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therenlover · 3 years

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In Fleeting Touches & Airy Sighs Chapter One (A Three Chapter Helmut Zemo/Reader Fanfic)

(Thank you to the wonderful anon who requested angst and smut between Zemo and the reader because Zemo had to be away from her on the run!)

Synopsis: A year after working together with Zemo in the events of Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Sam and Bucky seek him out once again in need of shelter from John Walker. Meanwhile, Zemo’s wife resents his absence and prepares for guests.

Tags: Flashbacks, Depression, Alcoholism, Separation Anxiety, Arguing, Struggling Marriage, Reunions

Rating: T (E in future chapters)

Warnings: Guns, Swearings, Reader shows signs of alcoholism/alcohol abuse, Reader uses a hot shower as a mild form of self harm

Word Count: 5000~

This fic has been crossposted under the same title to my AO3!

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Helmut Zemo was not often a man backed into a corner.

He was smart, resourceful, and had nothing left to lose. If it came down to the line, he would do whatever had to be done within his morals to achieve his goals, even if that goal was simply staying alive. The Baron bowed to no man, and made his enemies, no matter their size, fall to their knees with sheer wit instead of brute strength. That’s why, when he stood backed into an alley with the barrel of James Barnes’ gun to his forehead as the Falcon watched on, it was strange that he didn’t try to weasel his way out.

“We need answers,” Sam said, hands in the pockets of his dark hoodie. Bucky wore a similar one, only he wore a baseball cap instead of keeping his hood up. “How the hell did you break out of prison for a second time?”

Usually, Zemo would have replied with a clever quip. He had never been one to back down from a fight. This time, though, he looked almost frightened as he raised his arms in defeat. “I got in contact with friends on the outside during our short adventure together. They decided to help me out once I was re-incarcerated, willingly I might add. I had no part in the plan, but who would look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“And I guess I’m just supposed to assume you had no part in getting my pardon revoked?” Bucky spat.

“If you hadn’t noticed, James, I’ve left you alone,” A hint of his usual mockery slipped into Helmut’s tone, but he quickly pulled it back, “Believe what you want about me, but I’ve had some time since last year to… re-evaluate my feelings on the world. You had no choice but to do the things you did as the Winter Soldier, and as long as you pose no threat to society now I have no qualms with you,”

Despite the strangeness of Zemo’s response Bucky remained unphased. Sam, on the other hand, was less stoic.

“Man, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but the government is looking for Bucky and I harder than they’re looking for you, and it’s kind of all your fault, so excuse me for not giving a shit about your supposed sudden change of heart!”

“Can we get to the point? I’m afraid my flight leaves in an hour and I would hate to be late,”

“Cut the bullshit!” There Bucky went, pushing the cold metal closer to Zemo’s furrowed forehead.

“Bucky...” Sam warned.

“No, Sam, I can do this. Did you or did you not actively attempt to get my pardon revoked when you took us to Madripoor? Because thanks to you, a worse symbol than Sam is now standing unchecked with the title of Captain America AND he has access to the last of the new super soldier serum AND he’s trying to get us killed so we can’t tell the world about the awful shit he does,”

“I-” Zemo went to speak and, for the first time since he had met him, Sam believed he was being genuine. There was a tremble that made its way through him, all the way to his raised hands and even his voice. It was enough that Bucky even lowered the gun minutely. “I understood that by following my lead, the both of you were risking a lot. I didn’t intend any specific malice with my actions though, no. If I may… the two of you have attracted a lot of attention here in the past few days. I assume Walker is very close to finding you?”

Sam and Bucky shared a look before Sam responded. “Maybe, why?”

“I have a safe house,” he continued, “I don’t stay there often so the location isn’t compromised, but it’s my next stop. Might I suggest we take this conversation on the road? I would hate to host your reunion with Mr. Walker in an alley over my corpse,”

There was a moment of complete stillness. Zemo remained, face dark with that strange deer-in-headlights look, a perfect statue, as the barrel of Bucky’s gun remained pointed firmly in his direction and Sam shared what seemed to be a completely silent conversation with Bucky. It was true that they had been burned before. Zemo was a man with his own agenda who did what it took to fulfill it. That being said, he had returned willingly with them back to prison before he was broken out, and without his help, the band of freshly minted super soldiers would still be running around Europe causing chaos. In the end, Bucky lowered his gun slowly before tucking it away into his boot holster.

Zemo grinned.

“Don’t think this means we trust you,” Sam groaned, pointing a finger at the man.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, gentlemen, I believe we have a plane to catch,”

As the trio began to make their way out of the alley Bucky and Sam fell to the flank of the group. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” Bucky asked, eyes darting between his two companions. Sam shrugged.

“At this point, I’m doing whatever it takes to get home to my family in one piece. If that means I have to ride in Zemo’s stupid private jet again and lay low for a while, then that’s what I’m gonna do, because Sarah and those kids don’t deserve to lose me all over again,”

“But don’t you think he’s acting a little… weird?”

“Don’t worry, I have my eye on him. If he tries anything we can just throw him out front when Walker tries to shoot us,”

“You’re doing a very poor job of concealing your conversation,” Zemo shouted.

Bucky stormed ahead as Sam laughed.

“Oh, shut up!”

Surprisingly, the drive to the airstrip was mostly uneventful, as was the relatively short flight from Zurich to Avignon. There was, of course, the usual cutthroat banter and tension so thick you could feel it like a fog hanging over the group, but in an unusual twist of fate, the baron did very little to initiate. Of course, he wasn’t fully innocent though. He never was. That being said, even as his chauffeur carefully navigated the stone roads to the dropoff point he was strangely quiet. He had texted someone earlier to have the house prepared for their arrival but he kept looking down at the phone as if a response would come. It didn’t.

Sam appreciated the break from the noise. To him, it was a moment of peace after a few months of constant opposition. For the duration of the trip, he had chosen to shoot a few choice quips Bucky’s way before taking a long nap. Bucky, on the other hand, was only growing more suspicious of Zemo by the minute.

After his time with Hydra, Bucky had become intimately acquainted with the type of man that Zemo was. He was ruthless, driven by ideals that couldn’t be changed by any amount of debate or theory read inside a prison cell, and willing to do whatever it took to fulfill those ideals no matter the cost. There was remorse but no regret. A man like that doesn’t just stop believing in the thing that led him to kill dozens if not hundreds of people, because once the impetus is gone so is the only thing upholding their sense of self.

In basic terms, he was hiding something. Bucky was intent on finding out what that thing was, a thing important enough to make Zemo of all people shut the hell up and tell his enemies exactly where his safe house was, and he wasn’t going to rest until he did. The answer came easily enough in the end, but not before Sam and Bucky were forced face to face with the strangest thing they had ever seen, even when including aliens and wizards. That thing was Zemo buying flowers.

The trio had gotten out of the car somewhere around the center of the city and continued towards the safe house on foot. A few minutes after they started, though, Zemo had spoken.

“I apologize, but I’ll have to stop for a moment,” He said, holding up a hand to alert the two men trailing him to the fact that he was about to stop. Sam quirked up an eyebrow.

“At a flower shop?”

There, to the right of them, was a small fleuriste. The window was a burst of bright color. Pinks, reds, whites, purples; a certain bunch of spring blooms had caught Zemo’s eye. He shrugged. “It’s rude to arrive at someone’s house asking for a favor without a gift, Mr. Wilson. Excuse me,”

With a comfort that said he had been into the shop many times, Zemo walked through the door and began conversing with the shop owner in perfect French, even referring to her as tu instead of vous as he made his purchase.

“Did he just say someone’s house ?” Sam asked Bucky, eyes widening.

Bucky gritted his teeth. “Yeah, I think he did,”

“So, we’re just showing up at someone’s door,”

“Yup. Not to mention they’re someone who aligns themself with him,”

A groan escaped from Sam as he ran his hand down his face in disbelief. “I didn’t expect much from Zemo, but damn,”

“It’s your fault for expecting anything from Zemo in the first place,”

“For once, you’re right,”

They dawdled for a moment. As their conversation stilled, Zemo returned, now burdened by a sizable bouquet from the window. Around them, the city was starting to get off of work. Families walked together as businesses had their 5 o’clock shift change. Somehow as the world around them came to life it didn’t look at Sam and Bucky with anything more than a passing glance. They were tourists, nothing more. For a moment Sam understood why Zemo would go to a place like this for safety and anonymity.

Without ceremony, the trio began walking towards their destination once again.

“I apologize for the delay,” Zemo said, keeping his pace brisk and remaining about a foot ahead of his companions, “I suppose it’s become a bit of a habit that I buy Y/N flowers whenever I come back. We shouldn’t be long now, though, the house is just a few more blocks away, maybe 3 minutes by foot,”

“Y/N?” Bucky asked. The name felt heavy on his tongue, familiar. That had to be a coincidence though. Zemo would never align himself with anyone who had worked for Hydra, and there was no other place he could have heard that name and had it hold any significance. Right?

Zemo chuckled. “Y/N is our host. I’d appreciate it if you tried to maintain some semblance of respect when we arrive, she tends to have quite the temper and it would reflect badly on me if she believed I was asking her to indefinitely house two people who would happily send her to prison,”

“About that,” Sam chimed in, “Who the hell are we about to be staying with? It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I don’t, and by extension, I also don’t tend to trust people who trust you,”

“I assure you, Sam, Y/N is more trustworthy to you than I will ever be,”

“That doesn’t answer my question, nor does it make me feel any better,”

“She’s American, and like you, she is seeking shelter from the government. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Man, at this point I feel like you’re not telling us because she’s actually some sort of crazy Sokovian sleeper agent who’s gonna stab us in the back while we sleep. Am I crazy, Buck, or am I right?”

Bucky, who had been trying his best to stay out of the conversation, replied. “You are being unnecessarily evasive, Zemo, though that’s nothing new…”

“Right? Like, I’m really grateful that you’re lending us a hand, but I’ve gotta be honest, if I think for a second things are going south-”

Sam never got to finish his sentence.

Suddenly, Zemo stopped short, turning around and looking Bucky in the eye with a madness neither he nor Sam had ever seen before. His whole body was stiff, rigid. The hand that wasn’t cradling the flowers delicately was gripped in a fist at his side. He looked angry, but underneath the anger, he really just looked scared. “You will not touch her. Do you hear me? Do what you’d like with me, I have made choices worthy of punishment, but you will not touch Y/N. If you so much as think of it, all bets are off. Do you understand me?”

Bucky nodded, sharp. This was certainly interesting. Sam just smirked.

“Is there something else you want to tell us?”

Zemo walked up a small set of stairs towards a home to their right. “No, Mr. Wilson, I don’t believe so,”

The building was a nice one, all tan stone with dark wrought-iron fixtures on its many windows. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a normal midtown manor-house for some upper-class member of the community. The normalcy of it all hid its true purpose in plain sight. It was genius, really. Over a dividing wall made of the same yellowing stone, Sam could see a small sliver of vibrant green garden space and a pool at the side of the building.

With a steadying breath, Zemo knocked on the door.

“You have to knock on the door of your own safe house?” There was a hint of incredulity in Bucky’s voice as he crossed his arms. This was going to be a disaster. Why had they agreed to this again?

“A little etiquette goes a long way, James, especially when you’re already in the doghouse,” Then, the door opened.

Bucky froze. There, standing in the doorway with a pistol in her hand and a fire in her eyes, was a woman he thought long dead: you. This couldn’t be right! He had killed you back in ‘02 with the rest of the AAHR...

You quirked up an eyebrow at Zemo.

“Give me one reason I should let you in and not shoot you on the spot,”

They were so fucked.

________________

The day, on your end of the world, had gone by much slower.

It started off like any other, with the alarm on your bedside table blaring as you opened your eyes and your arms reached out into the emptiness in the sheets beside you. Sometimes, when Helmut’s flight got in late enough, you would wake up and reach to the side only to find that he had appeared beside you in the night. Those were the best kind of reunions. They were free of pretense, no bitterness or resentment clouded your sleep-heavy brain when you opened your eyes to his peaceful resting face, and you could simply fall into the comforting rhythm of husband and wife. If you reunited with a clear head things tended not to go as well.

You groaned. It wasn’t as if there was even a guarantee he would come back, especially not after the way you’d left things last time. The philosophy of attendre et espérer, waiting and hoping like an Edmond Dantés type, wouldn’t do you any good, at least not anymore.

Maybe it was time to start moving on…

Tomorrow. You could start thinking about the next steps tomorrow. For today you’d enjoy what you had.

Getting out of bed was difficult but you managed. The sun streamed through the curtains that billowed gently in the breeze near your balconette, brilliant gold beams illuminating the dust that danced in the air. The first thing you did was shuffle along to the corner and pour yourself two fingers of brandy from Helmut’s private collection. It was like a morning ritual these days, a numbing agent against the loneliness. Once the drink was downed you moved on to the closet to get dressed.

Dressing yourself wasn’t of much importance these days. You couldn’t exactly leave the house, and nobody was visiting, so more often than not, it was easier to just wear the same pajamas for a few days until you knew Oeznik would be around to drop off groceries. Today, though, you felt… filthy. Not dirty in a physical way, just sticky and filthy and unclean under your skin and in your very heart. Maybe a shower would help.

You looked around the closet with a clinical eye. It was difficult to be in there, surrounded by lavish dresses and expensive suits that you and your husband had worn arm in arm while plotting the downfall of the Avengers before your unsteady alliance had turned into so much more. Everything still smelled like his cologne. In the small, often-closed, walk-in closet, the scent had only intensified, covering every article of clothing with a fog of cedarwood and sage. It made you sick, choked the air from your lungs and left you gasping for even a single breath that didn’t sit heavy on your tongue with the bitter taste of that familiar musk.

The alcohol had helped. It always did. The remnants of its burn in your mouth formed a sort of guard against the scent of the closet as you searched through a pile of shirts for something soft and easy to wear. Your hands suddenly stilled.

“Zemo, I’m gonna be honest, this is the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen in my entire life,”

“I’m hurt! That’s one of my favorites,”

“Where did you even get it, a 90-year-old grandpa’s closet? Jesus Christ, it looks like something out of a shitty 70’s flick about family values,”

“I’ll have you know that I thrifted that sweater. It’s very eco-conscious you know,”

Your heart hurt. Well, no, your whole body hurt, but your heart ached a little more prominently as you carefully picked up the sweater and held it to your chest. It was terribly ugly, 4 sizes too big even on Helmut and covered in an olive and forest green argyle. Somehow he was always able to pull off the oversized thing no matter how ridiculous you had always insisted you found it. When was the last time he’d worn it again?

The memory evaded you.

Still, it was a happy relic, happier than most of the monuments to a failing marriage that lined the shelves of your beautiful personal prison. It wouldn’t hurt to hope that by wearing it, you might rub just a little bit of that lost happiness off onto your present-day, right? With one last forlorn glance around the closet, you gathered up the sweater and a pair of jeans before getting out as fast as you could. With the scent of cologne clinging to you, the shower wasn’t just a good idea now, it was necessary.

So, you showered. You took the stupid foot-long exfoliating brush Helmut loved so much and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed yourself under the near-boiling stream of water until your skin was pink and raw. Disappointingly, even the new skin felt filthy. It was better, though, less intense. With some lotion and a little bit of Neosporin on the fresh patches of blotchy red, you were able to feel okay. Not good. Not clean. Just… okay. At least you didn’t smell like him anymore. The clock read 12:14 when you finally made it out of the bathroom in search of some real food.

Lunch, if you could call it that, was a silent affair. The fridge was almost empty and the pantry was only a little less bare, so you threw together a cheese sandwich, not even bothering to waste butter and grill it. You ate it plain with another glass of brandy out on the pool deck. It was gone sooner than you hoped it would be.

Oh well.

You finished your brandy with a sigh. Only seven or eight more hours until you could finish your day with a few more drinks and pass out in bed until nine or ten once again. Ah, dreamless sleep. That sounded divine. Now if only you could fathom any non-depressing way to spend the time between sleeping and waking. Swimming was out, the chemicals would burn your freshly eviscerated skin. Playing solitaire for the fourth day in a row sounded like absolute hell on earth. Even watercolors, a usual calming respite from the torturous and neverending monotony of life trapped alone in a house you had no help in stocking, were off the table ever since you’d run out of paper.

Somewhere inside the house, your phone dinged.

The second the sound hit your ears you jumped, dropping your glass and letting it shatter into a thousand tiny shards on the stone of the patio.

Phones were a difficult thing to own for someone who was trying to stay out of the eyes of the government. They were too easy to track and could tip off enemies to your location with very little error needed on your part. Even searching the internet for innocent things was too risky. If your search history was too similar to that of the alias you had used before Helmut went to prison, it would have been easy for them to find a connection and send someone to track you down. Still, you kept a cell phone charged and ready on the kitchen counter despite the risk for one reason and one reason only: Emergency contact with your husband.

He never texted from the same number on more than one occasion, always switching from burner phone to burner phone as he flew across the country doing god knows what, but if he was ever in a situation where emergency contact with you was needed, he was able to reach you at your number immediately. It had only happened a couple of times, and each time he had been in a considerable amount of danger. So, when you suddenly heard the sound you dreaded more than anything else in the world, you were quick to rush inside, even ignoring the shattered glass at your feet as you shoved through the doors and found the phone.

The small, LED display was lit up with the notification. It made your heart both soar and sink.

Flying home with two guests. Prepare the two rooms for their stay. We will be there by 5 at the latest - B

You read over the message several times before letting the phone fall from your hand and back onto the counter with a dull thud.

That absolute asshole.

Three months. Three months you had spent sitting alone. Three months without a call, or a text, or a letter, or even a word of when he was coming back by way of Oeznik. Three months! And after three months of loneliness and sleepless nights and empty bottles on the drink cart he reaches out through an emergency line of contact that almost certainly means he might be dying only to tell you he’s bringing two strangers into your safe house, the place even he refuses to stay in too long in order to not give its location away. The scar on your spine was starting to burn as you leaned up against the counter and cried.

It was ridiculous to think you had ever believed him capable of more tact than that.

Really, it was your fault. From the beginning, you’d had too much faith in a man incapable of being trustworthy, even to those closest to him. You knew that, and yet you had married him. Maybe the soft touches and sweet lies he had spoon-fed you had made you weak. Maybe you always had been.

“I’m not a child, Helmut, I know what I’m doing!”

“I don’t think you do,” he shouted. He was a few drinks in now, you both were. The nights before his departures never tended to end well when you both drank. “Because no matter what I do to protect you, you have the need to disobey me! Have you considered that I do the things I do for your own good!”

“Oh! Oh yes, the things YOU do!” You slammed your glass down on the table as you stormed over to Helmut, “I sit here all day like a fucking dog in a cage while you fly to fucking Ibiza and flirt with supermodels, but YOUR story is just so fucking tragic! I’m your wife, Helmut! I’m not an animal or your property, I’m your goddamn wife! You can’t just order me to sit and stay like a dog,”

He glared down at you, eyes hawkish and glinting in the low lamplight. For the first time in years, he looked threatening, “You may not be a dog, or a child, or my property, but you are a weapon! It’s my job to keep you here, away from the-”

“Excuse me?” You interrupted. The two of you stood, inches away and yet miles apart. Slowly, the drive in Helmut’s eyes faltered. “Say that again. I dare you,”

“Schatz, I-”

“No, Helmut, you meant it so say it again. Call me that again. I fucking dare you,” Tears were streaming down your face now. He took a step towards you, hand extended to wipe them away, but you were quick to take a step back out of his reach.

“You misunderstood me,”

“I don’t think there was anything to misunderstand,”

You swept the shards of your glass tumbler into a dustpan, hands still shaking even ten minutes after you’d read Helmut’s message to you. As you worked, your last conversation before he’d left echoed in your mind.

How had it all devolved into that? It wasn’t hard to remember Helmut before prison, jaded and broken and lonely. He had been so much like you and yet so different. Each of you seemed to be the perfect balm for the others' wounds. In the end, despite all of his flaws, you had found yourself in love. Now that he was a different man, was that love gone? You couldn’t say. All you knew for sure was that you weren’t nearly drunk enough to be facing the confusing feelings in your brain. With the last of your energy, you emptied the dustpan of glass into the trash can and returned to the house, sweater itchy against your irritated skin, to ready the guest rooms.

The job wasn’t a long one. You had never used the guest rooms in all the time you’d spent at the Avignon property, so the sheets were already clean. There was just a thin layer of dust on the furniture that needed to be swept away as you checked to make sure the dressers were bare and the bathrooms were stocked with amenities. Then, when that was done, you were left to your thoughts as the hours ticked by.

Most of the time you spent sitting on the couch doing absolutely nothing. It sounded terrible, and in all honesty it was, but what else could you do? The house was already spotless so cleaning wasn’t an option, and you didn’t quite feel like doing much of anything as you stared at the clock and tried to remember a time when your life was less of a disaster. As it got closer to five, though, you started to get antsy.

You had tried your best to not think about the obvious issue of the guests. Zemo was not the type to threaten his home, even if he wasn’t happy with you, so usually having anyone who wasn’t Oeznik or another paid lackey aware of the location of your safe house would be a big no in his book, but then you started thinking of the implications of him bringing people into your home. Your home, not his. Was he on his way to kill you? It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Or maybe he was bringing your replacement.

Now that thought made anger bubble up in your throat. You were no stranger to the idea that when your husband was away, he could be doing anything. There was no guarantee when he slept in lavish hotels or drank the night away in elite lounges that he kept his wedding ring on. The fact that there were two guests meant it was unlikely he was bringing two mistresses, but never impossible. Nothing was impossible when it came to Helmut.

No, it was more likely he had finally decided it was time to end your suffering. The shouts and boisterous laughter that started to sound directly outside of the front room window only confirmed the for you. Slowly, you crept towards the door and grabbed a small pistol from its place in the umbrella stand. If he wanted you dead you weren’t going to go without a fight.

Through the curtains on the front door, you could just barely make out the trio. When you saw them your blood ran cold. It was one thing if he needed help to take you down, but getting the Winter Soldier on board? Your rage only grew by the minute.

Helmut said something, probably planning the best course of action to catch you off guard, and you sneered. Two could play at that game. When he knocked on the door you opened it calmly and held the gun with your finger just barely ghosting over the trigger.

Everyone froze.

“Give me one reason I should let you in and not shoot you on the spot,” you said, rage coursing through every nerve in your body. You may have been in retirement for quite a few years, but you still knew how to handle a gun. Everyone there, except maybe the Falcon, knew that. As Zemo went to open his mouth, you prepared for a firefight.

“Because I brought you flowers,”

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a/n: Sorry that only one chapter is out! The fic is just getting very long and complicated and I wanted to make sure you got as much as possible before the next episode drops lol. I’ll be working pretty much nonstop from now until then, though, so the next parts should be out soon!

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 , @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @dazzlingseb, @avgravy , @sarahsilver , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @mossybank , @simsiddy , @xxspqcebunsxx

Please do not post my work on other sites, thank you!

#zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader

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thecousinsdangereux · 3 years

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the land of race car ya yas

A short little ficlet for @corvophobia who has drawn a bunch of art for the bees racer au of my dreams. This is ALL based on her drawings, so make sure you check out her stuff. Happy birthday, Amber! You are one of my two favorite British children. <3

(Please note that I know nothing about street racing. I've only watched the Fast and the Furious movies. Forgive me....)

“How’d you do that?”

Blake’s used to the question or some version of it, and maybe that’s why she takes in the words before she notices the tone, imagines a scowl (a lowered brow, hands curled into fists, the flash of teeth as the scowl turns into a snarl) with the same instinct that has her shoulders tensing. It’s only mid-turn that she realizes the question is laced with wonder rather than anger, but even this awareness doesn’t prepare her for the sight that meets her. It’s a woman, her smile wide and unrestrained by pesky things like self-consciousness or insecurity, and her eyes are nearly glowing in the low light, purple and bright and full of open admiration. Her black leather jacket, classic in cut, has the sleeves rolled up mid-forearm, revealing a prosthetic of black and yellow, and her grey jeans are tight, showing off a body that Blake has to work to avoid following the curves of. Her hair is long, blonde, curling around her shoulders and down her back, artful in its disorder, down to the single, stubborn cowlick at the top of her head.

In short, she’s beautiful, and Blake stares for longer than she should, feeling heat in her veins.

“Do what?”

She manages a response, but it’s absent minded. She’s just noticed the light dusting of pink on the woman’s cheeks, coloring the spaces in between her freckles, and it has her re-evaluating, pulling her thoughts to the effort she’s put into her own outfit that evening: a cropped and sleeveless hoodie with blocked colors of white and purple, tight leather shorts, and clunky boots that hit just under the knee. Blake looks good and this woman knows it, which makes them even on this particular front, and that's a settling sort of feeling.

“Win,” the woman says simply, her smile growing. “And don’t just say NOS.”

“NOS,” Blake drawls, just because she can, and she’s rewarded by the woman’s laugh, rewarded even more when she steps closer.

“No, but what’s your delivery method? Direct port, obviously, but you had to have used a custom kit, right? I’ve been telling you, Yang, I need to recalibrate yours. Can I look at your car? Would you mind if I just took a tiny peak just to see what you’ve done with your injection site? We really need to upgrade, Yang. A nozzle with less back pressure will give you a better squeeze. I’ve been telling you!”

She hadn’t noticed the other woman, but blinks at her now, a red blur waving her arms about, hoping from one foot to the other, firing out words faster than Blake — an aficionado of all things fast — can keep up with. The woman (Yang?) seems to find the act familiar and reacts with affection tinged with a false exasperation (put upon for Blake’s benefit or maybe as a means of gentle chiding), sighing and placing a hand on the smaller girl’s shoulder.

“And I’ve been telling you, you can’t just ask people to look at their shit!” She turns to Blake now, and this time her eye roll is definitely for Blake. “Sorry about that, I swear we’re not trying to steal any of your trade secrets. Ruby just… really likes cars.”

“It’s so pretty too,” Ruby coos, batting away Yang’s hand and taking a step towards the vehicle Blake had used to push past Yang at the last moment, a fact neither of these women seem to hold against her. “The purple stripes. But I bet the engine is prettier.”

It’s unprecedented, really. Blake’s been on the scene for a while — longer than she would admit to anyone here — first as a tagalong and now as a driver, but she’s never had an encounter quite like this. The unexpectedness of it all has her feeling off-balance, has her reacting without any of her customary cool anger as Ruby stares at her hood (as though if she focuses hard enough, she’ll be able to see through the metal to the parts underneath). Maybe that’s why Blake responds in a way that’s decidedly unwise, without any further thought at all.

“You can take a look. I don’t mind.”

“Really?” Ruby squeals, but doesn’t wait for Blake to confirm, darting around her and flipping open the hood in the span of three seconds.

“Really?” Yang asks, and the word sounds wildly different coming from her, sliding out from behind her crooked lips like thanks or maybe a challenge (or maybe both). “Not worried about my mechanic figuring you out before the next race?”

Blake should be, of course. But.

“Can’t say I am.”

“Maybe not the smartest move.” Yang crosses her arms; the chrome of her right glints under one of the flickering street lights. For the first time, she looks away from Blake’s gaze, eyes darting over to check on Ruby (who’s leaning so far into the front of Blake’s car that her feet nearly lift off the ground) and then to another group of drivers, a good distance behind them, but clearly watching in curiosity. It’s never wise to gather after a race, but everyone always does when it goes well, and for the first time, Blake’s glad for it. “She’s pretty vicious about giving me an edge. I wish I could say it was familial loyalty, but really, she just wants to make the fastest car in the city.” Yang pauses, tilting her head in thought. “Or country. Or world. Not sure when she’ll be satisfied, to be honest.”

“Sisters?” Blake asks. She can’t really see the resemblance, but then again, she hasn’t spent as much time looking at the younger of the pair, even though she should probably be less focused on the elder (the one not pouring over her engine. Sun and Ilia were going to kill her).

“Yeah.” Yang probably doesn’t realize how much her smile grows in the confirmation, saturated with pride and love. “Scary brilliant too. Give her five minutes with a car and she’ll take it apart, put it back together, and it’ll run better than it ever has. But all that means she always thinks it’s the car that puts a driver ahead.”

Blake arches a brow. “And you think she’s… wrong?”

“Well, yeah.” Yang’s closer than Blake remembers her being, maybe because her legs are long, her strides somehow longer, and it only takes a step before she’s close enough for Blake to feel the heat radiating off her body. “I know it’s only the driver that puts a driver ahead. That’s why I’m here talking to you instead of looking at your car.” Her lips twitch and she amends her statement quickly. “Part of the reason, at least.”

The other part of her reasoning is made pretty obvious when Yang’s eyes trace up Blake’s form once more. It should probably bother Blake, but it doesn’t, maybe because she’s done the same to Yang during this conversation (more than once). Still, there are things better avoided, and Blake knows this better than anyone. She does her best to get back on track.

“It wasn’t me,” she says (almost blurts), and then feels her neck warm when Yang looks at her quizzically. “Before, you asked how I won. But it wasn’t me, not really. You could have had it if you hadn’t fired your nitrous early. You were impatient.”

It’s too blunt, Blake knows this as soon as the words leave her lips. She’s backtracked too much, retreated into aloofness as she was wont to do, but Yang only laughs, and the sound cracks through Blake’s go-to defense, a corner of her lips curling before she can stop it.

“You’re right. I used to be way worse, back when I started out, but I’m a lot better now. Usually.”

“So what happened today?” It’s the question Yang wants her to ask, of this Blake is sure, but it hardly feels like a chore.

“Ah, bad luck, I guess. I took one look at the driver next to me and all that impatience came rushing back. All I wanted to do was finish the race and meet her properly.” She winks. Combined with the cheesy line, it shouldn’t work as well as it does (but it does). “I’m Yang.”

“Blake.”

They don’t shake hands, and Blake’s glad for it. There’s something buzzing between them, a tingling sensation at the tips of her fingers, the build up right before a lightning strike, and Blake’s not entirely sure what the contact — however brief and friendly — might do to her.

“Next time, maybe I’ll be a little more prepared.” Yang’s eyes roam across her face, settling once more on gold. “But probably not.”

“Immersion therapy,” Blake quips. “Give it time.”

Yang whistles sharply, and it takes Blake a moment to realize that she’s called her sister back over. (Blake had forgotten about her entirely, though the grease on her hands and face leads her to believe that Ruby had done a thorough dive under her hood, the sort Blake ought to be worried about.)

“Time is exactly what I plan on giving it. A lot of time, if you’ll let me.” Yang nudges her sister back in the direction they’d come from. Ruby waves, offers a wide grin of thanks, but Blake’s stuck on purple.

“Well. Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she murmurs.

“Looking forward to it.”

And Blake, who started racing to get away, who started racing to run, who started racing so she never had to stay in one place for long, finds that she is too.

—

“What the hell is your problem?”

Blake’s used to this question too, or some form of it, and this time, the tone is exactly what she expects. The small, white-haired woman in a vest and tie, however, is not.

“Listen, I’m sorry I hurt your boyfriend’s feelings by being a better driver than him, but you’re only embarrassing yourself now.” Blake takes another look at the woman’s attire; her sleeves are rolled up to her elbows and — despite the country club hairstyle and the heels — the hint of a tattoo on her pale skin, just under the fabric makes up Blake’s mind for her. “Or… Girlfriend?”

“Not quite,” says a familiar voice.

Today, Yang has decided to show off her abs (and she most certainly does have abs) with a cropped jacket of black and gold checks, and Blake can’t quite bring herself to look beyond that for too long, though she catches the black driving gloves, the oversized and gold sunglasses, the oversized cargo pants. In the seconds it takes for Blake to wind her brain back up, Yang grins, cocksure, and continues.

“Though you were right about the gay thing. I mean, look at her.”

“Look at you,” the other woman sniffs, actually physically turning up her nose. “Could you be any gayer?”

“Yeah, I could be wearing a vest and tie,” Yang fires back, but it’s clear the banter is familiar, it’s obvious these two know each other well enough for their back and forth to not contain any real barbs.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Blake drawls, before she’s able to stop herself, and Yang turns back to her with an arched brow. “Good to see you again, Yang.”

“Oh, is it? Could have fooled me!” The other woman’s ire has been refocused, and it’s seemingly stronger than before, the pitch of her words higher, more dire. “Given you nearly killed her just now.”

“Weiss,” Yang sighs, but Blake winces, feeling the sting of the words despite Yang’s quick glance of reassurance sent her way.

“I didn’t realize you’d pull off when I drifted. I thought you’d… lean in.”

It’s not an excuse. They’d been neck and neck towards the end of the race (again), and when she’d nudged the side of Yang’s car — far gentler than she would against anyone else — she’d assumed the woman would give as good as she got, like most every other racer she’d gone against. But Yang hadn’t taken any chances, and it’d cost her the race.

“We don’t do that here,” the woman — Weiss — says, lips pursed to the point of contortion, but Yang only laughs.

“We do that here all the time. I did way worse to Mercury last week.”

“Yes, but Mercury is a creep.” Weiss pauses, considering. “We only do that to creeps here.”

Blake’s hands lift, a show of peace. “Hey, no one handed me the Beacon Street Racing Etiquette Guide when I joined up the other week. Maybe you could loan me your copy.”

This doesn’t exactly smooth things over with the woman, especially not when Yang snickers, but Weiss can clearly see the writing on the wall, and tosses her hair over her shoulder with a huff.

“Whatever. I’m telling Ruby about this,” she warns Yang (or maybe Blake, or maybe both of them), before stalking away, her last words called over her shoulder. “She’s not going to be happy.”

There’s no concern on Yang’s face as she watches her go, if anything she looks amused. “Sorry about that. She’s… protective.”

“I can see that. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been friends with someone for a while.” It’s a guess (and a probe), but Yang doesn’t correct any of her phrasing, so it must be close enough to the truth.

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean protective of me.” Yang’s grin shows a flash of white teeth. “Weiss bet on me tonight. You lost her money. And that’s the real sin.”

Blake’s surprised at how easily her laugh comes (more surprised how easily the fondness slips through the cracks in her chest). “Oh, I see. So I can kick your ass up and down the streets as long as I convince her to bet on me in the future? Good to know.”

“I’m not sure that’s the message I want you to be taking from this,” Yang drawls, but still smiles, flicking her glasses up to her forehead. “Besides, like she said, Ruby’s the one to look out for. She seemed all sweet and innocent yesterday, but gods help the person she turns her disapproving stare on. I’ve seen people break into tears on the spot.”

From what Blake had seen yesterday, Ruby isn’t the sort that loses her chipper bounce very easily, so despite Yang’s teasing tone, she files the information away as useful. If she were being a little more self-searching, she might question the action, given her tendency to not stick around in any one place for long. (Surely Beacon isn’t any different. Surely she couldn’t know now if it were.)

“Lucky she missed the race today, then.” Her lips curve, a sharp corner that would require a drift. “What, she couldn’t bear to see you lose again?”

“Oh, ha ha. No, she had class. And she knows there’s no skipping for racing; that’s the only hard and fast rule for our household.” It’s not what she expects, the straight answer backed with genuinity, but it strikes Blake as endearing, somehow, especially when Yang continues. “I started racing here so we could pay for those classes, so I think it’s only fair.”

“That’s — ” Kind. Authentic. Surprising. Blake’s not sure which word to use so she disgards them all. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type who was racing for the money. Not that… there’s anything wrong with that. Especially in your case.”

Yang laughs. “Hey, don’t mistake me. I started racing here for the money, but it’s not why I race in general.”

“So why do you?” Blake asks, even though she suspects she knows the answer. (It’s not wise to take your eyes off the road, but she’s done it in both of her races with Yang, eyes darting to the side to find the woman speeding alongside her: eyes wild, grin wide, the fervor of the moment all over her face. There’s freedom there, more than there is anywhere else, and Blake thinks she sees that in Yang as much as she does in herself.)

“Same as you, I think,” Yang murmurs, closer now, sliding in when Blake’s distracted once again.

“I’m not sure you know me well enough to say that.”

A bluff, of course, but it gets the intended result.

“Not yet.” From this close, Yang looks taller, and Blake has to tilt her chin to look into her eyes. “But I’m still looking to fix that.”

Blake wets her lips. It’s too much, and she’s not sure she can tack on ‘too soon’ to quantify the thought, make it less tame. If she had to guess, Yang will always be too much, like sunlight after coming out of a room. Blake’s not sure she’ll ever adjust to the rays, or if she wants to.

“Let’s see how you do in the next race,” she says again, and Yang laughs again, totally unabashed.

“Okay, I’m sensing a trend here. What, you’re not going to let me take you out unless I win a race again you?”

“If I say ‘yes’, what are you going to do?”

It’s not cockiness that overtakes Yang’s face then, not exactly. It’s confidence or want or determination or maybe just the flush that comes from the thrill of a challenge. Blake’s setting herself up for something here, she knows, failure or disappointment or something like it, but right then, she doesn’t care. There’s a freedom in this sort of race too, and that she’s come to love.

“Oh, that’s easy, Blake.” Yang leans in a little more, and Blake knows it’s audible, the way her breath is cut short. “I’m going to win.”

#bumbleby #writing #rwby #bees racer au #for #corvophobia #<33333 #just a little something for a birthday treat

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 3 years

Text

Raise the Stakes, Part One

So this is a sequel to Place Your Bets. It's actually just the first part of a sequel because I'm trying to publish things in shorter segments. Time is valuable and I know it can be tricky to sit down and read through someone's 8,000-word opus.

That said, you will have to read Place Your Bets first or this isn't going to make any sense.

Pairing: David Finlay x OFC with mentioned Jay White x OFC

Word count: 1,641

Content advisory: Brief sexual references, Jay being an emotionally abusive asshole

You’ve tried three or four times to reconcile the pay statement from New Japan with the list of expenses you submitted for Jay last week. They’re different. The check is lower than it should be and even though it’s not by a lot, this sort of thing drives Jay mental and he’s been in such a mood since you dared go on a date that you’re going to extraordinary lengths to try to pacify him.

If anything, you feel like making more of an effort is making him harder on you. He’s had you working practically around the clock, thinking nothing of waking you up in the middle of the night to demand you find some obscure record, or complaining that he doesn’t understand something. He’s demanded you reschedule every appointment you’ve made for him at least once, so that everyone who’s relying on you so that they can work with him has been screaming at you.

So you’re exhausted and anxious and you can’t figure out why you have a check that doesn’t match your invoice because the accounting department here codes everything differently, so the amounts per line are combined or split up in ways you don’t understand and you have to patch it back together. It’s impossible.

The thing is, you’ve done it before. The expense checks are screwed up 4 times out of 5 and it’s always a chore that takes you hours to resolve. You’ve done this when you’ve been travelling nonstop for a day, when Jay has been screaming at you for hours, and when you’ve been surviving on coffee and stubbornness. The difference now is that you’re distracted.

In the years you’ve had this job, you’ve never felt distracted this way. You keep replaying your night with Finlay in your mind and you catch yourself smiling like an idiot at the way your stomach flips. Despite the fact that Jay’s been keeping you on a tight leash, you’ve caught plenty of glimpses of David around the place. Sometimes, you’ll pass close enough that you catch a whiff of his soft amber-y cologne and your skin shivers. And you look. Jay isn’t interested enough in you to watch you closely enough to see what you’re doing as long as he knows he can order you around whenever he feels like it.

David looks back, too, with a sly smile or a wink. He actually has to be a little more cautious about it because Jay has been watching him since their New Japan Cup match, already fantasizing about revenge. But he has his techniques. He’ll glance over and lock eyes with Jay before letting them drift to you. The looks you exchange feel almost as intimate as when the two of you were naked in his bed together.

You’ve sent a couple of cryptic text messages back and forth but David’s perfectly aware that Jay will flip through your phone without even asking because he considers it his property. It’s killing you, always being in each other’s orbit and being unable to do anything about it. But more importantly, it’s distracting you from work.

You’re standing over the table, using a pencil to note where you think the things from your invoice have been entered on the payment statement when your breath catches. There’s that scent in the room with you, easing close behind you until you feel a strong pair of arms close around you.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs into your skin.

You exhale and let yourself melt into him, resting your hands over his as you incline your head back.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” you breathe.

He holds you a little tighter.

“I have to go back to the States to do some Impact shows. I’ll be gone a few weeks.”

You whine quietly.

“I’m leaving tomorrow night.”

“It’s not fair.”

He hums and kisses his way up your neck, making your whole body tremble.

“Any chance you could sneak out tonight?”

“I’d like to see someone try and stop me.”

“The slave driver won’t be happy.”

“I cannot tell you how little I care right now.”

He loosens his hold and you take the opportunity to turn around, touching your lips to his as you’ve been longing to do for days. You peck at each other a few times, smiling, both of your eyes lit from within.

“I’m in room-“

“I know what room you’re in,” you grin.

“Are you stalking me?”

“Damn right I am.”

You give in to the urge to kiss a little more urgently until a noise at the door has you jumping apart like reversed magnets.

You’re terrified it’s Jay because you are in no way ready for that showdown. But it’s Sanada coming to get a drink from the vending machine. He cocks an eyebrow at the two of you, which is enough to let you know that he’s aware of the nature of what he’s interrupted.

It isn’t a problem, though. He doesn’t talk to Jay unless they have a match and even then it’s only going over the game plan. He’ll gossip to his LIJ buddies but it’ll stay within their tight little circle. They'd rather laugh at Jay behind his back.

When he leaves, David takes your hand and the two of you are smiling like teenagers again.

“Guess I should run away before we really get caught.”

You kiss him, fervently, and you’re hardly able to pull yourself away.

“I’ll text you when I know what time I can escape.”

You’re both blushing as he exits the room. When you turn around to face your payment problem, you could swear it’s gotten more complicated than it was before.

“I need you to reschedule that appointment with the physio guy to Thursday,” Jay grumbles.

He’s been hovering since he came in, although he hasn’t been quite as obstreperous as usual, muttering to himself or to his game console rather than outright trying to interrupt you. You could take your work to your room but then he would be texting and calling you all the time, assuming that you weren’t working if he couldn’t see it. You’re still trying to untangle the knots of the expense report and it’s tantalizingly close. You’ve gotten nearly this far a couple of times only to be forced to backtrack and re-evaluate but this time you can see your way through; just a couple of twists and tugs and you’ll have it all smoothed out.

You roll your eyes at the sound of Jay’s voice, content that he can’t see your face from his vantage point.

“We’ve been through this, Jay. This guy is a specialist they’ve brought in and his schedule’s been set by the company. No changes, no exceptions.”

“Well you need to ask, at least,” he huffs.

“Why? All it’s going to do is aggravate management and you won’t get what you ask for.” You pivot to face him. “Why would you even want to change it?”

“I have something I want to do on Wednesday, not that it’s any of your business. I’d rather see him on Thursday.”

“It’s not going to happen.”

You fully expect from the look on his face that he’s going to lose it and start screaming about how you’re just there to do what he says. But though his lips twitch and his nostrils flare. He says nothing. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this is the week that he fires you and replaces you with someone new who’ll do everything he says and flatter his ego without the attitude you’re prone to giving him. A couple of times, he’s told you that you were fired in a rage, only to contact you hours later and start grumpily giving you orders again. He never apologizes when this happens but he’s always a little quieter and less belligerent for a few days.

This nonverbal fury is something new, so maybe it’s a sign that the end is nigh. Maybe you’ll suddenly find a way to reinvent yourself without Jay White in your life. Take a calligraphy class. Teach English at some private business school. Get a dog. Have a relationship with someone who could love you back.

With that in mind, you force yourself to work out the final parts of the project that’s haunted you all day. You’re so happy when it’s done, when you understand exactly what’s missing and what you need to tell them to have it corrected, that you want to stand up and cheer and pat yourself on the back because god knows that no one else will.

Normally, you’d email the head office right away and go through everything you’ve found in concise bullet points to make sure you’re understood but instead, you close your laptop and stand up.

“Right,” you say breezily, “I'm off then.”

“Off where?” he growls without looking at you. “Another date?”

“Actually, yes.”

“This is becoming a problem.”

“No, it isn’t. I’ve done everything that’s required of me. I’ve jumped through every insane hoop, dodged every trap you’ve given me. You know perfectly well that the fact that I’ve been… that I’ve… There is no issue with my work.”

“I say it’s becoming a problem and in this equation, I’m the only one who matters.”

His reflexive cruelty always hits you right in the stomach, like you’re in the ring with him, and knowing that you have someone who wants to be with you and wants to please you doesn’t dull that at all.

“I matter Jay,” you say quietly. “I just don’t matter to you.”

You see a muscle in his beck twitch but even though you give him a moment, he says nothing. And it’s a painful realization that the only reason you’re waiting is in the desperate hope that he’ll contradict you, that he’ll surprise you for once in his life.

#njpw fanfic #njpw imagine #jay white fanfic #jay white imagine #david finlay fanfic #david finlay imagine #wayward wrestle writing #wrestling fanfic #wrestling imagine

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aricazorel · 4 years

Text

Tagged by @nug-juggler Thank you!

This is from a Mass Effect one shot I may get around to posting one day. It features Kaidan Alenko and Kori Reese during ME3 as best friends who have yet to realize their feelings for one another. The premise of the story is that Vega says something off-handed that makes the pair re-evaluate how they look at one another. Anyway, here’s a snippet that takes place after Vega’s comment.

As Lt. Vega made a hasty retreat, Ashley asked, “What did you forward to his tool, Reese?”

“My file…my whole file,” she stated simply as she made short work of her meal.

“Everything?” Shepard asked.

“Everything…even my classified stuff,” she replied with a smile.

“Reese,” Kaidan said in a lower cautioning tone, he was still flaring.

“It’s fine. It’s either this way or I challenge the muscle head to a fight and I kick his ass and might break him and you need him,” she said breaking into her dessert choice. In a lower tone she said, “You’re still flaring, techboy.”

Alenko powered down as Shepard grabbed Ashley’s tray. “You know I didn’t just keep you as XO just because you’re pretty right?”

“Shep,” the Major in a slight warning tone even though he was starting to smile.

“Hey, I’m taken. I just thought that everyone had accepted Reese as XO…” Shepard said as he emptied the trays. “I guess I’ll have to look into this harder…”

“No, Commander,” Reese said between bites of chocolate pie. “I will handle it. It’s a personal issue that’s falls under my duties and it’s with me anyway…”

“Understood, LC,” Shepard replied with a grin.

“Thanks,” the L3 biotic as she saw Ashley grin.

“So Vega was wrong about you expecting?” the female Specter teased.

“Hell, no…I mean yes he’s wrong! And you know I eat this much because of my metabolism…my second eezo exposure…Besides I’m not…well, you know,” she said trailing off glancing at Kaidan who was wearing a carefully controlled expression. Neither was unaccustomed to people assuming they had been together.

“So Kaidan’s not expecting either?” Shepard poked as Ashley covered her mouth with her hand.

“If you weren’t my CO, I’d slug you,” Reese said before Kaidan could say anything.

“Nice to know I can count on my XO to keep me in line,” the N7 replied as he was pulled by Ashley towards the elevator.

“Always, Commander,” Reese replied with a grin and a mock salute.

Tagging anyone who wants to play!

#sunday snippet #mass effect #kadian alenko #kori reese #one shot #kaidan x oc

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mistersandmangivemeadream · 4 years

Text

I ship you with Charlie Weasley! ((There are no gifs of a casted Charlie so I decided Sam Heughan. I decided))

Intro: I love your description of yourself and so it was easy peasy to imagine you in a scenario where you could very well get yourself out of it, but a little help by a clever man might not be unwarranted.

Had lots of fun cracking jokes in this one.

Enjoy!

It burned.

The overpriced lemon drink made you pucker your lips and left behind a flavour similar to sour candies that had been soaked in your grandmother’s bathroom cleaner. Very specific. You don’t remember ever tasting toilet antiseptic. Have you?

You had envisaged this night going much differently.

Your date is an accountant. And it’s not his fault that he gives all accountants the exact reputation expected of them from infancy. Formal, nice, dull. Smells like a nice department store aftershave his mother bought him. Who lives with him. That’s not weird. He has a 401k. There’s a patch of dry skin to the left of his sweetheart shaped lip.

“....so that’s when I told Graham no it’s because your formula is not for the right function, sum….”

You really were hoping the accent would help. It has not. You don’t know whether to scream or yawn so you smile.

“get it-”

It comes out sharper than you mean to, “I got it. Will you excuse me-need to go use the restroom.”

The water from the club’s bathroom sink is desperately splashed into your face over and over. Still not as mind-numbing as the conversation. It’s the most invigorating thing you’ve felt all night. If you hear one more accountant joke or weird fact about David’s mother you might very well explode. The bathroom door opens as a man goes to the urinal closet to you to take a piss. Why? Like why right there? Creep. The sound of it splashing against the tile is the only sound except for a dull throb of bass from the dance-floor underfoot. You just want to go home. Everything is buzzing. Annoyance.

“You know if you were any louder out there the whole block would hear ya”

You squint over. “I’m sorry, excuse you?” His accent is nicer than your dates. Do the English travel in packs? Like pigeons? The United States like a honing device or maybe those bug lights that lure you in then ZAP. Dead. With a shake you get off the excess water and go to grab a paper towel. Wary of the stranger with his odd introduction. An earring catches the light as he runs a free hand through red hair. He’s hot. Weird. But hot.

“Sorry, I could hear you...well..you were ‘loud’ like I said and I think you might prefer eating nails than talking to whathisname”. Jiggling back into some seriously tight pants, your gaze goes back up now little scared. You had quite literally thought about eating nails at some point in the conversation. He shouldn’t know that. Lucky guess. You go to walk around the man. The ginger looks over your face quickly and realizes something. He quickly cleans up.

“That sounds weird. Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah just a bit my sweet dude.”

“‘Sweet dude’. That’s a new one.” He laughs and it’s not a serial killer laugh. You think. You're not sure you’ve ever heard a serial killer so you may not be a good judge of character in this regard.

“Nah, legilimens.”

Your fear quickly dissipates into anger. How dare-

“You’re right that sounds worse doesn’t it?”

“You think?”

“It’s just you were giving off bad vibes when the gent started touching you. That’s the empath shit you don’t need care about- and thought-”

No business of his about how’d you said you weren’t interested in anything like That as politely as possible and he’d still somehow found ways to touch you. You’d handle it.

“That’d you’d save me? I can take care of myself, thanks. You can’t just go barging into people’s head-”

His brow furrows and he protests. “I didn’t barge.”

“Sneak in like a sneaky little snake man.”

The bark of a laugh on the man fills every corner. You don’t like how it sneaks up into your chest and makes you stop thinking about where you’ve tasted toilet antiseptic before. Arms remain crossed as the Englishman stays a healthy distance away. His hands go up in a contrite manner. Yeah. We will see how sorry he really is….

“Listen. I’m sorry it was invasive and won’t do it again. Just answer me one question. Or not, won’t force you. ‘Do you want a way out with the gent or not?’”

Like a balloon all the air goes out of you.

“Yeah….but..”

A feeble protest. As the ginger puts out an eager hand as he gets within a couple feet of you,

“Then Charlie Weasely at your service. Man with a plan against the wankers of the world. And at least a pint of liquid courage in me.”

You can’t help the lip twitch that’s almost a smile in the right lighting. As Charlie’s voice lowers to match his soften eyes,

“If you’ll have me?”

There is a pause. “Fine. But you are still a weird snakey man.” Taking his hand, you never realized how much you appreciated a man who believes in skincare and hand lotion. Firsts for everything tonight.

“I’ll take it. But I’m a Gryffindor.”The man straight up lets out a “Rawr.” Hands and all. Christ on a bike you are going to have to re-evaluate your standards after this evening for the company you keep. You go to follow him out of the bathroom. No plan except to follow this funky little Weasley into God knows what.

“Quit staring at my ass.” he says.

“Get out of my head.”

“Oh sweetheart, I didn’t need to read your mind to know that one.”

Charlie’s wink makes you grin for the first time that night. Making you believe it may be salvageable after all.

Poor David.

He’s got his mother.

He’ll be alright.

#ship #fandom: harry potter #char: charlie weasley #request #family friendly #harry potter #charlie weasley

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toooldforfandom-liveblogs · 5 years

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RWBY S07E09 - "As Above, So Below"

I feel my poor English skills are failing me once again since I can't parse the title. Is it about comparing Atlas and Mantle? Maybe saying that both are the same? In any case, the previous episode was very setup heavy so my main hope is that there's some payoff for that setup. Let's do this!

Is Watts plan to destroy the kingdom via Grimm attrition? Just keep lowering the mood until the Grimm can't be contained anymore? That feels weirdly risky considering he's in Atlas too.

That must've been an awkward re-entry into the room for Penny and Winter.

I mean... he's right. It's also been one of the main questions this season, with all of RWBY expressing opinions about this.

Oooh, this is fun. I thought turning off the heating was part of Jacques/Watts plan but it looks like the Doctor is doing things on his own again.

Relatable content from Jacques. Who'd have thought.

Aw, Penny.

Jacques is on the verge of having a panic attack. I like that they are animating background details like that.

Can't deny I wanted to see how Ironwood got out of doing the truth test but this is great too.

So expressive!

* facepalm * Oh Jacques, you stupid, stupid man.

Yesss, suffer. What a disgraceful rat.

oh my god this is amazing

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

I didn't expect to laugh out loud in a scene where Jacques finally gets what he deserves but there you go.

...that seems ill-adviced.

For a second I thought it was going to _really_ blow up there.

I can't stop laughing at Jacques. "It was only about the election, the murders were an accident!"

This is _so_ good.

Time for Penny to go into the mainframe Hackers (1995) style

Welp. He had the opportunity to show that he cares about the people but nope.

Robyn is my hero.

Whoops, that's confidential.

And suddenly Ironwood's paranoid levels just increased because only his _most_ trusted know about it. It's amazing that at the start I was convinced that one of the Ace Ops was going to betray Ironwood and in the end it was Yang and Blake.

I do wish he told Robyn though, her "down to earth" perspective would be really useful.

Oh no. This is the worst possible response.

Is it automatic or orchestrated by Watts?

I can't believe Penny lied. This isn't "exactly like beacon," this is "Beacon was a drop in the ocean compared to the disaster that Mantle is about to become"

I wish they had shown the robots being actually effective at least once before this. If only to have at least some sort of tension here instead of just counting down the minutes until the _real_ help arrives.

Ruby and Weiss look weirdly blank here.

Oh. That's interesting.

This is... not what I expected.

l mean, it's very good that it _is_ happening, but I thought Ironwood was going to cling to his secrets up to the last possible moment. But, of course, we already had a "bad" headmaster, it would have been a bit of a repeat to have to fight yet another one.

Aw.

Those green eyes...

I just went back to V3 and... is that Neo?

Welp.

Narrator: He doesn't

Also, that interaction was cute. I remember some people exploding about White Rose on twitter after maybe this episode? I wonder if it was because of this.

Cute.

Please tell me Ren is re-evaluating his choices after seeing Ironwood flip.

He looks shell-shocked. What is the truth going to do to him? He _could_ give up, every thing he has done has been because he really believed Salem could be defeated. All the sacrifices, every thing he gave up "for the greater good" could be useless from a certain point of view.

I think it's important too that it's Oscar who's telling Ironwood, not Ruby. There has to be a plot reason why they switched characters.

...that's very Ozpin.

Did they merge already without Oscar noticing? This plus his scene with Ruby earlier makes me think Oscar's drama is going to have a bit more focus next season.

He reacted surprisingly well, but another flip would have maybe too much? But there's still enough episodes left that something could happen but with Neo there I feel there won't be enough time to slowly deliberate what to do.

I had to rewind a couple of seconds to realize Weiss is keeping Ruby, herself and Vine upright since there seem to be no summons outside.

I still think Clover is too cool. Like wow, this is action movie hero material. Maybe his good luck is going to fail him at some point and Qrow is going to save him?

I was wondering where Penny was but since she can fly there's no need for her to be here.

Ruby can literally just fly now.

He's so happy.

I still don't like her dumb outfit but her facial expressions are great. I wonder what they were looking for inside Schnee Manor. They don't really care about Watts plan, or the Grimm or even about Ironwood's Amity project.

But infiltrating Jacques's dinner party feels a bit too much to find out where Ruby is, especially if they didn't know if she was actually around. I guess news of Atlas new huntsmen got around.

This episode took almost all the balls the writers had in the air and gracefully put them down, just so they could start juggling chainsaws.

The arrest of Jacques was one of the most satisfying scenes yet in this show. He’s had it coming for years, and how great was it that it was Weiss of all people who did it? Just amazing.

With Jacques arrest the election plot is over (with maybe Robyn getting a seat in the council later on,) Ruby’s secret is also in the open, along with Ironwood’s. The “internal” conflict seems to be over, leaving only the external ones, with Neo and Cinder, and Watts and Tyrian. And the Grimm but those are just fodder for fight scenes instead of plot progression.

I’m always a bit disappointed after a fight since they are mostly spectacle but I’m looking forward towards a Cinder/Ruby one. Penny and Tyrian could also be interesting. Although that one depends on Penny expressing what she feels during the fight. But she’s too powerful for any character on their own so I guess she’ll be stuck fighting Grimm.

Robyn’s place in the story seems to be over now that she knows the truth. There’s no reason for her to oppose Ironwood, especially now that the general wants to save Mantle, and without that she’s just one more body to throw into the battle. I hope I’m wrong and she and her team end up being more than one more fight scene.

I’m looking forward to seeing how the remaining plot threads get resolved. There’s Winter’s maiden status, Watts and Tyrian “real” aim (the staff?), Whitley (although I expect little more than one scene with Weiss at the end of the season) and… well, Atlas has to go down in flames somehow, right? Maybe there’ll be a choice to make there, lose Atlas or lose something else.

What else, what else. Oh right, Oscar. He seems to have merged or begun that process. There’s not a lot of time left in the season to explore that but maybe he’ll realize what’s happening just before the end to set up that plot thread for next volume. His interaction with Ruby was just cute enough to trigger my “this will lead to pain somehow” alarms because nothing nice is free in RWBY.

I think that’s all for now, until next time!

PS: I recently made a Patreon, please check it out if you want to support me and these liveblogs more directly.

#rwby #rwby liveblog #rwby v07e09

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jhaernyl · 5 years

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Headcanon re: Konoha’s pay brackets plus meta about said headcanon

This can be considered to tie in with this piece of meta about Konoha, paychecks and how I headcanon repeating missions/discounts work in Konoha, which links to another post about my opinions on Konoha’s pay brackets because, apparently, my pieces of meta are becoming akin to matryoshkas.

Anyway, this is part of the set up I am finding myself in need to do in order to do that post about taxes in Konoha ninja paychecks that I talked about the other day and people were so nice to be interested into.

So, as a fair warning:

This is my own headcanon, I developed it, please no one come tell me about this isn’t how it is in canon, I know what it is in canon and I think Kishi was bullshitting stuff out of his ass, this post is not about canon it’s about what I think and what I will be referencing when I bring up pay in either meta posts or fics in the future so that I can link to it later on if I need to.

This is meant, as a tool for myself, for specific use in the contest of Minato’s genin and teenage years, because prices fluctuations are a thing and so is the difference between wartime and peacetime economy, which does influence prices fluctuations among many other things.

If someone else wants to take this and run with it (even if it is just to have an idea of how much money their ninja might make) or take my base work and then do their own personal spin on it, please feel free to and know that I would just appreciate being quoted as a source or original inspiration.

That said.

According to my handwritten notes, I did my calculations on a day when 1 $ was equal to 108.58 yen, which I then rounded out by defect to 108.5 yen = 1 $ (and canon says 10 yen = 1 ryo so that’s staying too) and that’s what I decided to keep using, just to have some semblance of continuity in my accounting.

Missions prices as they are presented to clients, once the clients have presented their case, as well as what missions are available to what teams, is something that is evaluated on a complex scale depending on various factors, among which are:

Who is the client? What influence do they wield, personally or through their connections? What kind of money can they afford to spend? Should they be offered one of Konoha’s deals? Should the payment be monetary only or can other conditions be worked in or a different kind of trade made?

A flow of information, influence over certain individuals, trade agreements, favours being owned to Konoha are only some of the various payments that can be used to either cover what money cannot {in which case, Konoha will cover what the client cannot pay their ninja out of their own pocket in the immediate present in exchange for future earnings} or in the stead of money {if the client either cannot pay or thinks what they have to offer is worth more than money}

What kind of people will the ninja have to interact with? Commoners? Middle class? Rich civilians? Minor nobles? Daimyo court nobles? Members of the various clergies in the land? Ninja from other Lands and, in that case, which shinobi and which Lands? Samurai?

It is actually counterproductive to send someone who isn’t equipped to deal with the social situation at hand in an environment where they will do more damage than good to Konoha’s reputation and future earnings, without even going into the risk any diplomatic incident might have. In that sense, someone like Tazuna, supposedly a drunk bridge builder without many connections, would have actually been pretty appropriate for Team Seven’s first out of the village mission, given how Team Seven was at the time, behaving in canon.

Is it a repeat mission and thus the client-paid amount has to be divided among more than one team and so ends up being a lower-paying one, on the shinobi side of things? Is it a one-off? Is this mission a showcase of what Konoha can do to ensure future business?

This relates to what I said in one of the other posts I linked above about what benefit Konoha would get from offering a deal or de-pricing a mission, especially when it comes to D-Ranks and their own citizen. Once it has been weighted what the learning opportunities are for their ninja, especially their genin, versus what the genin will be required to do, then it can be decided whether it’s worth it or not to offer the deal and possibly have to supplement a little part of the paychecks, to cover for the client-given discount, themselves.

Where will the mission take place? In Konoha? In the outskirts of Konoha? In the forests around Konoha? How many [insert miles/km here] outside of Konoha but inside the Land of Fire? Outside of the Land Fire? In which direction and on which Lands? How many [insert miles/km here] outside of Konoha and inside those Lands?

On top of having a lot of factors play into a mission’s rank and necessary payment depends on where the shinobi are heading, travel times are not something that has to be underestimated, especially because if civilians are involved they will slow to a crawl compared to what ninja could pull off on their own which means that it will take longer which means that in inhospitable places where it’s not guaranteed that the ninja will be able to forage their own food and drink {see: Sunagakure} there will be a need to account for more ration expenses and water needs plus it’s important that the shinobi involved know what kind of equipment they will need, etc. etc.

What’s the time frame of this mission? How long will it take? Does it have a set amount of time it has to happen in? How much time will the client need this Konoha resource to be with them?

The shinobi are Konoha’s soldiers and it’s very important that Konoha know where they are at least supposed to be, so that if anything happens there can be an idea of when they should have checked in and why they didn’t and other related measures.

What are the risks involved? What enemies are they expected to deal with? What kind of difficulties will the mission run into? What’s the kind of manpower the client wants vs what’s the actual difficulty level the client can guess at, presume to or be aware of?

All of these are fundamental to gauge the preparedness and skill levels of the team or teams that will be involved, both on part of the administration and on the ninja’s part as it will give them an idea of not only how much should they pack and of what but also an idea of what the client’s expectations they have to fulfil are.

How complex is the mission? Is there one single objective or more than one? If there are any, what’s the priority on the other objectives? Are these objectives realistic or should they be haggled down to something that won’t conflict with each other? Can one team fulfil all the expected objectives or should this be split down into different missions, one cheaper and the other higher-priced or both of them of equal value and then given to different teams?

Let’s say someone hires you to protect a caravan of an important merchant that does not travel with its goods but just awaits their delivery.

In the eyes of said important merchant, your client, what is more important? The lives of his people or the goods themselves? Whichever one is more important will be your main objective, with protecting the other being the secondary objective. If they are both equally important, it might be better to split the mission in two and give it to two different teams, tasking one to protect the goods and the other to protect the people.

Maybe among the goods, there is something that the client specifically wants to have extra protected, even at the expense of losing other goods, so that one thing should be prioritized above everything else and receive priority.

All of these things have an influence on both price and whatever teams are considered appropriate to ask for this specific mission.

What skills are needed to pull off the mission? What kind of operatives does the client need? Is this to be an overt or covert mission? Should this mission be covert, would the client need an overt mission with another team to help hide the covert one (for example: having someone come with your caravan in disguise but since you always get a ninja escort, hire another team to escort your caravan to make it looks as if things are business as usual)?

If we look at things logically, you wouldn’t give green genin the same mission you would give to experienced genin and you wouldn’t give any genin at all the kind of mission you would give to a jōnin and so on, so forth.

You also wouldn’t put a front line assault team or operative on a covert tracking mission and you wouldn’t put a code-breaking team or operative on an open front line assault job. The kind of skills a mission requires will dictate which kind of teams or individual ninja the mission will be open to.

As a consequence, the more you learn and become good at, the more missions you are able to pick from.

Can this mission be treated as a training mission for the younger ninja?

I suppose this counts as self-explanatory XD

Once everything has been taken into account, a price has been haggled and decided upon, the contracts have been signed and the client has left that price gets cut down twenty per cent (the cut that goes to the Konoha treasury), marked appropriately to determine who can see and apply for that specific mission and then slotted into the appropriate pay category/bracket.

Signing up for any given mission does not mean that each member of your team gets paid the total amount. It means that said total amount is then split among your team.

A couple of quick examples:

In a genin team, the jōnin is not only teaching the children but also the one responsible for their safety and thus is pulling triple duty as teacher, commanding officer and babysitter of three different people while also losing out on the kind of higher-ranked mission they could be doing if they hadn’t taken on a team, so the jōnin gets half of the amount the team gets paid and the remaining half is then split in three among the genin.

In a team where everyone has an equal rank, the pay gets split evenly. all members getting the same amount, regardless of who takes a lead or what that rank is.

In a team where there’s a higher ranked ninja, let's say a tokubetsu jōnin, calling the shots but the other members are all equally ranked chūnin, the higher ranked ninja will get paid 2/5ths of the amount and the remaining 3/5ths will be divided among the other members.

More complex teams (team of variously ranked ninja that do not fit in the above examples) will, of course, get more complex splits.

The pay brackets (post 20% deduction to Konoha treasury but before any other taxes and/or benefits are applied) for missions unrelated to the war are as follows (with the added definition of the kind of mission plucked from Narutopedia):

D-Rank missions

Assigned to genin fresh from the Academy. They are supposed to pose almost no risk to the ninja's life.

Low

542.5 to 5′425 ryo (equal to 5′425 to 54′250 yen or 50 to 500 dollars)

Medium

5′425 to 8′137.5 ryo (equal to 54′250 to 81′375 yen or 500 to 750 dollars)

High

8′137.5 to 10′850 ryo (81′375 to 108′500 yen or 750 to 1′000 dollars)

C-Rank missions

Assigned to experienced genin or chūnin. They are missions with little to no chance of combat against other ninjas.

Low

10′850 to 16′275 ryo (108′500 to 162′750 yen or 1′000 to 1′500 dollars)

High

16′275 to 21′700 ryo (162′750 to 217′000 yen or 1′500 to 2′000 dollars)

B-Rank missions

Assigned to experienced chūnin. They are missions anticipated to involve combat with other ninjas.

Low

32′550 to 37′975 ryo (325′500 to 379′750 yen or 3′000 to 3′500 dollars)

High

37′975 to 54′250 ryo (379′750 to 542′500 yen or 3′500 to 5′000 dollars)

A-Rank missions

Assigned to jōnin, concerning, among other things, village-or state-level matters and trends.

Low

65′100 to 75′950 ryo (651′000 to 759′500 yen or 6′000 to 7′000 dollars)

High

75′950 to 108′500 ryo (759′500 to 1′085′000 yen or 7′000 to 10′000 dollars)

S-Rank missions

Assigned to experienced jōnin and concern state-level confidential matters.

Upward of 108′500 ryo (upward of 1′085′000 yen or upward of 10′000 dollars) and, depending on the request, the sky is kinda the limit but also, mostly, a challenge.

#words words words #January 14th 2020 #January 2020 #naruto #my meta #Jhae's original material #Konoha economics #hello new tag #Under A Canopy of Leaves related

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lookatthestarrynight · 4 years

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Laughter is the Best Medicine - Chapter Four

Poe Dameron/Doctor!OFC: Poe Dameron has joined the Resistance at the request of General Leia Organa, and he’s finally arrived on the Echo of Hope, the Resistance’s floating base of operations. While on board, he meets the Medical Director of the Resistance and... falls in love? We’ll see.

I’ve also posted this on AO3. Check my masterlist to see what I write for. Please only like, don’t reblog. Hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!

No warnings. :) 1271 words.

“Sooooo…. how’re you doing?”

“What do you want, Shana?”

She hummed, leaning over the ledge of the main desk of the med-bay to look at me, “I’m just concerned about your well-being, is all.”

I snorted, propping my feet up on the lower part of the desk. “You’ve been eyeing me all day today, Shana. What do you want?”

Shana huffed, frowning at me. “Alright then, O’ Smart One—” she giggled when I glared at her, “— I was wondering if you were doing okay, since you-know-who is off-base today. And maybe tomorrow. And was off-base yesterday.”

“You-know-who? Really, Shana?”

“Yes, really! Every time someone mentions the Commander—” I frowned, “—you make that face, like it physically pains you to hear his name, or something.”

“Shana, I’m fine, really.”

“You sure?”

I looked up at her. “Yes.”

“You sure you’re sure?”

I stood up, tossing my holopad on the desk. “Oh for stars sake – I’m not having this conversation here.” I stepped out from behind the desk and motioned for her to follow me into the supply room and once she did, I closed the door.

“I’m fine, Shana. I’m only a little bit worried about him. Just a bit.”

“He’s going to rescue C-3PO, the lone survivor of another mission. Everyone is a little worried.”

“Thank you for the reminder.”

“Well, may I also remind you that he’s made it out of tighter situations before?”

I snorted. “Well-timed delivery, but the sentiment is appreciated, I guess.”

“So, if you’re worried about him, does that mean I’m allowed to accuse you of liking him a little bit more than a friend should?”

“No,” I huffed, moving towards the door, “And I pretty sure that even if I did, he doesn’t.” I opened the door and stepped out.

“Ohh, H, he totally does. Have you seen the look he gets when he sees you? Acts like you’ve hung every star in the galaxy or something.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“He does! And don’t walk away from me – this is your destiny!”

“Well, my destiny needs to re-evaluate then, because it’s not happening!”

She followed me into the med-bay hall and grabbed my arm to stop me. “Hera, please. The whole base can see it. Nira told me the General made a comment to him about it before he left—” I pulled my arm from her grip, “—don’t walk away from me!” And I walked away.

She groaned, running to catch up with me. “Hera – you two have been friendly since he spent all that time in the med-bay after that swamp planet incident, and you run off to that forest clearing together all the time – you eat dinner with him nearly every evening – its been two months of this! The base is gonna start making bets.”

I stopped in my tracks. “They wouldn’t.”

“They are! Ilia told me that Ojo told her that Snap and the rest of squadrons already have one going – and apparently the Commander knows about it!”

“Oh, stars.” I deflated. It was common knowledge in the Resistance that if bets got placed on base – wherever base was – people would make every effort to make their end of the deal happen. Like locking people in supply closets together, or in med-bay rooms, or calling them into the same room for completely untrue reasons – like clarifying mission reports – and the base always got its way… and the base was always right, too.

“Just tell me right now if you don’t like him – that you mean it – and I can try to tell them to stop… but if you do…”

I sighed, turning to her. “I do. I do like him, Shana. But both of us are committed to the Resistance; this is a war for stars sake! It would never work.”

“You could always try, maybe you’ll prove yourself wrong.”

“And if I didn’t, I’d lose a friend, Shana, and I can’t do that.”

“Fine. But I’m starting a betting pool tomorrow.” She turned on her heel and walked back to the main desk.

I would’ve been lying if I’d said that I didn’t like him more than a friend should, and everything Shana had thrown at me in the hall of the med-bay had been true. We had been friends since his stint in the med-bay after the swamp planet mission, and we did go to the forest clearing together quite often to talk about life, and I did spent most dinners with Poe (and his squadrons, a detail that Shana conveniently omitted from her list of accusations), and we had been on D’Qar for a few months now – occupied with our new routine of hanging out when we had a free moment. And if I was being truly honest with myself, I’d admit that I tried not to think about our friendship too much in the beginning – tried to pretend he hadn’t weaseled his way into every daily routine I made – but that was a hard thing to admit.

And so, when Shana finished her lecture, I did my rounds and skipped dinner, opting instead to come to the forest clearing – alone, for the first time in months. Poe wasn’t supposed to be back until early tomorrow, but in the command meetings earlier today the General had made an off-handed comment about how there was a good chance he’d be back early – and I’d tried not to think about that all day, but I had. So, part of me wasn’t all that surprised when a familiar orange flight suit sat down next to me.

“You know, I was really expecting you to be in the cafeteria when I got back.”

I shrugged, glancing at him. “Thought I’d throw you for a loop then, I guess.”

“A little bit, yeah – but still, I was hoping you’d be there.”

I turned to him, noticing that he was holding his hands behind his back. I furrowed my brows, “Are you hiding something behind your back?”

“Uh, yes,” he shifted, “This—” he moved his hands from behind his back, a simple necklace with a polished stone charm hanging from between his fingers, “—is why I was kinda hoping you’d be in the cafeteria when I got back.”

I stared at the necklace, and then looked up at him. “Is that for me?”

“Yes?”

I nodded, looking back down at the necklace, and then back up at him – and then I launched myself into his arms, wrapping mine around his torso. “Thank you, Poe,” I mumbled into his flight suit, and I felt him laugh as he replied:

“Well, you’re welcome then.” He settled his arms around me, the necklace still in his hands. We sat like that for a few minutes – my head buried in his chest and his resting on top of mine. Eventually, though, I pulled away and gently picked up the necklace, holding it up in the fading daylight.

“So… how did you end up with this?”

Poe chuckled, taking the necklace back and motioning for me to turn around so he could put it around my neck. “It’s a long story – the short version is that I had a bit of spare time in a city market while I was, uh, retrieving C-3PO.”

I smiled, twirling the stone charm in my fingers as I turned back to face him. “Sounds like you may have taken an unauthorized detour on your mission.”

“I may have done that,” he said coyly.

“Sounds like it could have been dangerous.”

“It may have been a little dangerous.”

“Poe!”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Not the point!”

#poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron #star wars fanfiction

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jade4813 · 5 years

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Sparks Fly, Chapter 3

Title: Sparks Fly

Rating: NC-17

Synopsis: Everybody knows sparks fly whenever Barry Allen and Iris West are together. Their mutual animosity is legendary. But when Iris returns to Central City to investigate recent sightings of a mysterious red streak, she discovers a hero she just can’t resist…and Barry struggles to hide the unrequited feelings he can’t deny.

Chapters: 3/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Barry was so surprised by Iris’s words that he didn’t realize he’d stopped vibrating until her eyes widened and she took a step forward. Alarmed she might have discovered is secret, he sped a few feet away, moving deeper into the shadows. By the time she turned to face him, he had his vibration under control once more.

Though he still was nervous about what her words had meant. “W-what do you mean?” he asked. “It’s me?”

She smiled, and once again, he almost forgot to continue vibrating. “The Streak. You are the Streak, right? The one people have reported seeing around the city?”

Relieved, he laughed, his shoulders sagging. “Oh. Yeah. That’s me.” Realizing he probably sounded like a dork, he could only hope that his mask would cover his blush. Clearing his throat, he attempted superhero gravitas when he added more firmly, “I mean, I’m the Streak.”

Her grin grew wider. “Wow.” Then she shook her head. “So how do you know my name?”

Her question almost gave him a heart attack, and he cursed himself silently for the slip. He wracked his brain for an explanation and grasped the first one that came to mind. “There’s a billboard outside of CCPN advertising the star investigative reporter that just joined their team. I saw it earlier tonight when I was running around on patrol.”

Iris cocked her head to the side. “On patrol, huh? I guess I should be grateful you were running by when you were. Certainly could have ended a lot differently for me if you hadn’t been, but you’re definitely not what I expected.”

Barry frowned slightly, unsure how to take that remark. “Oh. Um, that’s…is that a good thing?”

He watched as she bit the corner of her lip and took a step towards him. “That depends,” she replied in a soft voice. “Will you give me an interview?”

Though he supposed he should have expected the request, her suggestion surprised a laugh out of him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I do have a secret identity to protect…” he began, but she cut him off.

“I’m not trying to put your secret identity in jeopardy. I promise. But you’re the hero of Central City. Knowing that you’re out there…it’ll give people hope.”

She had moved closer, her eyes narrowed as she tried to get a better look at his face, and Barry’s nerve failed him. Speeding behind her, he stepped in close. Then he bowed his head so he could murmur in her ear. “I’m not trying to be a hero, Miss West.”

Iris turned her head to look at him. Their faces were inches apart; if he leaned forward slightly he could brush his lips against hers. He didn’t dare move, but he had to clench his hands into fists at his sides to resist the urge. “If not a hero, then what are you?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “One wrong move, and you could have died tonight, saving my life. If you’re not trying to be a hero, then why do you do it?”

Knowing it was a risk, Barry stopped vibrating his face and for just a moment, let himself be Barry Allen and not the faceless Streak. Still, he spoke in a low voice to disguise his voice as he murmured, “Because I’m the only one who can.”

Iris made a soft sound in the back of her throat and half-turned, wrapping one hand around his wrist. In an insistent, almost desperate, tone, she asked, “How long have you had your powers? When did you get them?”

He frowned, momentarily confused by the intensity of her question. “Uh – about a year. A little over a year, I mean.”

“Since the night of the particle accelerator explosion?” she pressed.

When he nodded, she threw an arm around his neck. Barry wasn’t expecting the kiss, so he froze when their mouths met. He couldn’t entirely process what was happening. Iris West was kissing him. She had hated him since almost the day they met, and she was kissing him.

Iris West was kissing him!

He reached for her, intending to draw her in closer, but he was a second too late. Police sirens passed by a few blocks away, shattering the moment, and Iris released him with a soft moan. Dropping the arm around his neck, she stepped back. “Um…if you change your mind about that interview, come by my place.” She quickly blurted the address. Flushing, she added quickly, “And, um, about the kiss. That wasn’t…I didn’t…um…I just wanted to say thank you. For saving my life.”

Barry blinked a few times. He wanted to say something cool. Something smooth. Something that would sweep her off her feet and make her realize that maybe the guy she’d hated for years wasn’t so bad, after all. But the only words that came to mind before he sped away were, “Any time, Miss West.”

A half hour later, Iris let herself into her apartment and grimaced at the sight of boxes piled up against the wall – a testament to the fact she hadn’t yet finished getting settled in to her new place. She’d been lucky to find it, and although she wasn’t entirely settled in yet, she loved it already. Besides, situated on the top floor of the high-rise, her large balcony gave her a spectacular view of the city that simply couldn’t be beat.

Iris moved towards her large glass balcony doors and stared out at the city with unseeing eyes. Had she actually kissed the Streak? She had, hadn’t she? It wasn’t a dream or a hallucination brought on by an excess of “certainty of impending death” adrenaline. She’d actually kissed the Streak. At least a hundred times, she’d imagined what she might say or ask the Streak if she managed to track him down. She’d never imagined she would do that.

But, then, he wasn’t what she’d expected. At the thought, she turned and looked over at the stack of folders and loose papers scattered across her dining room table. He hadn’t been what she’d expected at all. He was a lot younger than she’d anticipated, for one thing. What did it mean?

Her steps quick and purposeful, Iris walked over to her table and began to sift through her research. When she’d first heard about sighting of a red streak zooming around Central City, she’d taken to the Internet in a request for people to submit any sightings of or interactions with the mysterious hero. She’d received hundreds of responses that had taken weeks to sift through.

Of course, as a reporter, she’d known that any story that came without proof had to be taken with a grain of salt. She knew people would sometimes lie for a chance at glory, at being a part of something that was bigger than themselves. To see their name in the news or their picture on television. For others, there was no malicious or self-serving intent – merely the desire to attribute greater meaning to random circumstance. Trip and fall seconds before a cement block falls where you would have been standing, you might attribute that to a simple twist of fate…or to the intervention of a mysterious, unseen hero.

Iris had gone through the numerous submissions she’d received over the past few months and pulled out any that seemed to be either improbable or clearly fictitious. Now she went through the stack again, pulling out only those submissions that dated since the night of the particle accelerator explosion. Stacking the rest atop a leather-bound book in the corner of the table, she re-sorted the stories of possible Streak sightings, putting them in date order. Then she laid them out on the table in front of her, creating a visual timeline of his activities.

Of course, even now, she knew she still couldn’t take every story at face value. The majority of these anecdotes came without any form of proof – not even an iPhone photo of a red blur racing by. And many could be attributing a simple coincidence to an outside force. For example, the earliest submission – dated only two days after the explosion – was from a woman who swore her unknown would-be assailant had been knocked down by an unseen force when giving chase her through the park. If the anecdote could be taken at face value, it certainly could be the first recorded act of the city’s self-appointed guardian. Or the details could be exaggerated and the victim’s narrow escape was the product of gravity and perhaps an errant tree branch. It was impossible to know for sure.

Iris paused and ran a fingertip along her lower lip as she pondered the timeline in front of her. Then she grabbed a notebook and started to jot down questions. If she was going to get an interview with the masked superhero one day, she needed to be prepared.

One thing was for sure. He was going to need a better name than the Streak.

“Iris? God, it’s so good to see you! When did you get back?” Dr. Caitlin Snow cried happily as she raced forward to give her a hug. They had been close friends in college, but they hadn’t kept in touch as much as they’d intended after graduation. They occasionally exchanged social media messages over the years, but it had been ages since they’d last seen each other.

“Oh, I haven’t been back for long. I’m still getting settled in,” she admitted as they grabbed their coffee and walked together to a nearby table. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good!” Caitlin replied. They chatted for a few minutes, and then she asked, “So, what's up? Not it’s not great to catch up, but I suspect you didn’t call me to hear my thoughts on the new sushirito place that opened down the block from my apartment.”

Iris laughed. “Not quite. And whoever came up with that idea needs to really re-evaluate their life choices. But I was actually hoping to get your professional opinion on something.” Clutching her cup of coffee between her palms, she leaned in. “The thing is, I’m investigating some of the strange events around the city lately. You know, with the metahumans? There have been a couple of strange deaths that I think could be meta activity. I have some coroner reports, but I wanted to get a second opinion. Since I can hardly get that from the coroner’s office, I’m looking for someone who can provide an independent review. I thought, with your background…any chance I could talk you into it?”

Caitlin grimaced. “Oh. I mean, I’d love to help, but my career has gone on a different path since college. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like that. I don’t know how much I’d be able to help you.” Before Iris could tell her not to worry about it, she perked up. “But you know who you should talk to? Barry Allen. I know he works with the CCPD, but he’s helped investigate every metahuman attack in Central City. Nobody knows more about the strange events in the city over the past year than he does.”

Iris choked on a sip of coffee. “Barry? Oh. No. No, no. No, no, no. That’s not necessary. I’m sure he’s very good at what he does. Not no. No. Absolutely not. No.”

Caitlin laughed. “So that’s a maybe?” she joked. “Seriously, though. What is your deal? The two of you have never been able to go for ten minutes without picking a fight.”

She shrugged. “It’s complicated. Or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not. We just don’t get along. There doesn’t have to be some sort of deeper meaning to it.”

“Yeah, well. If you can believe it, there was a time Linda and I thought we might set the two of you up.”

Iris snorted. “Yeah. I know. You weren’t exactly subtle with those blind dates. Though why you’d think I would go on a date with Barry when I knew you had a huge crush on him, I have no idea. I mean, why would you even do that?”

“Well, he was my friend! I really wanted him to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me. And, anyway, it wasn’t that big of a crush!” Caitlin protested. When Iris just rolled her eyes in return, she added meekly, “Okay, so maybe it was. But since he clearly never saw me as anything other than a friend, I got over it.” After a second’s pause, she added suspiciously, “Wait…that’s not why you’ve never gotten along with him, is it? This wasn’t all some misguided attempt at friendship solidarity?”

Iris laughed. “No, of course not. I mean, maybe I initially teased him to get back at him a bit for being a blind idiot and breaking your heart all the time, even if he didn’t mean to do it. And the Houdini thing came after he flaked on you so often. But honestly, no. Come on. That was a long time ago.”

“Which brings us back to the original question. What’s the deal with you and Barry? If you weren’t trying to protect my feelings…I mean, you never even gave him a chance.”

Iris dropped her gaze to her coffee cup. “Oh, I gave him a chance,” she mumbled. She almost told Caitlin the whole story, everything that had happened in the past with Barry. But that was as long time ago. What did it matter now? So rather than go into the whole story, she made a joke to deflect the conversation, “Anyway, your lamentable taste in men in college really doesn’t have anything to do with my problems with Barry now. We’ve just never gotten along. That’s all.”

Caitlin still looked a little dubious. “If you say so. Still, I think the two of you could have been really cute together. Maybe you should give him a second chance.”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Me and Barry Allen? That was never gonna happen in college, and it’s not going to happen now.”

“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about your blind date. I know it took forever to get you to agree to it, but –”

“Actually, that’s why I was calling,” Iris interrupted Caitlin before she could continue. “Um…I hate to do this, but can we cancel? The thing is, I met this guy a few nights ago, and I think…well…I can’t really explain it, but I think we could have something special. If I can find him again.”

That took her friend by surprise. “If you can find him again? Didn’t you get his number?”

Iris sighed. “I didn’t even get his name. Everything was going great, but then the cops showed up and…well, there was a lot of alcohol at that party and we weren’t exactly legal drinking age. Everyone scrambled to get away before we could get caught, and I kind of lost him in the crowd. But they’re throwing another party in a few days. I’m hoping he’ll be there. At any rate, that’s the night of the blind date, so…”

“I understand. And, anyway, Barry – my friend, the one I was going to set you up with – he asked if we could cancel, too. I guess he met someone too. He wouldn’t really tell me much about her. Just that he knew the minute he saw her that he was going to marry her someday.”

Caitlin sounded a little bit miserable as she said the words, and Iris replied softly, “Oh, Cait. I’m so sorry. You know, this is probably for the best. He probably wouldn’t even be turn out to be my type. He’s an idiot, and I don’t usually fall for idiots.”

With a laugh that was just a shade sad, Caitlin protested, “He’s really not. But I appreciate the support. Anyway, I still think the two of you should meet. I think the two of you would really hit it off. As friends, I mean.”

“Sure, that sounds great!” Iris agreed. “Why don’t we grab some coffee together? I’m free this afternoon…”

A few nights later, Iris had grabbed a large glass of wine and was headed for the couch when she heard a soft sound out on her balcony. Almost absently, she glanced out the open door only to find the familiar red-clad superhero, his hand lifted uncertainly as he prepared to knock on the glass to get her attention.

“I-I wasn’t sure if I should just drop by, but I didn’t have your number,” he admitted, his voice echoing strangely as it had before. She wondered if she’d ever get used to the way he used his speed to blur his features. “I’ve thought about it, and…I trust that you won’t print anything that would risk my secret identity. I’ll give you that interview, if you’re still interested.”

“What? I’m interested! I’m definitely interested! I’m…um, I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion,” she added, blushing when she realized she was dressed for bed, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that fell to her thighs. ��Just…stay right there, okay? Don’t move. Give me…give me two minutes.” Racing to the dining room table, she swept the paperwork she’d been studying into a messy pile and carried it with her into her bedroom, where she scrambled to get ready in record time.

A few minutes later, Iris raced out of her room to find the Flash still standing on the balcony, staring out at the city. She’d exchanged her t-shirt for a simple summer dress and pulled her hair out of its messy pony tail. And although she’d been worried he would disappear on her, she’d ducked into the restroom to freshen up her makeup. It wasn’t every day that she got the chance at a one-on-one interview with a superhero, after all.

“Hey,” she said warmly, smoothing down the skirt of her dress as she stepped onto the balcony. “Sorry to keep you waiting. At least I’m a little more presentable now.”

He looked over at her. “Something tells me you always look incredible.”

She blushed and waved a finger at him. “Pretty smooth, Flash. But flattery won’t make me go easy on you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” he replied, sounding amused. “And thanks for the new name, by the way.”

“So, speaking of the interview,” she said pointedly. “Let’s talk about your abilities. I know you run fast. You can even run up the side of buildings – thanks again for that, by the way. What else can you do?”

“I’m still figuring that out for myself,” he admitted.

She nodded. “All right. So how fast can you go?” As she talked, she walked over to her patio table and took a seat so she could jot down some notes in the small notebook she’d brought outside with her.

Flash followed. “I’m not sure I’ve found my top speed, to be honest.”

Iris threw him a disgruntled look. “You’re pretty light on the detail. You know that?”

Though his features were blurred, she could make out the traces of a smile. “I don’t mean to be. I promise.”

Sitting back in her seat, she tapped her pen against the table and regarded him thoughtfully. “All right. Let’s talk about something you can tell me. What’s it like to run that fast? I know you ran with me the other night but...I was a little preoccupied at the time.”

He held out a hand to her. “In that case, let me show you.” When she hesitated, he asked, “Don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not that,” she admitted. “It’s just…are you sure it’s safe? For me to move that fast, that is. I mean, I don’t have your abilities, and –”

“I would never let anything bad happen to you, Iris.”

His words were spoken with such quiet conviction, she couldn’t doubt his sincerity. Without a second thought, she placed her hand in his. “I trust you, Flash.”

Without another word, he swept her into his arms, carrying her down the side of the building and through the city streets. They were moving at such incredible speeds that Iris found herself holding her breath, at first. Taking it all in. Then she relaxed against him and allowed herself to enjoy the ride.

“It’s amazing,” she breathed – then wondered how she could even do so, with the air rushing by so fast. Or how she could hear his words when he replied.

“There’s nothing like it,” he admitted. “Running so fast the rest of the world stand still.” His smile was soft when he met her eyes. “That’s how I felt the first time I saw you.”

Iris felt her heart skip a beat. “Flatterer,” she breathed, resting her head on his shoulder.

Barry’s heart was still racing when he returned Iris to her balcony, putting her carefully back on her feet. “You okay?”

“That was…that was incredible,” she breathed. “I can see why there have been so many sighting of a red streak around the city since you got your powers. If I could run like that, I’m not sure I could convince myself to ever stop.”

“Sometimes it’s hard,” he admitted. “Sometimes I feel like there’s something greater than myself drawing me in. The source of my speed, maybe. I have to remind myself not to give in because I think sometimes that I might lose myself to it.” He grimaced and looked down. “That probably sounded ridiculous.”

Iris shook her head. “Not at all. I mean, I can’t pretend I entirely understand what you mean. But it doesn’t sound ridiculous.”

Her hands were still braced upon his chest, her mouth close enough to kiss if he just leaned forward slightly. She cleared her throat and asked softly, “But there’s something I need to ask you. And I…I really need you to be honest with me. Okay?”

“Of course, Iris,” he promised. He wanted to tell her everything, though of course he knew he couldn’t. She might like running with the Flash, but he had no illusions that she’d be so happy to be held by Barry Allen.

He watched her suck in a deep breath, and then she asked, “Are there others like you? Speedsters, I mean?”

He wasn’t so much surprised by the question – with the number of metahumans that had been seen around the city in the past year, it was only reasonable to ask – as he was thrown by the fervency in her tone. Barry frowned and shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “Not that I’ve ever found.”

Iris flicked her tongue across her lower lip, her gaze dropping to the lightening logo on his chest. “That’s what I thought you’d say,” she admitted. “So tell me. Who’s the man in the yellow suit? The one with the red lightning? He was first spotted in Central City years ago, long before the particle accelerator explosion.”

He frowned, confused by the question. “The who?”

#sparks fly #fanfiction #my fanfiction #barry allen #iris west #enemies to lovers au

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bladesoflightandshadow · 5 years

Text

indefinitely [lucas/mc]

note: hi! hello! i wrote another thing! finally! this one was actually supposed to be part of a series of ficlets based on a prompt list which i abandoned, but i think it holds its own well enough to post. i know the ‘character has bad dreams and has their partner comfort them’ trope is way overdone when it comes to the it lives series but like.....i love these two too much not to try

pairing: lucas x mc (everett walker)

word count: 1,947

warnings: discussions of trauma & anxiety, though nothing you haven’t already seen if you’ve read ilitw.

tagged: @teja-desai

summary: a late night talk with lucas has everett re-evaluating his feelings.

. . . . .

Everett learned quickly at the start of his and Lucas’s relationship that they’re both restless sleepers.

For Lucas, it’s always been like this—worrying about what he has to do in the day ahead or the day after tomorrow or what he did the day before and what went wrong and what could go wrong all keep him up—so sometimes he doesn’t bother with sleep at all, and it’s only made worse by the events of homecoming their senior year.

For Everett, it started in the weeks leading up to the homecoming incident. Despite numerous sleeping aids and therapy and God knows what else, sleep often feels like a trap he needs to outsmart, with memories of that night and of what Noah did and what he did always just in his periphery, waiting for the right time to strike.

Not to say that what happened didn’t affect their group of friends too, if seeing another one of them have a breakdown about it every week after the incident was any indication. But Everett never could shake the roiling guilt of feeling responsible for what happened to them—to his friends, to Jane, to Noah.

And it’s these thoughts that plague him while he’s lying awake in bed tonight, staring up at the ceiling.

When it becomes hard to breathe, he kicks his sheets away and paces the room, hugging himself as a sudden chill crawls up his spine. Everett contemplates going for a walk to clear his mind, but one look at the woods outside and just the thought of being anywhere near them makes him physically sick. He grabs his phone from his nightstand and sees that it’s 3 A.M. Knowing Lucas, he’s probably awake at this time too. Everett considers texting him to see if he’s awake, but his thumbs hover over the keyboard, worried that if Lucas is asleep, the sound might wake him up.

Before he can decide, though, a text appears on his phone screen, the sound startling him into dropping his phone. When he picks it up—unbroken, thank God, he can’t afford to ask for a new one—he sees that it’s from Lucas, seemingly having just read his mind.

Can’t sleep. Thinking about you.

He feels himself smile, almost involuntarily, as he types out a reply. When are you not thinking about me?

Ha. Then, after a beat: Rarely, to be fair.

Everett steps towards his bed and falls back onto it. I am a pretty good distraction, aren’t I?

Only the best. Everett sighs, momentarily forgetting why he was unable to sleep in the first place.

Lucas sends him another text. Can I call you? I miss your voice.

You spoke to me in person earlier today.

And what about it?

He closes the messaging app and finds Lucas’s number in his recent call history, the name in his contacts plastered with heart emotes. Lucas picks up almost immediately.

“Hey,” Everett says, quietly so as to not rouse his parents in the next room.

“Hey,” Lucas responds. “Sorry if I’m bothering you.”

Everett lifts his arm to cover his face, sighing slightly. “Nah, I was already awake. I was thinking of calling you too.”

Lucas hums in response. There’s a near-imperceptible edge to his voice, and he’s clearly agitated—more than usual, anyway. Everett asks him what’s wrong.

“Nothing?” A pause, in which Everett hopes to communicate the sentiment of, I know you too well. Don’t lie to me. “…Yeah, okay. Something’s wrong. It’s… it’s stupid.”

“Everything about our lives these past few months has been stupid,” Everett says, shifting around on the bed so that he’s under his duvet again. “Nothing you say can surprise me.”

Lucas lets out a half-hearted chuckle. “I suppose not.” He hesitates, then sighs. “It’s just… It’s the first time I’ve been home alone in a while. My dad’s away on some business trip and my mom is staying with family for the night, so I’m the only person in the house, which makes overthinking every sound I hear or every shadow I see a lot easier.” He sighs again. “It’s…childish, I know.”

“No, it’s not. Trust me. I… I get it.” Everett bites his lip, unsure of how else to reassure him when he’s not feeling any braver himself.

At his lack of response, Lucas asks, “What about you? Why are you awake?”

A pause. Everett closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Oh, you know, the usual. Just trying to stave away the feeling of overwhelming guilt and fear over letting my childhood friends get hurt at the hands of a powerful supernatural being, two of which are now dead, while said supernatural being is probably still out there somewhere.”

There’s a silence that stretches on a beat too long. Everett starts chewing on his lower lip. “Sorry. That was too much.”

“No,” Lucas tells him. “No, you’re allowed to express how you’re feeling, even if it is through really morbid jokes.”

“Who says I was joking?”

He falls quiet again, and Everett’s worried he went too far this time, until he speaks again. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

Everett breathes in, slowly, shakily. “I know,” he whispers. “I know. Everyone keeps telling me. I know. But I also can’t fucking convince myself to believe it. So I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

“Hey.” There’s rustling on Lucas’s end. It sounds like he’s getting out of bed, or sitting up. “Do you want us to talk about something else?”

“Yes, please.” Everett thinks for a moment, rattling his brain for conversation topics. “Where’s your dog?”

“Tolkien?” More rustling on the other line as Lucas presumably moves to look for the terrier. “He’s sleeping on the floor next to me.”

“So you’re not really home alone after all.”

“I suppose. But Tolkien’s an old man. I don’t think he can do much to protect me.”

“I still can’t believe your parents let you name him that.”

He lets out a snort. “In all fairness, I was nine.”

Everett takes reprieve in the conversation shift, letting himself retreat into their usual banter. “You must’ve thought you were such a smartass, naming him after a writer that was way above everyone else’s reading level at the time.”

“You joke, but that was probably my exact thought process,” Lucas says, a smile in his voice. “Also, this is rich coming from the guy who named his cat Cattywampus.”

“Wampus is a business professional and she does not take well to your mockery.” Lucas laughs, the sound soft but genuine, and Everett allows himself to ease into the warmth of it.

Slowly, the fear that had kept them both awake fades into an afterthought, as they let the conversation carry them through to the early hours of the morning. When Everett wakes up, he’s relieved to find that one of them had, wittingly or not, ended the call before they fell asleep. His phone reads 11:36 A.M., and his heart jumps to his throat for a moment before he realises it’s a Saturday.

Almost without thinking, he taps Lucas’s name on his phone to call him again.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he answers, almost annoyingly chipper. Even when he’s barely gotten any sleep, Lucas can never bring himself to wake up later than 9 A.M., something Everett’s had to learn the hard way.

“Mornin’,” Everett murmurs through a yawn. “God, how are you such a morning person?”

He can hear the clattering of pots and pans from Lucas’s end. “Hmm, I guess it’s hard not to be one when I get to hear your voice first thing in the morning,” he says.

Everett roll his eyes, but even the tiredness can’t fend off his smile. “You didn’t even know I was gonna call you.”

“Wishful thinking?” More clattering. “I’m making breakfast. Or brunch, I guess. Do you want to come over?”

Groaning, Everett pulls the covers over his head to block the sunlight streaming directly onto his face. “Give me, like, an hour to feel alive again and then I’ll be there.”

“Alright. Let me know when you’re near.”

“I will. I love you.”

It goes quiet on Lucas’s line. Everett half expects him to have hung up, but one glance at his phone tells him he’s still there. There’s a long, long pause as Lucas takes in what he just said, and as Everett wakes up enough to realise what he just said.

“Oh,” he stutters. “Oh—shit, I’m sorry, that was…I know you said you wanted to take things slow, and I—agh, I’m sorry, Lucas—”

“Stop,” Lucas says, and his tone is gentle, but Everett’s heart still freezes in place. “Did you mean it?”

It takes him a few moments to collect his thoughts. Even in his morning bleariness, Everett knows the answer with clarity. Who else does he know that makes him feel this safe—this calm? Who else would Everett, without even thinking, want to call first thing in the morning, when he knows he sounds like absolute hell? Who else does he trust this much?

He breathes in, letting the feeling wash over him, and he wills his heart to calm down just long enough for him to speak.

“Yeah,” Everett exhales, and something like relief floods out of him. “Yeah. I did mean it.”

In all honesty, part of him had known for a while, yet there was always something, some nagging feeling putting him off from admitting it. They’d talked before about how they wanted to take things slow after everything that happened—to handle this relationship with the care it deserved, at least until they got to a point where things weren’t so fraught.

Yet, despite the anxiety that had kept him tossing and turning last night, Everett feels calmer than he’s been in weeks. Like Lucas’s mere presence through the phone were enough of a remedy for his nerves. His pulse is still hammering, but there’s no fear.

“Good. Because I love you too,” Lucas says, and he sounds… like he’s in awe of the fact. “I’ve known for a while. I just… I didn’t want to say it too soon, especially after I told you I wanted to take things slow…”

Everett is suddenly wide awake, unable to shake the giddy smile from his face. They both take a few moments to just bask in the revelation, the quiet between them profound and full of warmth. Love. They love each other. No holding back.

“You jerk,” Everett says suddenly. “You were waiting for me to say it first so you wouldn’t feel weird about it.”

On the other end, Lucas laughs, brightly, a sound Everett doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Uhh, hold it over your head for the rest of our lives?” He’s smiling so much his face aches. “Face it, Thomas, you weren’t man enough to say it first.”

“Pfft, you only said it on accident.”

“I at least demand a consolation prize!”

There’s movement on Lucas’s end, the scraping of a chair as he sits down. “Fine. Whatever you want, name it.”

Everett bites the inside of his cheek, lifting his free hand up to cover his face like it might stop the unadulterated joy from spilling out. His head is spinning. Is this what love is?

“Just keep saying it. That you love me.”

“That’s it?” There’s a smile in Lucas’s voice, too, like he can’t stop himself either. “Just keep telling you I love you, indefinitely?”

“Indefinitely. Yeah.” Everett laughs. “For as long as you can.”

And he does.

#playchoices #playchoices fanfic #it lives in the woods #lucas thomas #lucas thomas x mc #lucas x mc #i never know what to tag these how do u get attention for ur writing in this godforsaken fandom #anyway yeah it's 5am but i'm just gonna yeet this out there before i overthink myself out of existence bye !#my writing #long post #mc: everett walker #if i squint i think i can say im proud of this one

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betweengenesisfrogs · 7 years

Text

Toward a Critical Re-Evaluation of Homestuck, or: A Prayer for Andrew Hussie

(aka Off-the-Cuff Homestuck Thoughts #7)

This might be a manifesto.

Since the ending sequence of Homestuck in April 2017, and even well after the establishment of a canon aftermath for its main characters and the confirmation that there will be a further Epilogue, I've seen a sentiment among Homestuck bloggers and the Homestuck fandom that I find very frustrating, one that persists well into 2018.

The sentiment goes something like this:

"Homestuck is a meaningless work by a flippant, irreverent prankster (Andrew Hussie) who dropped his commitment to the story at the last second, and made fun of his fans for expecting there to be a meaningful ending. Furthermore, he continues to harm and belittle his fandom in the creation of Hiveswap, and only continues his work on Homestuck-related projects to exploit his audience."

Not only is this idea wrong, I find it disingenuous at best, malicious at worst, and actively detrimental to an understanding of Homestuck as a work. While it comes from an understandable frame of mind - the feeling of disappointment many of us felt at the end of Homestuck's pretty short and to-the-point Act 7 - it actively ignores the main reason *why* that ending came across as disappointing at first glance. Namely, it ignores the role serial storytelling - a necessity at that point in Homestuck's existence - played in creating misleading impressions of where the story was going among fans. Furthermore, it completely ignores how well the story arc of Act 6 Homestuck generally works when taken as a whole.

It demonstrates a very shallow understanding of Andrew Hussie as a storyteller, conflating his in-story persona with the actuality of a creator who demonstrates nothing but work ethic and commitment to his creation.

It ignores what actually happened with Hiveswap, which is that despite a frankly horrific set of circumstances that nearly prevented it from being made, Hussie was nonetheless able to gather a small team to create a game studio that delivered on every promise it ever made to Kickstarter backers and created a pretty solid, fun, and novel adventure game, with more installments and a rich evolving mystery on the way.

Finally, this interpretation completely misunderstands the way the idea of narrative is being used in the ending of Homestuck, not as a cudgel to beat off fan desire for thematic completion, but as a tool for delivering a thematically powerful narrative that draws parallels between the specter of Lord English and the way stories themselves are used as tools of oppression.

Homestuck isn't perfect, and neither is Andrew Hussie. But by and large, this popular perception of him is flat-out wrong, an exaggeration of whatever flaws he brought to the creation of Homestuck, and contributes to a misunderstanding of its ending. Indeed, I'd argue it is, in some ways, part of why Homestuck has rarely been acknowledged as a significant work of art. To understand why Homestuck is important, first we need to be able to acknowledge what it achieved.

Here's a daring notion: overall, Homestuck was and is pretty damn good.

Here are some reasons.

1) Being Forced To Tell the Story Serially Over a Slow Drip Messed With the Experience for the Reader

I can hear the bristling now. "I hated the ending," I can hear some of you saying. "It left me cold and unsatisfied, and damn it, that's an objective fact. Who are you to take that away from me?"

Actually, I'm not trying to take that away from you. Like, you're allowed to have been disappointed. I just want to point out that it might be a better ending than you gave it credit for, and explain why it came off the way it did. If you're interested in hearing me out, read on. You should know that initially, I was disappointed, too.

But after rereading Act 6 and the whole narrative leading up to that ending? I changed my mind. Rereading, I found it pretty satisfying, making a great deal of sense, capitalizing on major themes, and delivering a meaningful ending for most, if not all characters

I'll talk more about *what* I think the narrative is doing in a bit, but here's why I think it was misread, by me among many others.

Serial reading fucks with the quality of a story experience. I feel like this is a pretty uncontroversial statement. The problem with serial storytelling is that stories build on themselves, drawing on themes and ideas from earlier on to make a powerful build-up to moments of catharsis. This is the nature of story and character development. However if you're getting a story as little bits and pieces, it is much more difficult for this to happen. You lose track of these threads.

More dangerously, it's very easy to develop a set of expectations around a narrative while it's in pause mode. Little moments - intended to be part of a larger flow of ideas - completely dominate one's thinking for as long as they hold the stage. This is a common thing in fandom, especially webcomic fandoms, who deal with the slowest-drip narratives. Again and again I've seen expectations generated during webcomics' hiatuses lead fans to disappointment with the results, simply because those results have nothing to do with what was expected during one of those moments of downtime. El Goonish Shive, Sluggy Freelance, Gunnerkrigg Court - I've seen it in webcomic fandoms again and again, that the dashing of narrative expectations seemed like a betrayal of the story when read at a drip pace, but made perfect sense when viewed as a whole story.

This is not a problem Hussie was ever unaware of. Here’s an excellent discussion (among many) from one of his early Q&As that takes on the problem in detail:

The longer I do this the more I'm struck by how radical the difference is between the experiences of reading something archivally vs. serially, both for the reader, and the author if he's prone to sampling reactions frequently as I do. For the reader especially, I think the experience of day to day reading is so dramatically different, they might as well be reading a different story altogether.

The main difference is the amount of space between events the reader has, which can be filled with massive amounts of speculation, analysis, predictions, and something I guess you could call "opinion building", which can have both positive and negative effects. On the positive side, these readers become more closely engaged with the material than archival readers can be, zeroing in on details and insights which might be overlooked otherwise. On the negative side, I think that excess mental noise the space between pages allows can potentially be a bit suffocating, and put a strain on the experience the material was intended to deliver.

The archival reader always has the luxury of moving on to the next page, regardless of how he reacts to certain events, and thus can be more impassive about it. That internal cacophony isn't given time to build, and if there are reservations about a string of events, whether due to shocking revelations, or questions over the narrative merit of something, or really any form of dissatisfaction, all he has to do is keep clicking to see how it all fits together, and can make a more complete judgment with hindsight.

He goes on to discuss a specific example of how this played out for the readers:

The recent pages [the start of Horrorstuck] had me particularly conscious of the nature of serial delivery. [Eridan's betrayal] was rolled out over the course of a weekend, first with Feferi, then Kanaya. When Fereri dies, this registers as one extremely dramatic event. Cue the waiting, speculating, worrying and all that. When Kanaya dies a day or so later, it registers as a second dramatic event! Again the scrutiny begins which the space allows. Is this all too much? How do I feel about this narrative turn? Is this setting a trend for a bloodbath? Does that serve any purpose? The reader projects into the future, does a little unwitting fanfiction writing in his head, and may not like what he sees! All this activity becomes the basis for opinion building, which is sort of the emergence of an official position on matters, good or bad, which is only able to flourish in the slow-motion intake of the story. That official position can be a very stubborn thing, especially when it's negative, and seriously textures the way additional developments are regarded. It's really hard to shake a reader off an entrenched position on a matter, even when it was formed with an incomplete picture.

Reading the same events in the archive is quite different. Very little of that inner monologue takes shape. And while the events are still shocking, and the reader may raise his eyebrows a mile high, he then simply lowers them and keeps reading. In fact, because of the reading pace, I would suggest these two deaths actually register as only ONE DRAMATIC EVENT! One guy snaps and kills two characters. In the flow of straight-through reading especially, it is quite startling, tension-building, and can only serve to propel the reader into further pages, at a pace which suspends the experience-compromising (augmenting??) play-by-play.

Hussie would return to this topic again and again, including here and here and here and h8re.

This is in incredibly valuable insight for anyone who creates stories over the long term, especially webcomics. You may or may not agree that Homestuck's finale is well-executed, but I think it's hard to escape the fact that the response to Homestuck's ending, indeed, to most of Act 6, was hugely influenced by these factors. Why? Because the experience of Act 6 and 7 was more affected by hiatuses and the speculation problems they create than any other part of Homestuck.

It's hard to remember these days, but one thing that Homestuck was known for from about 2010-2013 was its absolutely preposterous rate of updates. I'm pretty sure that *was* the initial fuel for the fire that made Homestuck a huge fandom. What other website could you go to see a huge chunk of a story drop on you so regularly? No other webcomic had people using Update Checkers, programs designed to check the RSS feed of Homestuck and tell you within the minute that it had updated so you could check it out before your friends spoiled everything to you. What other webcomic ever needed such a thing? But the first era of Homestuck fandom was predicated on the idea that the comic would update every couple of days, sometimes once a day, sometimes *multiple times in the same day*. No wonder it got so huge so fast. It was an experience unlike almost anything else out there.

Around 2013 this began to change. Homestuck began having large hiatuses, the famous "pauses," and though Hussie indicated the story was working its way towards the finale, it ultimately took until the 2016 anniversary to complete.

Interestingly, it's around 2013 or so that we started seeing frustration with Homestuck break out into a large phenomenon, with many people arguing that the comic had stopped being good, and it's after the largest of these pauses, the Omegapause before the end of Act 6 and Act 7 updates, that we had the famous ending backlash.

The fact that very few people seem to have considered this in their analysis of whether Homestuck is good or not is absolutely staggering to me.

Given these factors, we would expect to see some of the enthusiasm taken out of the Homestuck fandoms during these periods, and strong opinions on where the story should go next, and, lo and behold, that's exactly what we see. The common sentiment is that Homestuck "stopped being fun during Act 6." Well, yeah, it's a lot less fun to have a comic that updates rarely than a comic that updates with loads of content very, very often. That doesn't necessarily mean the content got worse. And yet I see no one asking if this altered our perception of the story.

2) Serial Reading Problems Are Worsened In an Experimental, Twisty Story

This hiatus problem was exacerbated by the nature of Hussie's storytelling. I'd describe his writing style as "affectionate teasing": testing and pushing readers' boundaries, aiming for strong emotional reactions, constantly working to defy and mess with expectations, but ultimately working towards a rich character-based story. Hussie's work whiplashes between humor, horror, worldbuilding, action - it's intense and disconcerting at first, but once you get familiar with it, you see these that all these elements build toward a coherent whole.

I'd argue that this storytelling style is *uniquely* well-suited to long-form reading and endangered by drip-feed reading.

Because when you read piece by piece, you experience whiplash slowly, and that’s not everybody’s kink. Pieces that are meant to work together take on a different tone when read on their own. As discussed above, continuous events seem like separate events when read on their own, and this creates a *false* expectation of where the narrative is going. Furthermore, it's not as much fun to be teased or messed with in slow motion. The expectation that there will be satisfaction and resolution disappears when the current update is all you can think about. This, not a deficit in storytelling, is what created the feeling of "Homestuck’s not fun anymore." But it was the same affectionate, gently teasing storytelling as ever. But this only comes out when the work is re-read.

This is exactly what happened in Act 6 Homestuck. Events seemed like they would go on forever, when in real story terms, they went on for moments. Take the notorious Trickster "arc" (I can't even call it an arc - it’s more of a sequence if anything). Today it's remembered as an unendurable gauntlet of Hussie pushing buttons. The reality of it is, though, if you read through it, it's like Hussie pushing buttons for all of five minutes, like half a chapter from a novel. Literally all it is is: The Gang Gets High on Magic Candy > They Do Stupid Things > Blackout. Mostly it's an excuse for some serious character development *afterward* as the Alphas discuss the bad decisions that led them to this place. It may or not be perfect, but it's definitely a lot more reasonable when you see it's a quick tangent.

Act 6 is full of things like this: events remembered as horrible slogs that are really quite brief in retrospect.

This is brought home when you consider that events in Act 5 – hell, even Acts 3 and 4 – also brought on strong negative responses from the fandom - it's just that they were quickly buried under a story that was quickly moving on to other things. Here are some strong fan outrages from those days I can name off the top of my head:

--This interlude with the trolls is too long, nobody cares about the trolls, Hussie has abandoned the human kids --Nobody cares about troll romance, switch back to the kids --Jade hasn’t been seen onscreen for ages --Vriska’s creation of Bec Noir shows that she is too powerful a character, she will never face comeuppance --John is dead again and Vriska killed him??? --Killing Feferi, Tavros and Kanaya? That’s too many deaths --I thought Feferi was supposed to unite the troll races! You’re telling me that’s not going to happen? --Kanaya is dead??? Fuck that --Scratching the timeline? What, Hussie, you’re going to reset everything and ruin the story? --Equius should have gone out with more dignity, this is a betrayal of his fans --Nepeta shouldn’t have been murdered, this is a betrayal of her fans --Gamzee used to be cute, now he’s a murder machine, this is a betrayal of his fans --We never found out what happened between Gamzee and Karkat? Why won’t the narrative switch back and tell us? --Nobody cares about Doc Scratch --Nobody cares about these stupid Ancestors, switch back to the trolls --Vriska is DEAD? This is a betrayal of her fans

And so on. Reading Hussie’s old Formspring archives is a graduate class in this era of Homestuck fan frustration.

And yet today Act 5 is universally remembered as brilliant, thought of by many as “the time when Homestuck was great.” In my book, while Act 6 does take on different themes than Act 5 (focusing more on the protagonists’ psychology and failures), and thus may not be to everyone’s taste, the biggest difference between the two is that during Act 5, the twists and turns of the story were thought of as part of a unified whole, because the story was barreling along too fast for these complaints to stick around for long.

Given that Hussie has always been aware of the challenges of serial vs archival storytelling, I feel like the relentless output of the first five acts was in part an attempt to mitigate those problems. As if by shoveling content into the mouth of the behemoth, he could propitiate the ravenous fandom horrorterror and thereby stave off the descent of the Infernal Internet Speculation-Expectation Monster that was prophesized to devour all.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stave it off forever, and lo, in 2013 did the IISEM descend with its glistening tentacle teeth, IA, IA, IA! CHOMP CHOMP.

It astonishes me that in some quarters folks talk about the 2013-2016 pauses as if they were something Hussie wanted, when by all evidence he tried desperately to avoid them up until that point. I don’t need to explain that these hiatuses had to do with restarting the whole process of creating Hiveswap and building a game studio from scratch, right? I don’t need to explain that he got screwed over and these were circumstances outside his control, right? Let’s assume we’re on the same page there. If not, I suggest you look into the matter before assuming these hiatuses had anything to do with creator apathy.

After a certain point, Hussie faced a difficult choice. Unable to keep up the rapid-pace storytelling, he could change the storytelling to make it suit a serial reader, or he could focus on making the story the best it could be for an archive reader.

I think he went for the better option: aiming for the archive reader. If you’re going to argue that he should have put the emphasis on the serial reader: which serial reader are we talking about here? The one who started following in Homestuck in 2010, like me? The one who started after Horrorstuck, and viewed it, but not the end of Act 5, as a complete whole? The one who joined during late Act 6? How the hell would you decide that? Whose experience is the one to privilege?

The only option that really makes sense is to aim for the version of the story that will be around the longest and experienced by the most people: the archive that is the complete story of Homestuck.

Ultimately, I don’t think he could have changed his style of storytelling anyway, and to do so would have been to lose the combination of humor, madness, and surprises that brought us all to Homestuck in the first place. Forced to reckon with a difficult situation, he focused on making his kind of story the best that it could be, and I think Homestuck is better for it.

Given his awareness of the problem as expressed above, I’m sure Hussie knew proceeding over the long term would stoke a lot of resentment in the fandom. But he went ahead and did it anyway, because his goal was not to live up to a certain set of expectations. His goal was to tell what he saw as the best possible version of the story. I have an immense respect for him for that.

3) The Last Pause is the Deepest (or: Omegapause Killed the Character Development Star)

The final hiatus problem I want to point to is that in terms of the narrative arc of Homestuck, the final pause, the Omegapause, came at the most inopportune time for readers to get a sense of the conclusion of that narrative.

Basically, many character arcs in Homestuck were concluded *before* Collide and Act 7. Before the Omegapause. Indeed, Hussie brought many long-running arcs to an end in a very satisfying way during the “conversation” sequence before the final fight, from Dave’s long-needed conversation with Dirk about Bro to Rose’s finally getting to meet and befriend Roxy, to Game Over!Terezi and (Vriska’s) reunion. In narrative terms, Collide was not the climax, even if it might have been perceived to be. The climax was the Retcon sequence preceding the conversations – the desolation of Game Over, our surviving protagonists’ despair, then victory in the form of negotiating with the Denizens, representatives of Skaia, to create a timeline in which victory may take place, both in game terms and emotional terms. The conversation before the final battle showed us an emotional victory – victory in game terms was really just icing on the cake, or an echo of that emotional victory.

The trouble is, having a long pause before the final battle sequences created the false perception that the conversation was merely the prelude to the climax: that, in fact, the climax had not yet taken place. For us serial readers, it was easy to conclude that there was further character development to come.

Well, in some ways there was, and in some ways there wasn’t. Dirk and Dave got to have another big moment in Collide that drove their themes home, while Rose and Roxy had basically already done their thing earlier and just got to fight alongside each other. Meanwhile Vriska and Caliborn’s arcs really culminated in Act 7, and some, like John’s and Ret-Terezi’s, were complicated and continued by the Credits aftermath and probably won’t be brought to a final end until the Epilogue. There’s a degree of variation, which I enjoy. Collide does serve some functions: characters who were at an emotional distance from each other (for instance Jane and Jake), got to fight alongside each other and start building back their friendships. Overall, though, the bulk of emotional entanglements got resolved in that conversation, making the Retcon the load-bearing piece of Homestuck’s climax.

This is why the Omegapause was the most dangerous pause: because it built up an expectation that things would further develop from there with new entanglements and complications, instead of aiming towards a tying-off of plot elements into a conclusion.

I remember what *I thought* the post-Omegapause sequence was going to be: a showdown between the kids and Lord English as he entered the game session through Bec Noir, Spades Slick and Lord Jack. I expected there would be a twist, and I expected one or more of our protagonists would die. I was thrown for a loop when I realized the story had basically been almost over, with no last twist, no “secret final battle” of kids vs LE in sight.

But as I reread the ending of Act 6, I realized: that would have been so much stupider than what actually happened. The fact that the kids don’t directly face LE and Vriska does is one of the most brilliant parts of the ending, and on the reread I rapidly fell in love with the Homestuck’s conclusion. What had thrown me off was the fact that I developed my expectations during a period where it looked like we were further from the end.

But in retrospect, Hussie had been saying all along that we were very close to the conclusion – it was just, at that moment, very easy to get the wrong impression.

Rarely do I see anyone taking anything like this into account.

I do think we could have benefited from more character development after the pause, if for no other reason than to overcome these problems and make the victory feel a little more grounded, and I do feel like certain characters (Jane comes to mind) got more limited and abbreviated endings. But these are minor points for me in the overall arc of Homestuck’s narrative, which in my experience establishes its conclusion very, very well.

4) Homestuck’s Ending Is a Glorious Queer Gnostic Account of Escaping from Narrative Oppression (and Yes, Virginia, it Has Character Arcs)

Okay, so I’ve written a lot about *what* I love about the ending of Homestuck elsewhere, going on for pages and pages, which you can read here and here. For now, let me just attempt (as absurd as it is) a quick summary.

Homestuck in Act 6 parallels many different motifs to drive home the idea that escaping from Lord English’s domain is an escape from a cosmic oppression, and serves as a metaphor for escaping and defying real-life oppressions and hegemonies. These motifs include Gnosticsm, queer identity, pluralism, and a metafictional examination of the controlling role of the narrative that is Homestuck itself.

Gnosticism is an ancient early alternate version of Christianity that posits a false reality created by a false creator, the Demiurge Yaldabaoth, who rules over human beings but whose domain it is the Gnostic’s quest to escape. The Demiurge styles himself a Lord God (often the very same one from Judaism and more mainstream Christianity) and an artist but is in fact incompetent and limited in comparison with the true harmonious reality. That he was able to create such a false world was a cosmic accident caused by angel-like beings known as Aeons, who existed perfect symmetrical pairs until an asymmetry caused Yaldabaoth’s creation. Sophia, the asymmetrical Aeon is our path back to that perfection. Furthermore, the false world is the world of flesh and matter and material things, while the true world is the world of ideas, symbols and archetypes, a place of divine Platonic form. By knowledge (gnosis) we become our true selves and are set free. Gnosticism is anti-authoritarian, anti-patriarchal, and devoted to each human being’s quest to connect to the divine on their own terms.

Gnostic motifs proliferate everywhere in Homestuck, especially Act 6, from such chat handles as GardenGnostic, TimaeusTestified, and TipsyGnostalgic to basically everything about Calliope and Caliborn, including and especially their role in the finale. Act 7 depicts Caliborn as trapped within the realm he is created, destined for power but ultimately doomed to it, destroyed in the perfect moment where Calliope, his counterpart, brings his domain to an end.

Caliborn’s realm is the sequence of time loops and set of worlds that brought Lord English into being, but it’s also the narrative Homestuck that depicts those events and worlds. He complains about the narrative Homestuck, argues with its author, and tries to make his own version, just as a demiurge would. (Secretly, because of his cosmic influence, he’s more of an influence than he realizes. He places limits and boundaries on these worlds in the form of the narratives he perpetuates, and is obsessed with sexist ideas, exploitation, and themes of masculinity, importance and power. That the heroes escape this realm in which he has control is also them escaping these narratives that have been placed upon them.

This is the sense in which Dave says “we don’t have arcs.” As I’ve said elsewhere, it’s not Hussie rejecting the idea of giving his characters meaningful stories (this is largely a false impression generated by the Omegapause weirdness), as shown by the fact that Dave himself has one of the best, strongest arcs in the whole story. What Dave means, and what Dave’s arc is about, is that he had to let go of the false ideas, false narratives placed on him by the world (Lord English’s world, the Demiurge’s world) in which he lived. He did this by understanding the abuse he suffered from Bro (a Caliborn-esque figure) was wrong, and by overcoming his internalized homophobia to realize the value of the relationship he’d found with Karkat.

This is a frequent motif in the final pages of Homestuck. Queerness is represented as a way of escaping the patriarchal, conservative God of the Demiurge, and that these revelations about Dave appear in parallel with the final departure from the domain Caliborn controls is no coincidence. Queer relationships and identities build in the ending of Homestuck into what Hussie tongue-in-cheek called “the gay singularity.” This growth in queerness is represented as growth toward meaning, and further queer figures like the non-binary Davepeta appear as idealistic mentors to teach our heroes to understand their cosmic circumstances.

At the same time, the growth from a material world to a world of ideas is represented as the heroes taking on God Tier identities that embody aspects—ideas that are literally the building blocks of the universe. To know yourself as an aspect is to know who you are, and by knowing who you are, you become an idea that is divine. This all takes place at the same time characters grow towards queerness. To know your own queer identity is also to become divine.

And, at the same time, the characters leave the narrative. Everything that was Caliborn’s – his worlds, his time loops and influence— is left behind by the characters as they move into the realm where they are heroes, leaders, and gods. They pass through a door that resembles the weapon that he used, that is his narrative, the weapon shaped like the symbol of Homestuck, the weapon that *is* the narrative Homestuck. It is a weapon against him because he stays behind, on the other side of the door. Lord English can never leave. He’s in the dark pocket of the black hole forever. Caliborn enters a realm that appears to give him power—but he never comes out. He’s trapped by his own limited idea of who he is and what the world should be.

This is a fantastic, culturally resonant, and very Gnostic ending.

And as to Vriska—I’ve seen many people say that Vriska’s retconned revival gives her too much power and agency, but I actually think it strikes the perfect balance. The story understands what she wants. But it’s not on her side. I have a lot more to say about her (perhaps l8r), but here’s the most important thing: Vriska can’t leave, either. She gets what she wants: the ultimate fulfilment of her identity as The Hero. She gets to Kill the Bad Guy. But at a cost she is incapable of recognizing. Like Caliborn, she never gets to go on to be a fulfilled, happy patron of the new universe. She is always on the inside of the door, stuck inside Homestuck. And the fact that we’re asked to observe her breaking off her relationship with Terezi to go out in a blaze of glory? The fact that we’re asked to compare her to another version of herself who’s let go of her ego, whose bond with Terezi is the most important thing in her life? The fact, that in her eyes, she comes up better, but in ours, she comes up short? How incredible is that?

Neither the Hero or the Villain, trapped in their own ideas, trapped by their own ideas, can ever be free.

It’s a pretty good ending, is what I’m saying.

5) Against Apathetic Lazy Troll Hussie

So, back to that perception of Hussie I discussed earlier. The idea that he’s a flippant, irreverent prankster who never cared about bringing his story to a good conclusion.

By now it should be clear why I don’t really buy that line of thinking. The sheer effort put into Homestuck after the pauses began, the level of thematic complexity Homestuck was going for at the end—these belie the idea that he was apathetic or lazy or wanted to piss off his fans. What seems obvious to me was that he was committed. He devoted himself to driving towards an end he was personally satisfied with, whatever anyone else thought of it, and chose to accept the consequences of having to tell it over the long term.

I could see how it might be easy to get the impression that Hussie’s a very frivolous, thoughtless guy, when his in-story self is a ridiculous, flighty orange goofball. But come on. That’s mistaking the persona he uses for comedy with his actual self as a writer. Reading any interview, Q&A session, or discussion with him reveals how much thought he put into every moment of Homestuck, and above all, that he was committed to putting an incredible amount of effort into it from the very beginning.

He was also committed to challenging himself and bettering his work, whether that meant trying new experiments (flash games, new animation styles, splitting panels and dialogue, messing with formatting, letting the villains take over the website, etc., etc., etc…) or rethinking his work to take account of a larger, more diverse perspective, as we saw with the developing queerness and introspection of characters like Dave.

Yet he knew that not all experiments would be received well. He chose to accept that, to not wallow in the familiar but to take on new things regardless of in-the-moment reader reactions. As he put it:

I guess I just believe in sticking to your guns as a creator. It doesn't mean you completely ignore what people have to say or fail to take it under advisement, but pandering and caving into critics for fear of diminished appreciation is the wrong way to go. Staying the course with your vision doesn't mean you'll do everything right, but if included in that vision is serious, concerted exploration, you can only benefit as an artist. Adversaries to this cause should be regarded as villains.

There are two ways to do the "obstinate douche bag" thing as an artist.

One is in vehement defense of stagnation. Some artists I've encountered do this, and it's completely indefensible. It's as low as you can get, creatively speaking.

The other is in vehement defense of exploration. This is just the opposite. This is a posture everyone should strive for, and these artists are the ones people should be most inclined to offer their attention and support.

That's just how I feel about it, and I come from a zero-BS standpoint on it all. This isn't a job for me, and I'll never modify my approach to protect a bottom line. If it was just a job, I guarantee I wouldn't spend every waking hour doing it. It's kind of a strange personal mission I'm on, which I happen to make money from, and that's cool. People are welcome to come along for the ride.

There’s a deep, deep irony to me in the fact that some talk about Act 6 Homestuck like it was a stagnant period in Homestuck’s development, when in fact, it was one of its most creative and experimental periods. This is true both of its structural and visual experiments, where messing with form finally revealed itself to be central to Homestuck’s major themes, and of its storytelling experiments. It’s understandable that diving into the kids’ psychological problems was a shift, and not everyone was down with it, but the very fact it was a shift shows that Hussie was trying new things. It would have been easy for him to stay in a comfortable place doing the same things he did in Act 4 and 5, but instead, he began to ask different questions and take the story someplace new. And honestly? Act 6 took a long time to pay its full dividends, but I loved where we ended up in the end.

(What kept us from enjoying it in the moment? The pauses. Once again the pauses.)

But for me, the thing that most puts the lie to the idea of Lazy Hussie is the sheer fact of Act 6’s existence itself.

Consider how easy it would have been to drop Homestuck completely when things got rough in the middle years. Consider how many webcomic authors would have done just that. I can name many webcomic hiatuses where the webcomic never came back.

But Homestuck did. Not only did it return, it returned spectacularly, scorchingly, with the shocking and dynamic Game Over, with Caliborn’s claymations, with two spectacular, full-length animations, one of them lovingly-hand drawn. It returned with metafictional shenanigans and glorious queer Gnostic themes. Hussie kept going, and kept experimenting all along the way.

This is the furthest thing in the world from laziness.

And the same is true for Hiveswap. It astonishes me how much I’ve heard Hiveswap talked about as a debacle or a betrayal of its fans. Despite having horrible problems dropped on him, the sort that would ruin any other Kickstarter, Hussie spent the next few years working to make sure he met the promises he’d made to his fans. He did.

My dudes, Hiveswap is real. It exists. It delivers on every promise that was made about what it might be: it’s a fun, pretty, point-and-click adventure game telling a new story in the world of Homestuck. It’s creative and clever and updates an old style of gameplay by letting you put things on things to your heart’s content. It’s certainly more accessible than Homestuck, and not yet as structurally complex, but given future installments, there’s plenty of time for it to grow into something rich and thorny. And rather than see this idea go under, from basically nowhere Hussie worked to bring together a small, diverse team of queer artists and creators to make this thing happen.

Again, not exactly laziness.

That’s why it angers me when I see people calling Hiveswap (somehow?) a betrayal of Homestuck fans, or advocating pirating Hiveswap or demanding their money back because it doesn’t live up to some weird set of expectations they placed on it. Maybe during the periods of drought and ambiguous release dates, both for Homestuck and Hiveswap, it made a little sense to be skeptical of Hussie making promises, but now?

It’s basically spitting in the face of a creator who kept working in the most difficult circumstances, and the small, insanely hard-working team who made it possible, over something that they’ve handed to you exactly as you specified right on your doorstep in a gift-wrapped box.

I’m not saying you can’t critique Hussie or his storytelling. He’s definitely a weird dude with a lot of quirks (Which is perhaps the only kind of dude who could have made something as quirky as Homestuck.) I think it’s fair to say he hasn’t always communicated well with the fandom. But the reaction to him these days is totally, ludicrously, out of proportion, beyond anything that would be a useful critique.

A related question is whether Andrew Hussie is burnt out on Homestuck.

Well, maybe?

It’s certainly true that since 2013ish he’s stepped away somewhat from communicating directly with his fans. But 2013 is also the time when Homestuck fandom was at its most massive, its most full of infighting and meaningless arguments, and its most overwhelming to keep up with. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like to hear more of his insights, but it’s pretty understandable that he wanted to step back a bit under the circumstances. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s burnt out. I mean, he seems to be living his best life, posing glamorously with his fidget spinners and Minion t-shirts. Not exactly hiding in a cave. Rock on, dude.

If he is burnt out on Homestuck, though, that makes what he’s done with Homestuck and Hiveswap all the more impressive. That he brought them this far, and wants to see them keep going and keep doing well, when he could have let them drop unceremoniously a long time ago. If he’s delegating some of the work to others, all the better. I can think of nothing better for an artist who’s burnt out and ready to move on than to find people he can trust to keep the things he started going into the future, and that, I think is exactly what we have in What Pumpkin, Viz, and Homestuck’s artistic team.

But even to assume that he’s burnt out is to presume a lot about his mental state from some very scant data. By many other indications, he wants to keep engaging with Homestuck. There’s an Epilogue to come—a capstone for those last few ambiguities surrounding the timeline, John and Terezi. And he’s getting the Homestuck books re-published with new commentary through Viz—so maybe that’s where he wants to have his conversations with his audience. And he’s still the creative director of Hiveswap itself. It’s very possible he’s not burned out—if anything, wants to keep building the world he created in Homestuck and seeing where he can take it next.

Ultimately, I think people’s ideas about Andrew Hussie say a lot more about their lingering feelings about the ending of Homestuck—a backlash brought on by the pauses he had to work with—than anything about Hussie himself.

6) The Conversation Around Homestuck

Homestuck is a goddamn triumph.

There are certainly critiques I could make of it. But they pale in light of what Homestuck is: is one of the most rich, genre-bending, experimental, character-driven, hilarious, innovative, metafictional, transcendent, optimistic works on the Internet—to say nothing of how it dwarfs much of the rest of literature.

Ultimately, I think Hussie was right: as an archive, as the story it is from beginning to end, Homestuck stands. It’s a rich, meaningful work with a meaningful finale, and it’s right there to be read by anyone who wants to read it. In that sense, Homestuck was and Homestuck is. It doesn’t really need me to defend it. Nor does Andrew Hussie.

So why did I write all this? Why did I write everything I’ve written here on this blog?

Well, mostly for Homestuck’s readers. For fans like myself.

Because I still see people who came away from Homestuck feeling totally burned and abandoned by its creator, when that was anything but the truth. Because I still see people who feel like they can’t escape an awful negativity about this comic, about the ending of something they passionately loved. I want them to see that it doesn’t have to feel that way.

And because I want Homestuck criticism to be better. Because I see prominent bloggers, some of whom I really respect, taking so little of this stuff into account. I want to see people talk about Homestuck’s place in literature, in internet culture, without discounting how circumstances shaped how it was perceived. I want to get away from a lazy cynicism—that cynicism everywhere online—about whether stories can be meaningful at all. A cynicism that Homestuck is the very antithesis of through its themes of transcendence and hope.

I think for some people, Homestuck is that weird old obsession they cringe at. The ghost of teenage fandoms past. Which is fine. It’s reasonable to want to move on. But it frustrates me when I see the same cynical, cringing attitude affecting how people feel—or feel like they’re allowed to feel without social stigma—about the work Homestuck itself. I’m not interested in cringe culture.

I frankly don’t have time for it when Homestuck’s as good as it is.

Don’t get me wrong, I want Homestuck to be criticized, too. I want to hear what its flaws are. I think that’s also an important part of the conversation. But don’t tell me it’s a pointless, apathetic work, that it’s just the product of laziness. Because we know better than that by now. Because we need a better conversation than that. Don’t tell me that Homestuck doesn’t have Gnostic themes. Tell me how it uses them, and how it could use them better. Don’t tell me Homestuck’s meaningless. Tell me how it strives to be meaningful—because it does, in every aspect of its storytelling—and tell me where it succeeds, and where it fails.

That’s the kind of conversation I want to have about Homestuck.

You may not agree with the things I’ve pointed to here—you may think that Homestuck’s ending is much more flawed than I do. But that’s totally fair. All I want to say is this:

If you were holding off from letting yourself enjoy Homestuck, or if you once enjoyed it and wish you could enjoy it again, or if the experience of the ending left you feeling disappointed and frustrated and burned out…

Give it another read, especially Act 6 and 7.

You might be surprised how much you like what you find.

#homestuck #homestuck ending #homestuck analysis #homestuck criticism #andrew hussie #off-the-cuff homestuck thoughts extravaganza 2017 #now in 2018 #in defense of homestuck #homestuck fandom #understanding homestuck #ending themes #understanding the ending #serial vs archival reading #homestuck is good actually #against lazy cynicsm #towards a better conversation #keep rising

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rosieclark · 6 years

Text

I see you (Plangst onesho)

The metal door slid open, revealing a tired looking Pidge. Lance mentally cursed himself for bothering her at such a late hour.

“Sorry Pidge, were you sleeping?”

“Nah. I got a buttload of new Galra code that I’ve been looking at.” She shuffled back into her room. “Come on in.” Lance tiptoed through her “organized mess”, looking for any place to sit. He finally spotted a free space on her bed, and plopped down beside Pidge.

“You should really try to sleep y'know.” Pidge threw him a disapproving look, and snorted.

“So, whats up?” Lance looked up at Pidge, who was clacking away on her laptop. He sighed.

“I talked to Allura.” The clacking stopped, and he found himself staring into amber eyes. “It didn’t go too well.” His voice cracked, and almost instantly, warm arms surrounded him. He leaned into her hug. Over their years in space, he had grown closed with the green paladin. They had spent countless nights playing video games, reminiscing about earth, and just talking.

“Oh Lance.” She whispered into his hair. “I’m sorry.” They stayed like that for a while, Pidge’s head in Lance’s hair, Lance’s arms around her waist. When they pulled away, Lance sniffled, and smiled.

“It’s okay, I’m fine, really.” Pidge threw him a doubtful look.

“I mean look on the bright side! I’m now free to pursue other alluring alien women.” He laughed, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Pidge joined him, though her laugh seemed hesitant. “It’s really a shame there weren’t more princesses on this ship. We could do with more Altean beauties.” Pidge resumed her typing.

“Yeah, I guess.” Lance frowned. Why did she sound so upset?

“Dude, lighten up a little, I’m fine, I promi-” He was cut off by Pidge slamming her laptop shut.

“You think it’s all about you huh?” Lance was taken aback by her sudden outburst. “I’m sorry you just got your heart broken, and I’m sorry there are no other beautiful women on this ship, but for once in your life, can you think about what I’m feeling?” Lance didn’t know how to react. Where was this coming from?

“What? Pidge, what are you saying?” The green paladin ran a hand through her messy curls, and continued, in a softer voice.

“You spend all this time looking around for “Mrs. Blue Lion”. Every planet we visit, every space mall we take cows from, every station we help, I have to endure your endless comments. “Did you see the legs on that one Pidge?” “She has really pretty eyes Pidge.” “Oh Pidge, I might be in love.”” She held the bridge of her nose, and took a deep breath. “Did you ever thi-” There were tears in her eyes, and Pidge swallowed again. “Did you ever think to stop looking around, and look ahead instead?” Lance’s mouth opened and then closed again.

“Pidge-”

“My name is Katie!” Pidge yelled. “And I’m right here. I’ve always been right in front of you” She put her head in her hands, and let the tears fall. “Why can’t you see me?”

Lance was unsure how to comfort his friend. He felt like a total jerk. All this time, the only thing that concerned him was getting Allura to date him. He would tell Pidge about his feelings without even considering how she felt. He wanted to hold her, and tell her he was sorry, but he was too afraid. So he did the coward thing to do, and left.

Pidge heard the door swish open and click shut. Her hands trembled, and she sobbed into her pillow. She had tried to be supportive of Lance’s romantic endeavors, but after a while, she just become tired. Tired of him only seeing her as his “wing-man”, or “best pal.” She wanted him to see her as a girl. As Katie. It was dumb for her to fall love with Lance. Such a cliche. What type of idiot falls in love with her best friend? The green paladin wiped her eyes, and re-evaluated the mess she had created. He had left. Without a word. Just like her dad and Matt. She had lost her best friend. Pidge lay down, and cried some more.

“Pidge, wait up.” Pidge turned around to see Keith jogging up behind her. She offered a smile.

“Hey Keith, whats up?” Keith furrowed his brows, and stared at her. Pidge squirmed a little under his gaze.

“Are you okay?” Those were not the words she was expecting.

“Uh, yeah? Why do you ask?” Keith sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. As much as he hated to admit it, he found himself caring for the green paladin as if she was his sister. Maybe it was because Shiro was somehow both their suto-brothers, or maybe he just wanted to protect her. Whatever it was, he didn’t like seeing her sad.

“You just seem a little down.” Pidge looked down at her feet. “Katie, you’re like my baby sister. You can tell me anything.”

“It’s nothing.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m fine.”

“Look, I’m not great with emotions, and I suck at giving life advice, so just tell me who or what I need to punch, and consider it done.” Pidge let out a breathy chuckle.

“Please no.” She looked him in the eyes. “It’s Lance.” Keith growled.

“What did he do?” Pidge shrugged and shook her head.

“Nothing, or everything. I don’t know anymore.” Keith looked expectant, like he wanted more details, and so she told him the whole story. How she didn’t like Lance at first, but then they become friends. How he would talk to her about all his girl problems, and they would hang out late at night. She told Keith about her feelings for the sharpshooter, and how he left her. By the end, she was crying, and he was hugging her.

“He’s an asshole.” Pidge let out a teary laugh.

“Thanks for listening Keith.”

“Anytime Katie.”

The next few weeks were hell in Lance’s opinion. It seemed like Pidge was doing everything in her power to avoid him. Whenever he would walk into a room, she would walk out. During missions, she would partner up with Keith instead of him. She even took to eating her meals before everyone else.

“Lance! Earth to Lance!” Lance jerked up as Hunk waved a hand in front of his best friends face.

“Huh?” Lance looked at Hunk. “Oh, hey buddy.” Hunk frowned.

“Lance, whats wrong?” Hunk leaned on the counter, and stared at his friend.

“Nothing. Okay, everything.” Lance’s brow furrowed, and he groaned, letting his head drop on the countertop. “Don’t hit me with the spatula Hunk, but I think I really hurt Pidge, and now she won’t talk to me.” Hunk narrowed his eyes.

“What did you do?” Lance explained everything. Hunk hit him with his spatula.

“Hey! I said no hitting!” Lance rubbed his shoulder. “That really hurt!”

“I should hope so. Do you have any idea what you did?” Lance shook his head dumbly, and Hunk sighed. “Lance, do you know how many times Pidge has come into my room for a hug because she had a nightmare that we all left her?” Lance shook his head again. “Too many times. That poor girl had been through more than you can ever imagine with her dad and brother leaving her behind. And you go and leave her too.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Lance’s gut was filling with regrette. He had left her. Hunk patted him on the back.

“I know you didn’t, but does she?” Lance put his head in his hands. He had to make this right.

It was harder then it seemed. The more Lance tried to talk to her, the more she seemed hell bent on ignoring him. And the worse part was he was starting to see how absolutely amazing Katie Holt was. There was that time she re-coded the program for their training missions, creating a real AI they could fight against. An opponent that grew smarter with them. Or that time Allura hosted a ball, and she took his breath away in that green, vintage dress. Or even that time she saved his butt against the Galra. THe more Lance watched her, the more he realized he was in love.

“DON’T YOU TOUCH HER!” Lance charged at Ezor. This was not how the mission was supposed to go. Pidge looked absolutely terrified.

“Ooh, we have a live one here.” The Galra commander smirked. “Unfortunately, this may pose as a problem. She tossed Pidge to the nearby soldiers, and gestured for them to follow her out the cell door. “It seems Pidgey here will have to be…” She waved her hand in the air as if looking for the right word. “Asked some questions elsewhere.” Shiro glared.

“No. Let her go.” Ezor laughed. Lance stood up.

“Take me instead.” Ezor sighed.

“Honestly, your human heroics are plain stupid.” She turned to leave, stopping in the doorway to look at Lance. “Don’t worry loverboy. I’ll make sure you can hear her screams from here.”

Lance lunged at her, but the door was already slammed shut. He swore as he hit the door. Shiro looked distraught, Keith visibly seething. Hunk got up to help Lance.

“What do you care if she dies?” Lance looked at Keith, who was rising up. “Why do you suddenly care about her?”

“What do you mean? I’ve always cared about her?” Lance stood up. Keith took a few steps forward.

“Oh really? Then why did you leave her? Why did you hurt her?” Lance lowered his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to. I was going to apologize after the mission. I swear.”

“Yeah, well what if you never see her after the mission? I hope your happy knowing Pidge might die thinking you hate her.” Lance opened his mouth to retort, but Shiro cut him off.

“ENOUGH.” Everyone looked at the leader. “Arguing isn’t going to bring Pidge back. Keith, apologize to Lance.” Keith looked at his feet, shoulders sagging.

“I’m sorry man. I took my anger out on you, when I shouldn’t have.” Lance swallowed.

“It’s fine. I really messed up. I shoul-” He was cut off by a shriek. Katie. The screams continued until they stopped. Eerie silence passed, as every prisoner held their breath. Then the screams started again.

“Mom, what are they doing to her?” Krolia looked away.

“It’s called water death.” Lance flinched at the name. Hunk put a hand on his shoulder. “They torture the victim with electric shocks before holding their head under water for extended periods of time. If the victim drowns, they simply shock them back to life, before repeating. It’s extremely painful, and will lead to eventual death.”

Everyone in the cell looked horrified. Katie’s screams continued to echo through the chamber. Then, silence.

Their cell door creaked open to reveal a slightly disheveled looking Coran.

Where was she? Lance burst through another cell door, only to find it empty. Like the last one, and the one before that, and the ten before that. He was starting to get frantic.

“KATIE? KATIE, WHERE ARE YOU?” Lance ran down the next hallway. The rest of the team was getting to their lions. Lance was sent to find Katie. He burst through the first door on his right, and stopped dead in his tracks at what he saw.

Katie lay on a gurney, sopping wet, stripped down to her camisole and shorts. Wires were hanging out of her arms, and stomach, and were attached to a machine that belonged in Frankenstein. She wasn’t moving. Lance ran up to her, and gently began to remove the wires. He winced as he had to pull out the needles from her skin. He caressed her cheek, and bit back a sob.

“Lance?” Her voice was hoarse for screaming, but he heard her loud and clear.

“Katie! You’re going to be just fine.” She smiled weakly, and reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes. She shook her head.

“Lance, I’m not going to make it out of here.” She took a laboured breath in. “You and I both know that.” Lance shook his head.

“No, don;t say that Katie. We have our whole lives to live together.”

“Together. That sounds nice.” Lance laughed.

“Yeah. We can get married on the castle, and our kids would be the cutest, smartest little space kids in the galaxy.” Pidge laughed, but it turned into a coughing fit.

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? You haven’t even asked me out.” Lance smiled., brushing her messy locks out of her eyes.

“Katrina Holt, you are the love of my life. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize you were standing right infront of me. You are everything I could ever want, and I will never leave you again. Will you please go out with me?” Katie smiled.

“Yes.”

“Then you have to stay alive long enough for us to get out of here.” She nodded. Gently, he scooped her up, cradling her frail body to his chest. He began to run.

“Keith, power up the lion's, I’m here.” Lance panted into the coms. He ran into Red’s hanger, and gently placed Katie down. She smiled and gave him a thumbs up. He sat in the pilot's seat, and steered Red to the hanger door. As the lions left the cruiser, he let out a sigh of relief. They had made it.

“Lance, how is she?” Shiro’s voice reached through the coms. Lance smiled.

“She’s in bad shape, but she’s going to be fine. Isn’t that right Katie?” No response. “Katie?”

He ran to his lions hanger. Katie was lying on the bench, eyes closed and skin pale. Too pale. He shook her gently, as if trying to wake her up. “Katie, we made it. Open your eyes.” Silence echoed through the lion louder the any explosion.

“Lance, what’s happening?” Hunk sounded worried.

“Lance, why isn’t she responding?” Keith’s voice was shaking.

Lance was frantically trying CPR. “Come on Katie, this isn’t funny anymore. Open your eyes.”

“Lance!” Alluras voice rang out, drowning out all sobbing and cursing from the other paladins. “Lance, she’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”

“No!” Lance snarled. Sweat was dripping down his forehead from trying to resuscitate the green paladin. “I can still save her.”

“No, you can’t Lance.” Alluras words hit him hard. She was right. Katie was gone. He bent over her body, and inhaled her scent. He cried.

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dbhilluminate · 6 years

Text

DBH: Illuminate- New Jericho

Characters: Kate, Simon, Markus (mentions of North) Word count: 3,197

Chapter Index

November 9th, 2038- 11AM

The derelict ship echoed a loud groan throughout its old, corroding hull as she moved through the entrance and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. Kate struggled to turn the handle until it finally jerked into place with the shrill ring of grinding metal muffled by rust and flaking paint chips, then jiggled the item in her hand and shone her flashlight down the open corridor as it flickered to life with a dull buzz. For a few moments longer, she stood with her back to the wall and listened for movement on the other side until she was sure she hadn't been followed, then proceeded to move through the debris cluttering the halls. It had been a few months since she'd last been to Jericho but with Markus’ sudden appearance, and his interest in taking the reigns, Kate figured it was about time to have a face to face with Simon and Josh again so she could meet their new leader and evaluate his candor for herself. After all, she wasn't about to leave them in the hands of someone she knew next to nothing about, even if her partners had begun to trust him.

Her footsteps clacked across the steel grating as she followed the path from the entrance at the docks up several flights of stairs, through one cargo hold to the next, until a few minutes later she stopped at a door which had been barricaded from the inside. The woman lifted her hand and rapped on the door in sequence, switching between soft taps with her knuckle and thuds with a clenched fist.

Tap tap bang tap. Tap bang tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap bang. Tap tap tap.

She paused after the sixth sequence and waited; it was about ten seconds before she could hear footsteps, accompanied by the screeching of a lifting bar and the cry of the door hinges and the door swung open. From inside North's piercing stare glinted as the light caught her eyes, and she motioned her in with a sideways nod. Behind her stood Simon, who placed his hand on Kate’s shoulder with a soft squeeze as she approached and smiled.

“We were starting to think things didn't go so well the other day and that you'd been captured,” he commented in a relieved tone, “I’m glad to see you're alright.”

“There were some slight complications, but I’m okay,” she replied as she followed him inside and glanced around the room, now lit by warm fires in old oil drums; it was incredible how many had found their way here, they had nearly doubled in number. “Jericho seems to have grown considerably since my last visit,” she noted sadly.

“Deviancy is spreading faster than ever, we're receiving new arrivals every day,” he explained as she led her upstairs, North in tail.

Kate sighed. While it was great that they had found help, the realization of just how widespread the suffering of their kind was now made her heart heavy. “Then I guess we’ll have to work faster.”

“You came at a good time,” he said as he looked down at her. “Markus has something in the works he was hoping Illuminate would help him with.”

She stiffened at the suggestion, stopped mid on the stairs and clenched her hands into quivering fists at her side, and shook her head as she looked up.

“Simon, you know I don't work with people I don't trust-” she half pleaded, but Simon was prepared for her resistance.

“Lumi,” he cooed gently, and her lower lip pulled tight. His blue eyes smiled as he stepped down the stairs past her until he was at her level, then turned and took both her hands in his; after a moment of hesitation her fingers uncurled and flattened her palms against his and she stopped shaking. It wasn't the first time he’d had to settle her nerves and he was sure it wouldn't be the last, but Simon didn't mind. He never had. “I haven't promised him anything. Markus understands he needs to earn your trust, he just wants to pick your brain for now,” he finished as he gave her hands a soft squeeze. “It'll be alright, I promise.”

The quiver in her chin grew more noticeable the longer she stared into his eyes, like a child heeding the words of an older, gentle sibling. When she had found Simon nearly one year ago, she had been so scared, so angry, and so lost, she had never wanted to trust another person again. But somewhere in the depths of that big, beautiful heart of his, was an overflowing fount of compassion, patience, and understanding that with a little time had healed all of her wounds and taught her how to love again- to give others a chance, to try to see the good in them, and to have faith that they wouldn't hurt her or let her down.

If it weren't for this man Illuminate’s movement wouldn’t have made the progress it had toward making a positive change in the world. Simon had helped mold and shape her vision and uplifted her on her worst days when the world was crashing down around her. To Kate he was her comfort zone, her family, and she trusted him with every fiber of her being.

Her blue eyes shifted from one of his to the other and she squeezed back in weak reply, “You trust him, then?”

Simon’s gaze moved to the floor below, then back to her as he released her hands and gestured upstairs. “Let me show you something…”

Without protest, she followed him until he reached the overhang of the upper level and leaned over the railing to gaze outwards across the room. She hadn't noticed before but from this vantage, she saw shipping containers full of biocomponents and crates of blue blood, and her face softened and lit up in awe. “Wh-where did you-...?”

He beamed with a marveled grin. “Markus broke into a Cyberlife distribution center and stole a truckload of supplies. He saved dozens of us from shutting down and supplied us with the means to help refugees from the moment they arrive,” he explained, allowing her a few moments to process how truly remarkable Markus’ contribution to Jericho was.

“That's… incredibly selfless,” she exhaled with a small smile.

“To say I trust him would be a gross misrepresentation of what I truly feel,” he said as he traced his eyes across the far wall and looked over to her. “I believe in his vision, and I’ll do what I must to protect it, even if it means-”

“Stop, please.” One of Kate’s hands reached desperately for his and threaded her fingers with his, their skin reacting and receding quietly as she squeezed tight and she looked at him with pleading eyes. “Don't let it come to that… alright? Jericho needs you, and without you, I-...”

Her voice trailed off and her lip quivered as she smiled fondly at him. She didn’t want to imagine having to do this without his help, not now, not ever. “I don't know what I'd do.”

Simon lowered his eyes, reached around the back of her head with his free hand to cradle her neck, and bumped his forehead to hers with a sad smile. “I think you'd be just fine, but don't fret about that… there’s work to be done.”

“Are you Kate?” came a voice from behind them that was compelling yet resoundingly serene, a combination she hadn't expected from someone so bold as to walk right into Cyberlife’s warehouses and steal their equipment.

As Simon stepped away from her he gave her one more reassuring squeeze but lingered close by just in case she needed him.

“I am,” she replied as she turned halfway around to look at him over her shoulder, and was struck by what she saw. Kate didn't need to look into his arrest record to know that he'd lost everything and pulled himself out of hell, she could feel the weight of his past radiating from his mismatched eyes. Markus wore his heart on his sleeve like a coat of arms- he’d tempered his pain and hammered it into a shield forged in the fires of hardship, molded his resolve to the point of a blade shaped by injustice and sharpened by anger. He was a reluctant warrior, a fierce protector, and a kindred spirit.

And immediately she understood what they saw in him.

The man extended his hand to her, an affable gesture of goodwill she usually wouldn't have accepted, and smiled brighter than she thought him capable of. “I was hoping I'd get to meet you someday soon.”

Kate reached out, gripped his hand and gave him a neutral nod. “It would have been rude for me not to introduce myself,” she deflected as she lifted her free hand to wrap around the strap of her shoulder bag in nervous habit.

“I've heard a lot about you from Simon- about how you found him at the beginning, about how you've worked to shield deviants and guide them to Jericho, about the broadcasts you've been televising for the last year,” he said as he walked beside her, “You've done amazing things for our people.”

“You've done pretty well yourself,” she commented as she glanced down at a pair of androids receiving repairs behind a privacy screen. “My guys have never been able to pull off a heist of this scale… you’ve done more in two weeks time to stabilize the living conditions of our colony than I've done in a year.”

Markus shot her a hard look as if he were upset with her for being too humble. “No,” he started, “No but what you were focused on was so much more important than just running for supplies and settling disputes.” He stopped walking and fixed his eyes directly on hers and she shifted uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze.

“If it wasn't for your work, none of these people would have had somewhere to escape to. What I've done could never overshadow what you've put into motion,” he insisted and at this Kate smiled quietly. She was starting to like him too.

“Whatever happens from here on out, I want to make sure we continue to work together, Jericho and Illuminate, toward our common goal.”

“You mean liberty for Androids?”

“Liberty, freedom, justice- all of it,” he lifted his arms and looked around the room. “I want our people to be free, and you want them to be accepted as living beings capable of independent thought. We deserve so much better than this, and together I know we can accomplish that.”

Really starting to like him…

The woman’s lips parted as if ready to speak but she paused, looked away and sighed. “How?” She asked plain and simple before looking back to him. “I've already been trying for so long to change the way the world thinks about us, what makes you think your words will get through?”

“Because they need more than just a speech from some anonymous voice on their television screens making them slightly uncomfortable for them to wake up.”

Kate furrowed her brow and squinted at him. “So then what are you suggesting?”

“That it's time for action,” he stated without reservations. “Humanity was shaken by your broadcasts at first, but when we didn't take action they become too complacent. It's time they're reminded we’re still here, and we’ll fight for what we want.”

Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes went wide as she realized what he was insinuating; her hand gripped tighter around her bag strap and she flashed him a small grin as she shook her outstretched index finger. “I like where you’re going with this… but you need to be careful with what you say and do,” she noted is a serious tone. “Being too aggressive will only hurt our cause instead of helping it.”

Markus’ brow lifted and he nodded crookedly. “And that's why I need your help- you have a lot more experience with public broadcasts, you know better than me how the humans will react to what we say.”

“You want to make a speech…?” she blinked in surprise.

“I want them to know Illuminate isn’t the only one out there anymore pushing for change, and I want them to know we’re done waiting.”

Kate eyed him for several moments as she weighed the pros and cons of adding another face to her brand. Sure, Markus had one of those faces that begged you to trust them, and yes he had the advantage of being a man which meant people were more inclined to listen to him, but what kind of effect would mixed messages have on anyone on the fence? Knowing Illuminate to be comprised of many as compared to one would not only put their target audience even more on edge, it would also potentially put her associates in danger, which would make it harder for them to move about as freely as they could now. DCPD and Military presence would increase, their carefully guarded information would be even harder to obtain. And it wasn't that she minded a challenge, she just would rather not have to take the risk if it had the potential to cripple her entire operation.

But it would also fan the flame of revolution, which was necessary.

She clenched her teeth and replied, “Well… I can help you with that. I can set up a broadcast whenever you need me to.”

“Actually, I was thinking we’d broadcast from the Stratford Tower.”

“What!?” Her jaw nearly hit the floor. “Why would you risk being discovered when you could easily just-“

“Because it’s not so much about the broadcast, as much as it’s about disrupting the status quo,” Markus insisted as he locked eyes with her and softly patted the backs of his fingers into his palm.

Kate drew her lips together tight, shook her head, turned and paced away from him to the corner of the room with her hands on her hips and exhaled slowly.

“You don’t even need to help us execute the plan, I just want to know how you’d get in, and get your opinion on what to say.”

“Markus- when you said it was time for action, I thought you meant graffiti and protests, not invading their workplace and terrorizing humans!” she exclaimed as she pressed her thumb and index fingers against the bridge of her nose.

“Oh come on, terrorism is a little strong, don't you think?” he half-chuckled.

“No, I don’t think you understand the gravity of what you’re suggesting,” she stressed as she turned to look him in the eye, unamused. “Look- I can appreciate your passion for rebellion and your knack for creativity, but doing this wrong could cause more problems than it would solve for all of us, and make what I'm doing a hell of a lot harder.”

Markus lifted his hands to hip level, took a step back and nodded. “Okay… alright. You're right, it may be a little much,” he said quietly. “So then what do you suggest we do?”

With a controlled, exhaled breath, she composed herself so she could think more rationally about the idea as a whole. “You need to be as non-invasive and discreet as possible. No one can know you're there until they absolutely need to.”

“Of course, I agree.”

“I mean it. Even one fatality- hell, one injury no matter the reason for it, will shift the public’s opinion unfavorably. So that means no bullets.”

His face contorted in disdain and he tried to protest. “That… might be a little difficult to-”

“No bullets,” she reiterated without even batting an eye. “Violence is the language of fear, and should only be used as a last resort to protect yourselves. Once you resort to violence you'll never be able to earn back their trust. You can't use fear to make them understand, it would only end in prejudice and insincere submission.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw North turn away in frustration and mumble under her breath, but Markus simply nodded in quiet understanding, eyes shifting between empty spots on the floor as he pieced together his own feelings and how he wanted to respond.

“No, you're right… that's not what we want,” he agreed, “If we want them to see reason, we have to show them what we want them to see. The moment we show them violence we’ve already lost their attention.”

It was a longer conversation than she'd planned on having, but Kate was relieved that he had the sense to listen to reason when he heard it. “I'm glad you understand that…” she mused as she made her way toward the stairs.

“Hey-” Markus reached for her arm as she passed but stopped himself from invading her personal space before he made contact, and she glanced down at his outstretched hand before giving him the courtesy of meeting his gaze. “I really appreciate all you're doing, and I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable. This place was your home before it was mine, and I don't want you to feel like I took over.”

“Markus, Jericho is plenty big enough for the both of us.” Kate replied softly as she stepped up toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm glad you're here, so please don't take my distance personally. This is just how I am.”

“Yeah, so I've heard,” he admitted with a small smile.

“Just give me a few days to do some reconnaissance with my people and I'll be back with a plan to get you in with as little resistance as possible. In the meantime, just think about what you want to say, and we’ll go over it the next time we meet.”

He nodded quietly as he backed up the steps to let Simon pass and gave her a hesitant wave before returning to his perch in the control room; she hadn't noticed the longing look in his eyes before when he watched the man, but when he smiled and chuckled “I think he likes you,” it hit her like a truck, and Kate grinned ear to ear.

“I think you like him.”

She'd never seen an android choke on air before but it was by far the funniest thing she remembered seeing. Simon’s eyes snapped open wide and he doubled over and sputtered out a clumsy cough as his cheeks and ears flushed a faint shade of blue; a loud laugh erupted out of her for a split-second before she could cover her mouth to contain it and it echoed throughout the room. She hid her face in his shoulder to shut herself up as every confused head turned to stare.

“I'm gonna go now,” she whispered quietly through silent wheezing breaths.

“Don't forget,” he squeaked out a reminder as he smothered her with a big hug, “Tomorrow’s Tuesday, so I'll meet you at the usual time.”

“Of course,” she confirmed. “See you at noon.”

#detroit become human #detroit fanfic #dbhilluminate #detroit: become human #dbh #markus #simon #kate #jericho

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darkfromday · 6 years

Text

on the hunt

Prompt: Day 5 - Rumor

Pairing: orchestrashipping (Yuzu/Yuuya/Reiji)

shoutout to @timahina for having the same idea of orchestrashipping + rumors! I’m giddily reading their fic over again right now. here, please accept my pirate!AU because I’m weak for these three dorks making out in long coats and tricorner hats in some distant future.

For the third time that night, Hiiragi Yuzu checks her stolen compass.

She’s ready to throw it away after two near-brushes with death since she took it, but something tells her that it will lead her to whom she seeks. Eventually it will steer her right.

The ship she’s on sways and bumps the gangplank, and as it does the compass arrow swivels to keep pointing faintly northeast--toward the derelict warehouse the people of Poole all whisper about.

It’s now or never.

Her prize is now resolute, and so is she. Yuzu slips off her ride with the smallest splash possible, swimming quickly to shore and the cover of some pathetically-shabby house. There’s barely time to pause and evaluate the best path across these outskirts, but it would be more suspicious to run pell-mell in the streets while dripping wet.

Hmm. Maybe the roofs are close enough together...?

Yuzu peeks down the street and--yes, the distance is manageable. The houses on this side of town have been crammed together to fit and segregate the poor, which is both cruel and convenient for her. Yuzu can, and does, huff and climb her way to the top of Shabby House A, back up and leap to the next structurally unsound rooftop, and the next, and the next. It’s a miracle she doesn’t fall through any of them on the way to her distant destination. That, or my swordplay and stamina classes from childhood.

But everything turns out fine in the end, and she’s able to drop into the warehouse’s second floor through a wide open window, silent as the grave. The compass even goes quietly nuts in her hands.

This place is meant to look common and disgusting to shake potential peacekeepers and other intruders. But even thirty more layers of dust and grime can’t dispel the rumors among the workers and the wealthy on Yuzu’s side of town--that one of the most famous pirates in the Seven Seas can be found here on occasion, forging new swords for his crew or sleeping off rum-comas.

Yuzu believes every whisper and it’s why she’s here. I won’t turn back until I’ve found him and secured his help.

Carefully, she tiptoes over the damp boards, moves to and down the stairs. Light and movement from the lower level draw her attention, and she slips behind a rusty old table to peek around--just in time.

A young man hums some creepy tune as he sharpens a sword with a crimson blade, pausing only briefly to nudge some of his bi-color Christmas hair back under his extravagant hat. Yuzu recognizes him as the Performer--a pirate so unpredictable that surviving an encounter with him on the seas is down to a coin toss. Skilled in acrobatics, brawling, petty theft and escaping custody--truly he is someone to be admired no matter which arm of the law one is nearer to.

Since she has slipped across the line of propriety and morality long ago, Yuzu feels justified in both standing in awe of him and doing whatever it takes to bend him to her cause. Including standing and moving to block the main exit.

“Sakaki Yuuya?”

He flinches; it takes him a small age to turn around and face her head on. But his words are almost cocky. “Occasionally I answer to that, yes. Among other things.”

“The other things is why I’m here,” Yuzu says bluntly.

“So you know whose tail you’re stepping on right now? Who you’re disturbing?”

“Performer, I need your help. I stowed away on a ship to find you, and I won’t leave here without you.”

Yuuya tilts his head so, so slowly. There’s a candle on the desk to light his work, and in its dim glow, the defender of the downtrodden looks a little sinister. This changes to seductive when he tilts his head again to look her up and down. Yuzu abruptly remembers that she’s only got one soaking wet layer on and flushes.

“Normally bedmates wait for me at the brothel,” he eventually says with a wink.

Yuzu insists, “I’m here for business. Something that would help me and be profitable for you.”

“And what if I’m not interested?”

Shit, Yuzu thinks, checking the room surreptitiously again for exits. “That’s not an answer I’m prepared to accept.”

“First time for everything,” Yuuya says grandly.

Gods, the mouth on him. In any other scenario Yuzu might have dragged someone so handsome and intellectually stimulating to the nearest brothel or bed herself. Here though, she knows nothing of the Performer’s more personal tastes or habits beyond hearsay. He might indulge her in name and then handcuff her to the bed, making sure as he escaped that they would never meet again. Losing him is not a chance she can take, at all.

Time for Plan B.

She pulls out the compass, lets it gleam and spin in the low light.

“Maybe you’ll be interested in this.”

Yuzu expects Yuuya to hum, or feign ignorance of his own misplaced possession--anything so a mysterious young woman doesn’t appear to have him at a disadvantage. What she does not expect is for him to draw the sword he’s been sharpening and advance on her.

“Where did you get that?!”

“So it is yours,” Yuzu half-taunts, but cautiously--her eyes dart about the room, searching this time for a weapon to commandeer. Her other hand holds the compass steady.

Yuuya’s gritted teeth gleam at her. “It is mine,” he confirms. “Nicked from me almost two weeks ago. You’ll return it, love, or lose the arm.”

“No. I think I’ll keep it as insurance--”

“It’ll ensure your death!” Yuuya snarls, and lunges.

Yuzu is ready now, though: she spotted a dull but trusty-enough sword resting near her hip, and brings it up now to parry the Performer’s furious first strike. Just like that, the fight is on.

She twirls, jabs at him and uses the old tables and trinkets in this place to her advantage, willing to toss or hold whatever will shield her and give her time to plan her next attack. The Performer is surprisingly adept with swords beyond maintaining them for his crew, as he slides and slashes just like Yuzu did the day she finally defeated her instructor.

Even so, it’s her who draws first blood--a small cut across his cheek that backs him up a bit, humming like he’s impressed with her.

Not that it would matter. Not that it does.

“Well done! You’ve marked me. Guess you aren’t just a pretty face with pretty words.”

“Now will you listen to what I need?”

“Not before I get my compass back,” he insists, and then they’re back at it: trading parries, taunting form, pushing and shoving. It’s after one well-timed shove that Yuzu gasps, because Yuuya has taken advantage of that shove to stab her dangerously close to her abdomen.

Shit. He’s serious about this compass. ...All the more reason I can’t let him have it until I have his aid.

“I don’t like killing civilians,” Yuuya says. “Messy. Wasteful. But I’ve done things that fit both those categories before.”

So have I, Yuzu thinks, using his merciful pause to charge him. She’s lucky; the move startles him, meaning she can push him to the grimy ground and hold her shaky sword in his face after kicking away his own.

“Listen up, Yuuya. You can help me of your own free will, or you can do it with a nice wound to match mine, but either way--”

Shing.

“Either way, you will stop moving, or I will be helping the Performer carry your corpse.”

The blood still in Yuzu’s body turns to ice. There is someone at the back of her neck, holding her tight and pressing a blade there. It’s someone she’s also never formally met, but like Yuuya needs no introduction. He is another of the most feared pirates in the world, while also being one of the most respected in multiple circles. Smooth, analytical, wealthy beyond counting, the Royal Navy’s worst nightmare and, just now, holding her life in his hands.

“The Pirate Prince,” she whispers, raw with awe and despair.

“Indeed.” Akaba Reiji adjusts his hands so one is over Yuzu’s wound, pressing--protecting her and letting her feel the pain. His silky baritone vibrates almost directly into her ear from his lips, and he doesn’t hesitate to flex one of the reasons for his nickname.

“Drop your weapon and kick it away, and we’ll get to hug for a little longer.”

Yuzu drops her sword and kicks it with a snarl. She literally can’t resist his order. No one can, not once he does whatever it is he’s been gifted with by the cruel gods.

“I appreciate it,” Reiji says in the same voice he’d use for a dog not shitting on his ship, probably. “Now we can have a nice little talk. Stay where you are and I’ll retrieve your sword partner.”

The warm, steady bulk of him behind her disappears, moves around to her front. Yuzu can’t move now, so she has plenty of time to study the Prince as he ambles over to the Performer. Shiny hair the color of a standard sword; cold violet eyes said to rival the sea in turmoil; missing his blood-red monocle, but still wielding the wickedly-sharp custom purple blade he had used to threaten her; and a flamboyantly royal blue coat to rival Yuuya’s rust-red one. If the Performer is handsome, his rescuer is breathtaking. Yuzu’s just glad he hadn’t asked her not to breathe.

Wait.

Now that she has time to think (and breathe, and bleed), she can’t help but... be puzzled. Why is Akaba Reiji here? How did he even know something was going on in this ratty old hideout? It doesn’t make sense on the surface.

Reiji kneels, offering his hand to Yuuya. The younger man is seemingly uncaring of their audience and gratefully accepts the lift up, grunting a bit.

“Thanks. But argh, why do you always come in when I’m getting my ass kicked?”

“There is no alternative,” Reiji responds, dryly. “You could start winning fights; perhaps then I’d re-evaluate my interventions.”

“Hey!”

Yuzu keeps her expression neutral. Now that I think about it... Just as there are rumors about the Performer’s schedule and habits and how to exploit them, there have also been whispers about the close company the Prince and the Performer keep. Two apparent opposites, attracting.

It shouldn’t be alluring, or cause envy. It is doing both.

Now the Prince has gently turned Yuuya’s cheek toward him and is examining the cut there, caressing the skin around it. “This... will heal soon on its own. Are you injured anywhere else?”

“Just superficial stuff, and my pride.” Yuuya signs. “This girl isn’t a pirate, but she’s good. I almost considered helping her with whatever just because of that.”

Yuzu can’t keep quiet any longer at those flippant words. “Almost?!”

And Reiji, fucking Reiji, glances over at her as though he’s forgotten he put her on pause. But his words are at least fair and measured. “I didn’t announce myself so you two would bicker further. This conflict was foolish, and now you will compromise.”

“Compromise?” Yuuya sputters. “This vixen marred my face!”

“And you nearly stabbed me in a vital organ!” Yuzu fires back, since she’d been coming to talk peacefully and he had escalated--

“Children, hush,” Reiji orders. He looks too amused. “Yuuya, I will kiss your face better once we’re on my ship. And you will accept the lady’s deal in exchange for your compass back, so long as the aid requested is reasonable.”

“Fine.”

“As for you, my dear... your name?”

“Hiiragi Yuzu.”

His eyes glint. “Yuzu. You will explain what it is you actually need from Yuuya, and then we will decide whether or not to help.”

Finally!

She makes him release her from the weird body-bind on principle before she starts.

“I did steal your compass from that bar you got plastered in, Yuuya. Sorry, but I needed it to find you later. There’s a man--you don’t need his name yet--who’s threatened my life. He’s one of the most powerful figures in England. No one’s stood up to him and lived--not politicians, not pirates, and certainly not some slip of a girl he’s taken a fancy to.”

“...Understandable,” Reiji hums, at the same time Yuuya says “Yeah, you are fucking gorgeous.”

Yuzu doesn’t have the time to feel hot or fluttery. She has to get this out, lance the boil. “I’d thank you, but the one he’s after is my baby sister--I’ve just been threatened for being ‘in the way’. I’ve had to hide her away from him and his men, but it’s only a matter of time before he uses minions or money to find her and hurt her. The only way I can stop him is to take everything he has: his followers, his resources, and his life.”

Yuuya--snorts. And looks much friendlier all of a sudden. “All that and you just want us to fuck up a rich wanker to protect your sister’s virtue? I’d almost do that for free. Especially the robbing part.”

“That’s not all. I need him dead. He can’t be allowed to get his hands on her or me, ever.”

Reiji steps forward, eyes on hers. “What does killing a man have to do with us, specifically? We are quite good at it, but we’re not the only ones with that trade out on the sea.”

Yuzu looks between the two--friends. Lovers. Something. “I’ve... heard stories about your compass. That it can find you or any mystical item you seek.”

“The walls really do have ears,” Yuuya murmurs strangely. He approaches too, hand held out for his compass, and Yuzu relinquishes it in a gesture of goodwill. And because his hand is very warm and feels nice to touch, even for a second.

“My family’s tormentor is protected by some kind of magic--he can’t be fought head-on, only killed with magical aid. I’ve heard tell of a sword that can cut any foe, put any man in the ground, and I’ve already stole, seduced and killed to find out how it may be found. Now I aim to get your help to find it, and use it.”

The air is quiet. Reiji doesn’t speak, just nods. Yuuya does too. Yuzu is willing to bet pounds that they both know the man she fears, and why she needs that particular sword. That they don’t push shows that even pirates respect privacy on occasion.

“If we help you,” the Performer eventually ventures to ask, “what besides my compass do we get out of it?”

“Any riches I find. I don’t care about them, I just want the sword.”

“Seems unbalanced,” the Prince observes, “but that is on your own head. Yuuya, I will lend her my crew and sword arm. There’s little danger in it.”

“You mean there’s a ton. Which you love, since you love rescuing damsels and kicking people’s asses, not necessarily always in that order. Yeah, all right Yuzu, if he’s in, I’m in. Scratch that, I’m definitely in.”

Relief overwhelms her--that and hope. “Thank you...”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Yuuya warns. “Like I said before, you’re a good fighter for an Englishwoman, but if you’re messing with someone who’s such hot shit, you need to have the best sword and kick it up to pirate-level fighting. We’ve gotta train you!”

“We have to get her a change of clothes first,” Reiji corrects, and hooks one arm around Yuzu. Yuuya grumbles good-naturedly and supports her other side, and she’s on the move toward locations unknown before she even registers leaving the warehouse. Or maybe that’s less their speed and more the bleeding.

“Wh--hey! Where are we--my clothes are--”

“Very seductive, but not practical,” Yuuya teases.

“We’re taking you to our ship,” Reiji explains in the meantime. “For the clothes and the wound, among other things. Don’t worry. If we were going to kill you, we’d have done it back there.”

“Thanks. I definitely feel better about you two flanking me now.”

The Prince smirks. “Relax, Yuzu. Think of this as a little pirate hospitality, and you didn’t even have to say parley.”

It sounds ridiculous. Mad. Frightening, even. But Yuzu watches Yuuya and Reiji exchange smirks and gentle bickering as they look from her to each other and hold her closer between them, and she doesn’t feel afraid. She feels exhilarated. She is one step closer to the end of her journey to leave her family’s predator powerless and lifeless. That will be such a burden lifted.

And hell, maybe in the process she can get some swashbuckling in.

#arc v rare pair week #Arc V #YGO #Darkday writes fanfic #orchestrashipping #*pirates theme intensifies*#lateposting 2018

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