences with the one from the original book this story parodies don't stop at last names. Arthur Dent is about thirty years old; tall; and dark haired. Arthur Kirkland, on the other hand, is younger, twenty-three on that particular Thursday. He isn't very tall either standing in at 175 cm (or 5' 9" for those who prefer the imperial system) and his hair is anything but dark being a shade of blond that was paler but certainly not dull, and when hit with certain lights his hair even gained a golden halo. His eyebrows, however... well the best way to describe them would be thick, expressive, and surprisingly well kept. Visually they were one of his more well-known traits. The similarities between the two didn't stop at first names. For starters both characters are English. Arthur Dent used to live in London and moved to this small house as London made him nervous and irritable. Arthur Kirkland outside this universe still lives in London, but for the sake of this parody he has also moved (his reason being escaping his siblings). Their personalities are similar too, both being never quite at ease with themselves and being prone to worrying. Arthur Kirkland just being a little fierier but an English gentleman nonetheless.
The night before this particular Thursday it rained quite heavily as it is known to do in England. The ground outside was wet and muddy, however, that morning the sun was shining bright and clear as it shone down on Arthur's house for what was to be the very last time.
See, it hadn’t properly registered for Arthur that the council wanted to knock his house down and build a bypass through the rubble.
That morning at eight o'clock Arthur woke up not feeling very well. He did not enjoy the sunshine. Instead, he wanted to crawl back in his blankets and curse the sun away as it was effectively making his morning much worse. Instead, he forced himself to get up which he did quite blearily. He got up, opened a window, caught sight of a bulldozer outside, found his red, fuzzy slippers and slipped them on, grabbed his favorite dark green dressing gown and slipped that on as well, then stomped off to the bathroom for a wash.
Toothpaste on the brushㅡso. Scrub.
Shaving mirrorㅡpointing at the ceiling. Arthur adjusted it. For a split second a second bulldozer could be seen in the reflection as it was visible through the bathroom window. He completely ignored this and with the mirror now properly adjusted it show Arthur his own face and his stubble which he promptly shaved off. Arthur washed his face, dried it off, then stomped off to the kitchen to find something to eat or drink for that matter.
Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, tea. Yawn.
For a brief moment the word bulldozer found it’s way into Arthur’s thoughts. He tried to find something to connect the word to.
The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was certainly a big one. Large enough to take care of a house.
For a moment Arthur stared at it.
“What an ugly shade of yellow.” He thought before stomping back to his bedroom to get dressed. He didn’t get very far.
Before he got back to his bedroom Arthur took a quick pit stop at the bathroom in order to fetch a glass of water to drink. Then he drank another. It was at this point Arthur began to suspect that he was in fact hungover. It wasn't uncommon for Arthur to wake up with an annoying alcohol induced headache but the question that crossed his mind is why? Of course in order to be hung over one had to have been drinking. So why had he been drinking? His thoughts were interrupted by a flash of color in the shaving mirror. "Yellow..." was all that was thought before Arthur proceeded to the bedroom.
In the middle of picking out his clothes memories of last night suddenly came rushing back. “The pub,” was the first thing that came to mind, “of course it was the bloody pub! Where else could it have been?!” After that short internal argument more memories returned but in a very vague fashion. He remembered being fairly upset about... something. He’d been complaining about it to other random pub goers in a drunk whining sort of fashion. The clearest visual recollection was of the glazed, drunken looks on the faces of others in the pub. What was it that made him feel the need to become absolutely smashed over? Arthur wracked his brain trying to remember. “Something... bypass...” He mumbled. Deciding that is wasn’t extremely important he resumed getting ready for his day.
Dear God though his hangover was almost unbearable. Whatever he did he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something extremely important. Arthur caught a glance of himself in the wardrobe mirror, proceeded to call himself an utter twat for drinking too much yet again, then attempted to fix his messy hair in the mirror. It didn’t help much, his hair was naturally a mess. He settled for the usual level of tame which meant the choppy layers of his hair laid relatively neatly. The word yellow came to mind again and Arthur tried to find something to connect the word to.
Fifteen seconds later he was outside his house laying in the mud in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path.
Mr. Raivis Galante was, as they say, only human. Which meant that he's a bipedal carbon-based life form which shared a common ancestor with apes which live on earth. Mr. Raivis Galante more specifically was in his late teens to early twenties (though he looked to be around 15), short, scrawny, and worked for the local council. On a completely unnecessary note Mr. Galante was a direct male descendant of Alexander Nevsky. He really didn't look much like Alexander and was by no means a warrior type, in fact, he was a nervous, worried man. The reason he was particularly nervous and worried that Thursday morning was his job has something go seriously wrong as Arthur Kirkland's house was supposed to be demolished by the end of the day and Arthur Kirkland was laying in the mud in front of his house preventing the bulldozers from doing their job.
“C-come off it, Mr. Kirkland,” he said with a nervous stutter, “you can’t win, y-you know. I-It’s not like you can lay in f-front of the bulldozer forever.” The small man tried to look intimidating by trying to produce a fire in his eyes but it was near impossible for him to look anything close to intimidating.
Arthur lay there in the mud unmoving as he spat back with his usual English stubbornness.
“I’m game,” he responded confidently, “we’ll see who rots here first. I know it won’t be me.”
“I-I’m afraid you have to a-accept it,” Mr. Galante said fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, “w-we have to build this bypass, a-and we’re going to do it!” He ended up shouting trying to swallow his nerves, but the effort had no effect.
"Well this is the first I've heard of it," Arthur commented casually, "why's it got to be built in the first place?"
The smaller man’s hands balled into fists but he forced them to relax. He wouldn’t be able to hit Arthur anyways. “What do you mean why?” His stutter was gone thanks to his building frustrations. “It’s a bypass, you’ve got to build it.”
A bypass is a simple structure that allows people to get to one point to another and vice versa. Arthur lived in between these hypothetical points and found no use for the bypass. Raivis wanted to be far away from any of these points especially if it meant he wasn't dealing with Arthur. However, none of this justifies the young man's logic over why the bypass must be built.
Raivis shifted his weight around uncomfortable not being able to find a suitable balance. Someone hadn’t done their job right and he could only pray that it wasn’t him.
“Y-you were entitled to make a-any suggestions or protests back when it would have b-been appropriate, Mr. Kirkland.” The small man’s stutter returned along with his nerves. He avoided making eye contact with the Brit lying on the ground as he continued to shift uncomfortably.
“Appropriate time?” Arthur mused with fake interest. “Appropriate time?” When he repeated the phrase his tone was less amused. “The first I knew about this bloody construction project was when a workman just happened to pop by my house the other day. He was the first to tell me anything about your bypass by informing me quite bluntly that my house was to be demolished. Demolished, and at first I thought he was there to clean the bleeding windows! Which I might add that he did charging me a fiver before dropping that bomb on me.” Arthur was absolutely fuming. Even laying there in the mud in his dressing gown he managed to be frightening.
"B-but Mr. Kirkland, th-the plans have been available in the planning office for the l-last nine months." Mr. Galante tried fruitlessly to reason with the disgruntled Englishman in front of him but Arthur was having none of it.
"Oh, as soon as I found out I went down to your planning office to see them. I headed straight there yesterday afternoon. They weren't exactly somewhere a normal person could find them easily. Absolutely no effort was put into calling attention to them!" Arthur's words were dripping with venom and sarcasm.
“B-but the plans were on d-display...”
“On display?! I had to go into the cellar to find them!”
“Th-that’s the display department.”
“I had to bring a torch with me!”
“Th-the lights must have gone...”
“Yes apparently so had the stairs.”
“B-but you found the notice, d-didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Arthur said seething with rage, “yes I did. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying ‘Beware of the Leopard.’ ”
Mr. Galante frowned slightly as a cloud passed overhead casting a shadow over Arthur and his house the former of which lay in the cold mud propped up by his elbow. He just couldn’t understand why Arthur would defend such a house so feverishly.
“It’s not as if it’s a particularly nice house...” he mumbled showing off his bad habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong time. It usually resulted in making someone angry, if they weren’t angry already.
“Well excuse me, but I happen to like it.” Arthur replied with an incredibly sarcastic voice.
“You’ll like the bypass!” Raivis tried to counter.
“Oh piss off!” Arthur spat. “Just piss off and go away, and take your bloody bypass with you! You haven’t got a leg to stand on and you know it!”
Mr. Galante’s mouth opened and closed several times as he wracked his brain for something to say in response to Arthur’s outburst. His mind for a moment was filled with visions of Arthur’s house being torn apart in the most horrific of ways some of which ended in a blaze of fire with Arthur himself running and screaming from the flaming ruin. Raivis was sometimes plagued with these dark thoughts but he could never act on them being too nervous and worried to do so.
"M-m-mr. Kirk-kland?" He stuttered trying to pull his thoughts back from the dark place they accidentally slipped into.
“Yes? What is it?” Arthur had no patience left in his voice.
“J-just wondering, do you have any idea how much damage a bulldozer would suffer if I  just let it roll straight over you?” The small, trembling man had no actual intention of doing such a thing, he just wanted to see if it would scare Arthur off.
“No, how much?” Arthur asked.
“None at all.” Raivis responded with bravado before storming off.
By curious coincidence, “None at all” is exactly how much suspicion Arthur held over whether his closest friends was in fact not an earth native life form. This friend was in fact from a small planet far away from Earth somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse not from a Gildford as this friend usually claimed.
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roses-and-oceans · 5 years
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Once Upon a Dream ~ Chpt. 4
I just want to say a big thank you to everyone that has been reblogging my gf’s post about kofi donations. It means so much to us and we’re absolutely blown away by your kindness,words can’t express my gratitude for you all and I really hope that at least these can be some sort of repayment. expect another chpt soon <3
**
After being revived with a few slaps, you came to.
“'I need you'. He needs me!” You jolted up, nearly knocking the glasses off Ignis' nose.
Gladio grabbed your arms to keep hold of you, “Slow down, you're not going anywhere!”
“This isn't good,” Prompto squeaked.
Gladiolus looked up and saw the dark storm clouds over head from the window. They thundered loud and terrifyingly close.
“We need to get out of here. Now.”
You got up and grabbed your woolen, knit blanket. Ignis immediately took it and wrapped it around you, “Steady on.” Gladiolus and Prompto ran next to you. Gladiolus scooped you up like it was nothing. The howling winds outside nearly knocked the party off their feet on the first step but it seemed the storm just stayed over your home. From town, you were able to see the thunderstorm engulf the little area of your home.
When Gladiolus finally set you down, your knees were wobbling. You limped over to a chair and Ignis brought you a cup of tea a few minutes later. Even with the warmth of the blanket and tea, you still shivered. Prompto saw this and asked, “Can I sit with you?”
You looked up at him and nodded. He pulled up a chair right next to you and opened his arms wide. You immediately curl up next to him and he's warm, he's so warm and you feel safe. But you feel guilty. The prince...
You curled up into him and inhaled the scent of his shirt; he always smelled of bread and yeast, like its been baked into him all these years.
“Prompto, he needs you.” you said in a small voice after a few minutes of silence.
He looked down at you, his eyebrows furrowed, “Wha-? Who are you talking about?”
“My prince.”
He paled.
“What?”
“He needs you, he needs me, too. I'm supposed to help you, we need to go find him.”
“Y/N, Noct isn't-.”
“I need to show you something.”
You stood up, stooped over and you threw the blanket off you. You thought of your prince, laying on his bed, bleeding and decorated. There was a glowing light and in your hand appeared a sword. The same sword he held onto. It even had a few browned thorns around it.
Prompto got up so quickly, he knocked over his chair. He looked at you, mouth agape. Ignis and Gladiolus came out from the kitchen and froze.
There was a sudden uproar of noise between the three boys. You couldn't make out any words and you walked past them, sword still in hand. You stood in the meadow near the kitchen door and looked out past the clouds still hovering over your home, thunder and lightning striking. And you looked over to the east.
Your name was called from inside the bakery and Ignis came out, bumping into the door frame, “Y/N?”
He was breathing heavily and stuck his hand out, “Give me the sword. A weapon like that is dangerous for someone who isn't-.”
“Ignis, what's going on?”
Prompto and Gladiolus came from inside too. Prompto looked even more upset than how you left him.
Gladiolus said in a tense voice, “How did you access the King's Magic? How did you get that sword?!”
Ignis held his hand up to Gladiolus, and took a deep breath, “I'm not quite sure. Y/N, can you tell me about these dreams that you've been having?”
You sighed.
You told them. You told them of the grand rooms and tower. You told them about the area surrounding it, the sea of thorns. And then Ignis sat you down on the grass, and told you about his home.
These men were guards of the kingdom, brothers-in-arm with Prince Noctis of the Kingdom of Insomnia. And then the kingdom's grand fall.
As they told you about the exploits of “Noct” they so called him, years seemed to melt into their faces, a heavy burden carried for a fallen brother, sworn to protect his people. An evil being from the depths of Hell killed many people; from nobles to the poor, he had no mercy. They killed allies from neighboring kingdoms. He destroyed Insomnia. His curse lingers in the depths of the castle in the center of a field of thorns, poison and lethal.
You were listening intently but couldn't take your eyes off your feet. Your brain was overloaded with information; the kingdom you dreamed about was real and they knew about it. They've known this dead kingdom, lived with carrying on without their prince. There was no hope-.
“No hope?” Prompto choked out. “No hope? Iggy, c'mon.”
“Prompto, please-.”
You looked up and gasped. They all seemed to grow older and scars marred their faces. You almost cried when you looked at Ignis. He told you about how he sacrificed his vision for trying to save Noct, how after years of hard work, he was able to manage living without sight. Gladiolus' face looked far too tired and his scars were etched like worry lines intersecting above his eye. Prompto looked so tired, it looked like he was about to drop.
Every time you described something, the men would help finish for you. It was so bizarre, listening to them paint exactly how the sunshine painted the autumn days, how beautiful the castle was.
They even described Noct's room at the top.
You shook your head, bringing yourself back to earth, unable to comprehend what they changed the topic to something else.
A champion.
“A 'champion'?,” you asked sheepishly. You tried to keep yourself connected to this conversation. You we'ren't going to faint again, you were not-
“-not going to ignore this completely but we have to think rationally!”
“Y/N is the 'champion' Noctis asked for. Now he needs our help-.”
“HE'S BEEN DEAD FOR TEN YEARS!”
“HE NEEDS OUR HELP!”
You put your hands up, all four kingsmen stopped and looked at you.
“What do I need to do?
Prompto hugged you and whispered, “Thank you, thank you.”
He looked up at Gladiolus, “You haven't said a word, big guy.”
Gladiolus looked at him, sighed, “This doesn't feel good. Nothing feels good.”
Ignis shook his head, “I know I'm very adamant at the idea...”
He cleared his throat; his voice was so low you could barely catch it wavering, “But I can't bear the idea of Noct in anymore pain. I will assist.”
Prompto looked like he could have started crying. He gave you a watery smile and it made you tear up too. The blond man then brought his hand up too eyesight and appeared to have started concentrating. A flash of light summoned a pistol to a his hand and he moaned with longing.
“Oh, I've missed this!”
You smiled at them all, summoning weapons; that's what they called it. You rubbed your head and asked them, “What's this about a champion, then?”
“Champion of the Light,” Ignis began, “It was a term used in children stories. It was just a myth after all, the power of the Caelums were the real magic...”
Ignis was rubbing his glasses but stopped when he realized that everyone was staring at him. He sighed.
“But, in texts, the Champion of Light was the first person to vanquish the Darkness, guide the new world into ever lasting peace after eons of darkness. That was rumored to the be the first Caelum to ascend the throne. And throughout the centuries, the darkness would come back again and the soul of the Champion would return as well.”
“Doesn't the Champion die?” you pondered.
“Well, yes. Think of it as reincarnation. Throughout the millennia, there have been different reported cases of Champions, vanquishing the darkness, slaying the scourge of evil and peace and prosperity being celebrated. I think every few centuries or so, the story would morph and so such is the consequence of children's story.”
**
“There was once a kingdom that celebrated the stars and night sky. The ruling family, seemed to have been made of stars themselves. This kingdom celebrated their hard-earned harvests, their long lasting peace, their life. Though they love the night, they are full of light.
“But one day, during one of their celebrations, the darkness that had been swirling about had lingered too long and wanted to feast upon the light. The darkness was not allowed near the light, for fear of tainting the precious light...
“And so, the selfish, starlit kingdom took the light for themselves.
“The darkness wanted it. The darkness wanted to swallow the light and smother it. Devour it.
“And so I did.”
His voice was velvet.
tagging: @fortheloveofeos @gladiolus-mamacitia @angelic-guardienne @leeyahlee-nai @inconsistencys @furubatsu @hextme @ladychocoberry @mandakatt @casxia @sonsoflucis @allimenthia @gladiosamicitias @whimsyofthewind @jinxed-lynxs-blog
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starwarsnonsense · 5 years
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The Man Who Killed Don Quixote - London Film Festival Review
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Seeing The Man Who Killed Don Quixote yesterday was, to put it mildly, a rather surreal experience. I’ve known Terry Gilliam since I was a little kid introduced to the delightful weirdness of Monty Python’s Flying Circus by her dad (Gilliam mostly concentrated on the animation for Python - a favourite ‘sketch’ of mine involves a people-eating pram), and after I saw Brazil at university I was hooked on his work as a director. The Man Who Killed Don Quixote is a film of quasi-mythic proportions, with Gilliam first coming up with the idea for a Don Quixote film before I was even born. An aborted attempt to make it with Johnny Depp and Jean Rochefort, became so plagued by bad luck that the entire project collapsed. Even the version of the film that Gilliam actually got made, now with Adam Driver and Jonathan Pryce as his stars, continues to be cursed - this time, a legal challenge from a former producer has resulted in the movie failing to get distribution outside of a few European countries. I am one of the lucky ones in that I was able to see it at the London Film Festival. 
(n.b. if you’re in the UK and missed it in London, there is a screening in Bath, Somerset on 10 November 2018.)
Now I’ve seen it with my own two eyes, I can say that The Man Who Killed Quixote (hereafter Quixote) is a quintessential Terry Gilliam film - it has the quirky humour, surreal images and blending of fantasy and reality you’d expect. It was messy as hell, but it was thoroughly entertaining. I saw 10 films at the London Film Festival, and while I saw several films that were better I enjoyed Quixote the most out of all of them.
I will be writing a full and detailed review of the film below, which will include spoilers. If you want to wait for an opportunity to see the film for yourself, I recommend skipping this review and waiting for your chance.
The film starts by introducing us to Adam Driver as Toby, who is directing an elaborate, Quixote-themed commercial. Driver excels as a cocky, egotistical womaniser - while he flits from woman to woman and frequently confuses their names, he nonetheless remains appealing and charming. At a dinner Toby is approached by a mysterious gypsy who offers him a bootleg DVD of a student film he made 10 years prior - seeing the film again causes Toby to become distracted and reminisce about his student days, and the creativity and passion for filmmaking that he has now lost. Upon returning to the village he used as the setting for his film, he finds he left shattered lives in his wake - Javier, the cobbler he cast as Quixote, is now convinced that he’s the old adventurer, and insists that Toby is actually his squire Sancho Panza. Another casualty of Toby’s student film was Angelica, the daughter of the local innkeeper, who Toby seduced with naive suggestions of a career in the movies - Angelica went to the city to pursue her dream, but found herself resorting to escort work when the stardom she’d aspired towards came to nothing.
Through a series of bizarre events too convoluted to properly describe, Toby has to team up with Javier/Quixote, and they make for a delightfully entertaining odd couple. While Javier/Quixote is steadfast in his identity as Don Quixote de la Mancha (Pryce is typically charming, although the role doesn’t call for him to do much beyond be obstinately cheerful and bull-headed with his persistence), Toby goes on an epic journey of development and self-reflection - through his encounters, he is forced to face up to the consequences of his actions. More importantly, however, he is forced to acknowledge the power and importance of fantasy and imagination. While Toby starts off ranting at Javier/Quixote, driven by panic and frustration as he demands that his companion break free of his delusion, he eventually recognises that there is something admirable in how Javier/Quixote lives. Javier/Quixote, as it turns out, possesses all the honour and integrity that Toby lost long ago. In this film, delusion isn’t depicted as a state to which you retreat to escape - it’s shown to be something emboldening that allows people to face things, achieve things, that would be unthinkable if they were entirely sane. 
Take, for example, the relationship between Toby and Angelica. We first see them together as young people in flashback - their first meeting is framed in terms of her innocence and his youthful enthusiasm. They respond to those qualities in each other, and Toby carries the memory of an innocent and beatific Angelica in his mind right up until the moment when her father confronts him with the knowledge that Angelica has become a sex worker (a well-deserved criticism of this movie is that every single female character is either a crone, a whore or a pious virgin, with some characters skipping between categories as the plot demands). 
When they reunite in the present, it’s in a magical environment - Toby has fallen into a cave filled with water, and he looks up to see Angelica bathing under a waterfall, framed to look ethereal and nymph-like. It’s very much a reunion that feeds into Toby’s idealised memories, going some way towards overcoming his knowledge of the state she has been reduced to. Later, he can no longer escape that reality - at an elaborate medieval-themed costume part held by Angelica’s vile lover and keeper, Alexei, Toby is forced to watch as Angelica is debased and humiliated, having to lick the remains of a canape from Alexei’s foot. It’s deeply upsetting - for the viewer as much for Toby.
This sight kickstarts a kind of psychological collapse in Toby - he goes from insulting Angelica, cruelly condemning her “choice” to remain a whore (in those insults, I sensed Toby’s need for Angelica’s situation to be her fault, rather than his), to being shocked from that spite and cynicism during his dance with her. Angelica slaps him for each insult, and at the culmination of the dance they kiss passionately and resolve to run away together. They are held back by Javier/Quixote’s refusal to insult their guests’ hospitality by leaving prematurely, and Angelica is caught and separated from Toby. Toby becomes frantic as he searches for Angelica, and starts chasing a woman wearing her red dress - only when he reaches the bedroom at the top of the tower does Toby realise the woman he was chasing was Jacqui, a former flame who wished to trick Toby into making love to her. Toby is further tormented as he looks down from the bedroom to see Angelica strapped down to a pyre being set alight - now Toby, like Javier before him, is losing sight of reality. Instead of the cynical director, he is now the knight on a quest to save his love. This culminates with the end of the film, where Toby does indeed become the next Quixote, with Angelica as his squire (this was handled in a quite delightful fashion, with Angelica’s kiss being met with a saucy comment on how the relationship between Quixote and Pancha is about to take an interesting turn). The film ends with Toby/Quixote and Angelica riding off into the sunset. It’s an ending that makes no sense as a rational resolution to their story, but it feels perfectly natural in the context of the chivalric fantasy that the film ends as.
To focus on this is to focus on but a single thread of the film, but it is probably the thread I found most interesting. Quixote is rather problematic in terms of its depictions (particularly of its female and minority characters), and you never forget that you are watching a film framed solidly around a man’s experience. The dreams and fantasies that Quixote concerns itself with are very much those of men - the desire to be a hero, the desire to be a saviour, and the desire to be covered in glory. What is most interesting about this film, then, is how it interrogates these fantasies and explores what is required to fulfil them (the answer, in my view, is at least some degree of madness). 
The only clear message to emerge from this film is that Quixote himself is the truest model of nobility and courage - Toby only becomes more heroic as he edges closer to the qualities that characterise Quixote, but there is fascinating ambiguity in the ending. At the end, Toby himself seems lost, as Javier was lost before him, and almost every trace of the person he used to be has been wiped away. I think that, for Gilliam, this was perhaps the only way he could see of giving Toby a “happy” ending. The Toby who we see at the start of a film is a creature who existed on the surface of life, interested exclusively in making money and satisfying his sexual appetite. By the end, Toby is filled with earnest conviction and belief in the principles of chivalry - he bears almost no resemblance to the person he started out as (cheeky innuendo to Angelica aside), and the message to be taken from this is clearly deliberately elusive. Is Toby’s ending a victory for dreamers, with him saving his true love and riding off into the sunset? Or is it a statement on the impossibility of atoning for past mistakes in any realm besides the fantastic one? (For me, the jury is still out.)
The whole film is, in many ways, an allegory, and I think it might well be Gilliam’s testament as an artist. It’s not his most accomplished film and it’s lacking in several respects (particularly budgetary - you can tell this represents a compromised vision), but I can confidently say it’s one of his more interesting works and it’s quintessentially his. I think any person with artistic leanings could look at this film and see Toby and Quixote as the two different faces of creativity - Toby is the base reality that many creative people become reduced to, while Quixote is the pinnacle of shining sincerity and passion that many aspire to but few can attain. It’s a messy film with grand ambitions that it can’t quite live up to, but it’s absolutely fascinating and I sincerely hope I don’t need to wait another ten years to see it again.
(And to lower the tone for the end of this piece, Adam Driver is devastatingly attractive here - the kissing scenes are ridiculously sensual, and Adam rocks an off-the-shoulder cape like he was born to wear medieval high fashion. We also need more films where Adam is a romantic hero who rides about on horseback.)
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