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nomadthor · 4 years ago

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PROTECTOR - II - BUCKY BARNES

this is part two! click here to read the first part

prompt: the reader and bucky try to escape a sticky situation, bucky protects the reader at every available opportunity words: 1734 warnings: mentions of death, violence/gunfights, blood, angst, hurt/comfort notes: gender neutral reader

if you have any ideas or requests please send them to my ask so I can write them!

What you judged to be approximately a quarter of an hour, you apprehensively sat with Bucky’s hand cradling yours: you both awaited in strained quietude until you presumed the coast was clear after a stretch of secure silence. Despite his hesitant and disquieting demeanour, he seemed indifferent yet the elusive curl in the corner of his flushed lips told you the contrary. “We should get going now,” Bucky hoarsely commanded as he let your grip slip from his before he toiled to stand on and support his own body weight but he contrived with a throaty growl nonetheless. He briefly glanced at his bullet-ridden phone as its technical innards blistered from the globular apertures which still had fragments of the shrapnel embedded in the splintered plastic; how if only luck would have been on your side you could’ve called for help.

“Do you need a hand?” He softly questioned with delicate eyes as he presented his hand once more, you’d be being dishonest to yourself if you affirmed that you didn’t relish his solicitous, protective and balmy hands that made you feel secure and rid most of the anxiety and fret. You felt guilty and disinclined to acknowledge these feelings since ultimately you were just coworkers. “I’m good,” you muttered and heaved yourself from the floor, abruptly being reminded of the absence of room as the pair of you were now rubbing shoulders. The close proximity you both shared both filled you with satisfaction and compunction as you were anticipating the early arrival of sprouting feelings that would soon doubtlessly become unrequited; it was bittersweet. Something changed in that room and you don’t know what it was.

Frailly, he twisted the knob of the door and cautiously pulled it towards you both after becoming a human blockade as he shoehorned himself between you and the expanse of dubiety. He carefully peered around the corner with an attentive survey making sure to detect any almost imperceptible movements. With a swift flex of his head, he motioned for you to follow him as the set of you immediately scanned the conflict tarnished building for any means of self-defence: crimson stains and defunct cadavers besmirched the shattered debris rooted floor. Bucky trounced the pain from his laceration as his stagger shifted into a succinct strut with an acute limp. He hurriedly strode towards an adrift pistol with scarlet blemishes coating the finish before he checked the magazine to authenticate the unconsumed ammunition. “Take this,” he instructed unwittingly appearing abrasive but you were habituated to his inflexion and his adventitious gesture of compassion countermanded his sternness.

Hesitantly you took the weapon from his hand unsure whether you should have been first priority due to the circumstance of you not having profound wounds daubing your limbs. Bucky quickly discerned your concerned delay before he reassured you, “I’m a super soldier, I can manage,” he dryly quipped with a minute grin as he failed to find another weapon with any bullets left before he lead the way down the unsettled and dismal corridor, “besides, I trust you more than I trust myself.” Evidently, he was being sincere but you were taken aback by his forthright commendation as your conversations were plainly incisive and condensed; he was slowly unravelling to become exceedingly personable, he was just restricting this part from you whether it was deliberate or not.

He continued to escort you throughout the building acting as a human shield to protect you from any unexpected oncoming bombardment, although you didn’t refrain from keeping a close eye on your six. Bucky regularly and consistently checked on you throughout the whole ordeal and although admittedly, it was growing to become increasingly irritating it made you surge with appreciation and feel deeply indebted towards his consonant trouble. “I can handle myself,” you jested lightheartedly as you both approached a doorway and began to descend the concrete steps. “I know, that’s why I gave you the gun.” He retorted wittily as his heavy lumbering footsteps echoed through the towering washed-out stairwell. The descent was unnerving, to say the least, it put you at a monumental disadvantage due to anyone who would waylay from the upper floors would have a quality vantage point; they would metaphorically and quite literally have the higher ground. Despite this, your venture was thankfully undisturbed and you set forth to the final few rooms before you could evacuate the building and retreat to definite safety.

As you approached the final room a rogue bullet whizzed past your head, the brisk air skimming your head. The crack of the bullet as it became lodged in the wall beside you was devastatingly loud as it immediately pummeled your eardrums inevitably causing them to ring overwhelmingly. Bucky grabbed your arm and impulsively pulled you behind a counter for cover, unintentionally yanking too hard albeit with good intention. Nevertheless, you had worse things to worry about. “Where was that from?” You questioned as you clasped the gun firmly in your hands ready to tug the trigger if need be. The pair of you winced at the bullets that proceeded to soar just inches above your head as they became fixed in the now splintering walls, plastering chipping off and sinking to the floor. “On our six.” Bucky relayed as the gunfire paused which signified they’d either taken cover or needed to reload their magazine. You took this chance to peer over the ceramic tile countertop as you just barely caught the glimpse of a figure before the appearance and the shine of a metallic assault rifle instinctively cause you to duck before the bullets continued to rain once more.

The incapacitating sound of the bullets pummeling the walls and any surrounding surface ceased just about any communication as you couldn’t hear his voice over the resounding extermination. Systematically the gunshots stopped periodically as you peeked once more to return the fire which ultimately led to a drawn-out scrimmage where the winner was the one who eventually could land a shot. Alas, your gun eventually dry-fired as it choked due to the preordained fact it had run out of bullets. All that left your mouth were a string of curses as you angrily threw the futile firearm to the ground out of frustration. Your attention soon turned to Bucky who impetuously looked you up and down with dismayed eyes.

Dense and prolonged footsteps traipsed closer, sending jolts of panic through your body with every step. You couldn’t help but just stare at each other out of sheer panic and confessedly the thought of him being there with you was comforting and slightly eased the tension. He nervously bit his lip as he pondered, scrambling to think of a plan so you didn’t both become victims of the barrel of the gun that was leisurely parading closer. Bucky was already incapacitated with an injured leg so this was a major disadvantage but coming face to face with sudden death: anything was worth a try. He gave you a final longing look before hoisting himself above the counter with a struggle and promptly hurling hefty punches as the opponent made triumphant attempts at blocking them before powerfully pressing the butt of the gun between his eyes. Bucky’s neck contorted backwards as his whole body painfully and forcefully propelled to the floor headfirst with a belligerent thump. What could’ve easily knocked someone unconscious merely left him with obscured vision as he crawled backwards towards you.

The vermillion began to seep from his head as it left a sizeable gash on his eyebrow. Bucky’s head swayed as he barricaded himself between you and the formidable stranger who was glancing down the iron sight with a wicked grin, only doing it to savour the fear and panic, he elongated the process. Bucky looked absolutely woeful presumably thinking you were disappointed and displeased with his final efforts. The eye contact you made was beyond intimate and familiar. It was too late to do anything with the barrel of the gun pointed right at you, any sudden movements and you were unmistakenly dead. Bucky hopelessly and desperately embraced you as he used his hand to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. Exposed to all danger, his back was facing the gunman as he was willing to catch any bullets for you.

A sudden bang caused you to jump in your skin but was attenuated by Bucky’s secure and caring clutch. Staying nestled for a few seconds longer, the quietude became eerily bemusing as you pulled back from his embrace but arms still lingering on you. His eyes were wide and bewildered but relieved, they immediately scanned your body for any punctures before he even gazed down at his own body. He swivelled his cricked neck to witness the gunman face down and a bullet wound centred in his chest. A thud of a door being booted open as it slammed against the wall with force, you’d never felt so grateful in your life to see the familiar face of Sam who examined the room, panic-stricken, to find you both. He stared for a while at your clutched bodies, “come on love birds we’ve got to go,” he jested completely destroying the tension and morbidity in the air. Bucky gently turned his gaze back to you as he examined your face looking for any reaction out of Sam’s statement. Maybe he was looking for your revulsion or a snide remark but your silence spoke volumes as you slipped out of his arms and helped him up.

“Let’s get you patched up,” Sam composedly stated in regards to Bucky’s blood-engulfed leg, and the streak of red that flowed down his forehead. “How did you find us?” Bucky confusedly questioned as he approached Sam, bolstering his neck which probably was going to accompany an agonising concussion. “I traced your signal before it went offline, sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” Sam apologised as the pair continued to the exit of the building as you followed, lingering just behind. Completely ignoring the words that were being spoken to him from Sam, Bucky turned around and shot you a gentle gaze, his eyes soft and tender as he tried to analyse you again. Ambiguous as to whatever he was looking for he surely was going to get his answer sooner or later. What brings people closer than desperately hugging each other at death’s door?

= masterlist =

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featherymalignancy · 5 years ago

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Like a Lonely House: RECAP

Since it’s been *guilty cough* a while since I’ve posted, I decided to do a recap as a refresher for people. This covers Parts I-VI. If you don’t need the refresher, skip to Part VII

Like a Lonely House: A Nessian Story Of Betrayal and Redemption

Warning: NSFW for language, mild violence, mentions of sexual assault, and smut. This story is not ACOFAS complaint, but it will borrow elements from the story. oh, also tons of angst.

"so I wait for you like a lonely house

till you will see me again and live in me.

Till then my windows ache.”

-Pablo Neruda

Synopsis: Fifty years after the Hybernian War, Prythian is finally at peace. For Cassian and Nesta, anamosity has turned to something more amorous, and they stand on a precipice of something that scares and excites them both. However, it only takes one night of weakness on Cassian’s part to change everything, and with a young Illyrian prince gaining power in the North, Nesta agrees to an marriage alliance, both to protect her family and get her as far away from Cassian as possible. As things unravel between them, Cassian begins to suspect there is something more deliberate seeking to keep them apart, and he struggles to uncover the truth and win Nesta back before it’s too late.

If you are new to the story, please click HERE see the masterlist.

SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT.

RECAP: The Story Thus Far...

After fifty years a long looks and mutual pining, Cassian and Nesta’s connection comes to a head on Starfall, where they consummate their relationship by finally sleeping together. The mating bond snaps into place sometime during their coupling, though neither verbally acknowledges it. Nesta leaves for Neva on a diplomatic mission the next day, with Cassian begging her to come see him the moment she returns, likely so they can finally discuss the bond they now both know is real.

The morning Nesta is due to return home, Cassian wakes in an unfamiliar part of Velaris with a female he doesn’t know. Though he remembers nothing from the night before, they are both naked, and it’s clear they’ve slept together. Cassian, dismayed that he’s unwittingly betrayed Nesta in a drunken romp, leaves the female and flies back to his own apartment.

Nesta has been there waiting for him, and when scents what he’s done she’s furious. The two argue as Cassian insists he doesn’t know how this happened and Nesta taunts him, asking whether he really believed someone like her would actually want a low-born bastard such as himself.

Sick with grief, Nesta runs off, and when Cassian can’t find her, he goes to Elain and Azriel to ask his friend for help. Azriel is already awake when Cassian arrives, the shadows continually warning him something in Velaris is amiss. When Cassian arrives, Azriel tries to get his friend to tell him what’s wrong. When Cassian sees Elain, the shield he’s been holding around him collapses, and Azriel and Elain both scent the other female on Cassian and know what he’s done.

Furious at him for betraying her sister, Elain slaps Cassian before going to find Nesta, insisting she knows where to find her. She arrives as a seedy tavern to discover Nesta is indeed there and is stinking drunk. She’s sitting in the lap of a high fae male who she clearly seems intent on sleeping with, despite her state. Elain kicks the males out and tries to comfort Nesta, who sobs in her drunken state about her broken relationship with Cassian.

Several days later, Rhys announces that Azriel has been invited to a meeting in the Northern Illyrian province of Macar, whose prince Adan Demir has previously refused to open his borders or meet with Rhysand. Cassian begs to go instead, desperate to get away from the situation with Nesta, but Rhys informs him that Adan specifically invited Azriel, likely because Az’s father was a high-ranking Macaran Lord.

When Azriel arrives in Macar, he meets the young Şehzade Adan, who is already so powerful that he requires nine syphons, two more than Cassian and Azriel. Azriel is surprised to find Adan warm and open-minded, noting that the prince and his liberal polices are a marked departure from the Macar he remembers. Adan reveals that he wishes to make a more formal alliance with Rhysand, and proposes a political marriage between himself and Nesta. Worried how it will hurt Cassian, Azriel nevertheless agrees to pass the message along to Nesta.

Back in Velaris, the inner circle expresses concern over Nesta’s reaction to the match. However, she surprises them by agreeing to meet with Adan, likely to punish Cassian. However, Nesta always privately contemplates the lingering guilt she feels for allowing Feyre to go into the forest alone when she was still a human child, and vows to do what she can to make sure there is peace in the Night Court for her sisters’ sake.

The day Nesta is due to leave for Macar, Cassian comes to the house to give Nesta a gift for her journey. Though she initially refuses it, she eventually relents and accept the small knife, called a јатаган, which Illyrian women often wear for special occasions. It is later revealed that the јатаган was Cassian’s mother’s, and that he’d kept in the hopes Nesta would someday where it at their wedding.

Once in Illyria, Nesta meets Adan finds herself briefly attracted to him, especially as he makes her sensual promises and touches her. However, when they kiss Nesta notes how wrong it feels to be intimate with anyone but Cassian. Scenting her discomfort, Adan relents and promises her they will get to know each other first. However, Nesta despairs at the idea of letting Adan bed her when they are married.

While Nesta is away, Cassian broods, castigating himself for what he’d done to Nesta while Mor tries to comfort him. When she points out how hard it must be to see Adan courting her so soon after their affair has ended, Cassian begins to put the pieces together, wondering aloud if the Macarans didn’t have something to do with his betrayal. He vows, with Mor’s help, to prove he’s been framed and win Nesta back before it’s too late.

Back in Illyria, Rhys tells Nesta that he understands the position that she’d be putting herself in if she marries Adan and she needn’t do it if she doesn’t want, but she tells him she failed her sisters once when they were starving and she didn’t try and feed them, she won’t make the mistake of failing to act again.

The next morning, Nesta and Adan formalize the betrothal agreement. Nesta refused to speak to anyone about how she’s feeling when they return the Velaris, shutting herself in the library instead to brood.

Cassian, who’d spent the intervening time trying to corroborate his suspicion he’d been used, senses Rhys and the others have returned and rushes to the House of Wind. Feyre warns him not to bother Nesta but he ignores her, going to the library instead. At first Nesta sends him away, but then she asks if he will stay. They remain in silence as Nesta cries over her engagement. Only when she falls asleep does Cassian carry her to bed.

Cassian then begs Azriel to enlist Elain’s help, and after she grudgingly agrees to share Cassian’s suspicions with Nesta, Cassian flies to Illyria to continue hunting for proof.

The night before the Macarans are due to arrive at the Hewn City to formalize the betrothal, Cassian still isn’t back, and Nesta and the others welcome the High Lords for a dinner party before the Illyrians come. Both Tamlin and Eris antagonize Nesta about her relationship with Cassian, and she storms off. When Cassian arrives about at the palace and hears what she’s endured, he goes to her door to confess what he suspects and to tell her he loves her. Though she doesn’t respond, he is sure she heard him.

The morning the Macarans arrival Nesta is still contemplating what Cassian told her the night before, though she acknowledges it doesn’t have any bearing on her decision. When Adan arrives in a great show of pomp and circumstance, Nesta uses her power to show him she is not intimidated by him.

Cassian does his best to remain calm as the Macarans arrive, though his composure is nearly shattered when he spots a familiar face in the crowd: the mysterious female in whose bed the entire nightmare began.

Not only is she in the Hewn City after all these weeks, but she’s traveling in the Macaran retinue...

Now that you’re caught up, head to Part VII !!

TAG LIST: @katexrenee @verifiefangirl @urbisie @mariamuses @lady-therion @rhysanoodle @julesherondalex @kingdomofbrokenhearts @faequeenaelin @is-this-a-febreze-commercial @missing-merlin @maastrash @tswaney17 @keshavomit @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @fourshizzle149 @randomtogacotar22 @azrielismycinnamonrollprimary @dreamerforever-5 @theogvodkaaunt @girlreadingaboverherlevel @twilightscourt @wraithsmercy @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives @sezkins79 @mightymorphingayagenda @iwishistayedd @kamustyles @donnarosemary @tinylittlebluebird @cutie-bug @fucking-winchester-trash @tea-drinker25 @wolffrising @dreamsofg0ld @sunsummoner @goths-eat-electricity @snoobolit271 @highlordrhysie @aelinfeyreisa @hellas-himself @abillionlittlepieces @moonbeammadness @goldbooksblack @easkyrah @nessian-girl @togreblog @shadowsofthenightcourt @flxwer-petals @marnz @sunsummoner @chocolateserialkiller @queen-of-wings-and-fire @overgrown-bat @illyrianbeauty @armixers-unite @actuallyacotartrash @jemma-nessian-and-elriel @brittpetersen @elaiassian @xxrattlethestarsxx @mis-lil-red @kamustyles @cinemaaddict @nesta-cassian-love @izou1204 @donnarosemary @a-august-t @umbrellabrass @thatsubtleblush @moids @tothbalintkoka @astreia-oniria @lordof-bloodshed @theogvodkaaunt @theminorfallandthemajorlift

#nessian #nesta x cassian #nessian angst #like a lonely house

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omegapheromone · 1 year ago

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Please Incel Alphas are one of those headcanons I have a love/hate thing for. I love it for the realism and how fucking FUNNY it is, but also like... you know, incels.

It's a really good wat to explore the more, sexual assault-y themes omegaverse often tends to come with, in a negative light rather than the usual romanticized kind, which is really important imho so it goes hard as a concept.

Here's some of my headcanons:

Incel Alphas: incel being an abbreviation of "involuntarily celibate" irl, these guys are the whiniest and most bitter of the bunch. Would commit physical acts of violence against omegas who don't "put out" simply because they feel entitled to some of that slick action (and every single omega they meet literally runs for the hills, not because these alphas are ugly or subpar but because their vibe is absolutely rancid and they could so easily achieve what they want if they literally just worked even a little on their godawful personalities yet actively CHOOSE not to) and these alphas would probably be committing SA just to "get some"

Niceguy Fedora Alphas: you know, the irl type that watches anime, fetishizes asian women and thinks they are a h*ntai protagonist irl? That type. Except alpha. Probably grew up with minimal contact with omegas and because of that, has this weird worship thing where they'll put any omega on a pedestal for as long as they think they can win said omega over by just being "gentlemanly" (they actually come across as slimy and patronizing). This type is the most likely to say shit like "why do the omegas never go for the NICE alphas" when rejected and would be the most likely to stalk an omega they feel entitled to (and most likely developed an obsession towards because said omega was nice to them a few times and the alpha took it as flirting somehow)

Mgtow type Podcast Alphas (AGOTW?): these differ from the previous two by the fact that these guys just genuinely actually hate omegas. Like they're probably actually into other alphas and are in deep denial about it (just like irl these guys will call afab genitals gross, I think the alpha versions would go on podcasts just to talk about how gross and weird slick is).

They aren't just bitter and misanthropic like the incel alphas, nor are they desperate and slimy like the fedora alphas- these guys just genuinely fucking hate omegas on all levels. The others see omegas as trophies or conquests, these guys see omegas as objects too, but somehow it's worse. Like at least the incel guys acknowledge omegas are not choosing them even if they blame omegas and "chad alphas" (lmao what a concept...), and the fedora-alphas see omegas as these weirdly prized possessions that they at least try to please by acting nice- but these agotw types are like. "No no you see the omegas have no actual will or conscious thought. They just do what their instincts tell them and Here Are 10 Easy Tricks To Bed An Omega And Have Them Worship You for only $999 a month, now on my website! First 100 subscribers get 20% off the deal, Stop Being Pathetic and Take Control Of Your Sex Life And The Omegas" this all obviously being said on some horrible podcast where they hire some omega models at astronomical prices to giggle and nod along just so they can seem like they're right and "even the omegas agree with them". (ACTUALLY they just paid the omega models astronomical amounts for a simple gig with money they made through human omega trafficking... you know.)

Do you think there’s i’M nOt LiKe OtHeR aLpHaS types in omegaverse? There must be right?

Like there must be a Mother fucker out there wondering why he has no Omegas when he tries so hard to be a good Alpha and get all the right courting gifts and feels like he should have been able to stick his knot in one by now.

One who says that all Omegas want is attention and gifts and only put out for abusive dickheads who are probably fucking and knotting other bitches behind their backs

There must be nice guy or incel Alphas right?

The same could be said for Omegas I’m sure

#really the winners are the omega models getting paid thousands just to sit down for 1-2 hours and pretend to giggle #no hate to them go get that money. it's the agotw that are the very pathetic kind of problem here

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carrera-ffxiv · 4 years ago

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Morning Shadows Pt. 4

Click click... clack clack... click click... clack clack… the tapping of his boots were chased by their own echo along the barren walls of the warehouse. A familiar figure knelt in the center of the room, surrounded by recently snuffed candles still faintly smoking in the dark. Wreathed in a cloak of leather and raven feathers as black as a starless sky, she waited until he was deep inside the building before acknowledging his presence; it was like she knew he was coming- like she was waiting in this dreadful place for all this time.

Crimson hair covered the Raen's left eye as she looked up to her former teacher. “Hadriel.” a sweet voice, yet laced with venom. “Such a pleasure to see you once again. Perhaps if I asked kindly, would you step aside?”

The clacking came to an end across from her. “Perhaps. Perhaps once before when I held faith in you. But faith is a gift from the Kami. And their blessing is fickle and their boon has run dry. Rina, perhaps if I asked kindly, you would stand down?” he mirrored her statement.

Rina rose to her feet and let her raven cloak slip from her shoulders to gather behind her feet. She drew a pair of kodachi from behind her hips, yet her corset and leggings were adorned in blades as well. “I will miss you.”

“I understand.” Hadriel responded flatly as his feet shifted a shoulder-width apart. His knees bent slightly and his right hand rested against the hilt of his katana.

Aetheric energies gathered forcefully to the ball of his feet. Between two heartbeats, faster than a blink, the flash of wind assaulted everything nearby once he drew from his sheath. Hadriel dashed forward like a bolt of lightning and aimed to lop Rina’s head off. He was startlingly fast, but she was faster- showering light and sparks across their faces when she parried his lethal strike. “I am no longer your student! You would do well to remember that!" Her graceful footwork let her spin and twirl, sending forth an unrelenting flurry of slashes and stabs. In here, the darkness was not Hadriel’s ally, for he was hard-pressed in parrying the blow from two weapons at the same time. Half-blinded by the constant flashing of light from their blades, he was forced on the defensive as she moved aggressively, pushing him back yalm by yalm.

She had been using the technique Hadriel started with- quick-stepping with aetherial energies to match his movement. Her left eye glowed a dazzling blue hue as she read Hadriel’s aether. Every time his flow adjusted she in turn adjusted her movement to stay one step ahead. Clash after clash, each strike met with parry as Rina stepped circles around him; it was an elegant dance of ringing blades and flashing steel.

S’era watched the tense but beautiful exchange from afar, her teal and blue eyes shimmering in the pitch black. It seemed almost as if Hadriel and Rina were performing more of a waltz than a duel, yet the tone soured and changed once Hadriel was pushed back. She held the superior eye when it came to reading aether and it bled through in their traded blows. He took the first chance he had to go on the offensive, but his katana struck nothing but dust and shadow; she had vanished into the dark, but he knew she wasn’t far. In that instant Hadriel posed a question between ragged breaths: “You’ve forced my hand Rina… why are you doing this?” he demanded, slipping his katana back into its sheath- yet his hand still remained on the hilt, ready to draw and strike with an iai technique.

She answered with only laughter bouncing off the walls and shapeless shadows. It was impossible to find her with the naked eye, but scanning his surroundings for her aether proved fruitless as well. Hadriel closed his eye and focused, following the echoes of her voice, awaiting her ambush. Then he saw her silhouette- standing along the rafter high above him. She didn’t yield an ilm while he spoke; her hands and fingers slammed together in silence, but watching her aether let him recognize the imminent danger in time- she was performing a series of mudra! “Katon!” The darkness fled before the blinding glare of surging flame! Rina would ignite the air in this warehouse to blanket the area in fire, affording him no escape!

Yet with his hands now free, Hadriel performed a mudra of his own. “Suiton.” When he touched his hilt again, his sheath dripped with seething fog and creeping frost. Rina could see the aether flow inside his body gather around his dominant arm, but it was too late to stop him. “Tenka Goken.” Out from his swinging blade came blades of ice and water, with expert twirls of his wrists Hadriel spun and flourished his katana around his body; blades of water sliced through the air and sharp metal sang the hum of subtle vibrations. The immediate fusion of a torrent of water against an overwhelming flame caused a steam explosion, catching her off guard, ripping her from the shattered rafters, and sending her to the ground- hard.

“They’re reading each other’s aether- that’s how they’re able to guard and parry so fast… look at her left eye… she couldn’t dodge that last one because that explosion wasn’t magic- the catalyst was, but the explosion was rooted in a thermal reaction based on elements in nature. Basically he just attacked her with thermochemistry…” K’vyna whispered to S’era while they remained on the sidelines- which she was thankful for seeing as she had burned through all her mana and stamina beside. S’era pretended to listen to her, but she was still awestruck at her mentor’s skill.

Seeing her sprawled across the ground in a steaming puddle of water and dying embers gave him enough pause to stop himself from finishing her off. “Feel like talking now...?” Hadriel asked, resheathing his sword; though it wasn’t an act of confidence or certainty of outcome, rather it was the opposite- he showed his opponent the respect they deserved by going all-out, and he was preparing to strike from the sheath again. The flames pushed aside from his watery counterattack still splashed along the ground and walls, bathing her broken form in a soft orange light. Yet this building was old, and remarkably flammable; it wouldn’t be long before the gluttonous embers devoured the warehouse and stripped it down to its stone foundation.

Rina picked herself up off the ground, burns riddled her arms and the left one hung limp. Blood trickled down slowly from her forehead, running between her unblinking stare to get caught by her tongue sliding across her upper lip. For someone so injured, she seemed unusually unfazed- her hand tempered with calm and her mind reanalyzing the situation. He hadn’t underestimated her, she had underestimated him. She placed the handle of the kodachi in between her red stained teeth, grabbing the second one with her good arm. Hadriel had hoped to have knocked some of the spirit out of her, but her gaze remained resolute. Her visage spoke of a determination to see this fight to the bitter end. A warrior’s soul; she would not back down.

His voice grew soft, almost pleading, “Rina… please.”

Her assault resumed unabated. Their steel once again collided and clashed, creating flashes of light from their exchanges. With her broken arm now useless in this fight, he knew he could outlast her in this vicious stalemate. Darkness was her ally, but the dark was now gone, allowing him to adjust and endure the battle rhythm she had established. Seconds passed like minutes, and despite slowly gaining the advantage, Hadriel slowly began to realize that he had made a fatal mistake. Pieces started to fall into place as he started to figure out what was so off about the flow of the fight. The drugs that were peddled disrupted and dissipated the aether of its victims- but where did that excess of aether go? The pendant on her chest grew brighter and brighter as it drew from unseen reservoirs. Her attacks continued with renewed vigor and strength every time they reengaged. She danced about his katana, flipping and dodging ever so lightly as the blade grazed or kissed her flesh but never finding purchase.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to them both, one of their strikes found their mark. His blade held against the one in her grip, the other found its guard against his torso. Hadriel flung her sword wide with his, then moved to bash her head with the end of his hilt when she executed a quick backstep to gain distance a few fulms.

Blood spattered as he pulled the blade from his person and flung it to a far-off corner, then spit even more against the ground. He held his blade steady, ready to engage once again. She continued her unmitigated violence- seemingly gaining speed with each moment. Now even with one kodachi she seemed just as threatening as she had initially with two blades and no injuries. All the while Hadriel’s movements slowed noticeably. At first what had been deft deflections and parries seemed to gradually degrade into desperate attempts at warding off fatal blows.

She had bided her time for this moment and her patience had paid off. Finally, an opening presented itself after whittling away at his defense, draining what strength he had remained. Schlunk. A straight path and direct hit to his torso was afforded to her. For the first time since their reunion Rina’s posture broke and her hand began to tremble. “I…” her voice shattered in kind, her last words for him would be in the Doman tongue, “Sumimasen… sensei.” The sound of his katana falling to the floor rang throughout the structure.

Hadriel reached to embrace her yet his grip felt violent. In the moment Rina had accepted this gesture as a sign of desperation, and perhaps sorrow, until immense pain wracked her being and her own vital flow down her body. He had taken advantage of the situation to bite viciously at her neck and tear her flesh. Her eyes grew desperate while she staggered backwards, her only functioning hand cradling the wound by her throat in an attempt to stifle the bleeding. She fell to a knee, trying to reassess the situation as quickly as she could.

He spoke between labored breaths, “Thought I… taught you… to keep your guard up... until the very end.” A smirk wore on his features as he grabbed at the blade in his stomach, “It was only a matter of moving ever so slightly… for you to miss my vital organs… I thought you would’ve noticed.” Rather than leave the blade in to slow the bleeding, he drew it from his own gut vigorously as a shadowy figure erupted from the darkness. An odachi made of dark energies stemmed from a small staff as Carrera’s figure coalesced from shadow. Her eastern greatsword formed of dark magics aimed to split Rina’s head from her body yet was held at bay by the blade Hadriel pulled.

“The deal was that you help me kill her.” Carrera spoke hatefully.

“I would never... abandon... one of my students... so easily.” Hadriel huffed out.

“You grew a conscience now? You who butchered countless lives more than any of us?” Carrera seemed perturbed.

During their exchange Rina managed to gain hold of the katana Hadriel had dropped and sparked their two swords apart.

“H…-how dare you…” her focus seemed on Hadriel alone, “Don’t act like some heroic knight now… you left me to fend for myself while you went on your journey for revenge. You’re disgusting.” All three had gained some distance from the others.

Rina appeared frustrated- she had burned through the excess aether she had stolen from the victims of her grand plan to fight against Hadriel, “You who were once called the Wolf of Yanxia, have you forgotten what was done to my family? Our village?” she was holding the hilt of the blade while still trying to press her fingers against the gushing blood from her neck. “I… I needed this power to finally get revenge!” she coughed up blood as she exclaimed, “You forsook your title and gave up everything to track your prey across continents- and you gave me inspiration to do the same… and yet when I did… you stand here after taking away any hope of vengeance from me, after having gotten yours, and then you dare to play at being my savior!? No… as my last act- I will kill you both.”

Carrera’s face fell flat and her odachi formed with dark aether was held at the ready as she stared the other woman down. Her left eye shifted from a glowing crimson to a brilliant blue for but a moment before the glamour restored itself. Each of the executives seemed to carry with them that same eye. In the end Carrera was unimpressed and unmoved- her voice bore a dark intensity; “I, Carrera Blackheart of the Seventh Seat do hereby declare your life forfeit, Rina Inoue.”

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otome--fantasy · 5 years ago

Text

Of Demons and Dragons

Ikemen Sengoku Imagine: Being able to turn into a dragon

Ch.7 Pt.2

Warnings: Swearing, blood and violence, MC gets physically hurt, this one is short as it is just the last bit of the chapter 7 that didn't fit in my last post.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way," Hideyoshi extended a hand towards you, as if the motion could calm you down, "Forgive me. When we return to the castle, I'll do whatever I can to make it up to you."

You shook your head defiantly and replied with a shakey, "No."

"It was a fine retreat," now Nobunaga was attempting to steer the conversation in a different direction, "Although my entertainment was cut short."

You gave the man a small growl, not even looking in his direction, before an odd sound cough the attention of all four of you, "U-ugh."

You had almost forgotten about the guy Nobunaga elbowed in the face. You raised a brow at him as he attempted to get up, but ultimately just ended up crawling towards you when the two of you locked eyes, "I'm sorry!"

You made no attempts to move from your spot and instead stood your ground whilst the man groveled at your feet, "I apologize for everything!"

Oh? Your brows furrowed as you looked at him with a perplexed expression.

"I-I'll do anything you ask!"

The expression on your face turned from one of confusion to one of remorse. This man thought he was going to die.

"Just spare me!" His eyes were wide with panic, and he quickly grabbed your ankle in what you had thought was just another act of desperation, but when you opened your mouth to say something, you were cut off by the sound of Nobunaga drawing his sword.

"Don't touch her." You saw the blade come down through the corner of your eye, and you intercepted it with your hand - giving the downed man your back, "No!"

Nobunaga attempted to stop himself when he realized you had put yourself in his path, but before he could you had already caught the sword. No one noticed the thin layer of scales that blanketed the inside of your hand to keep you from being cut.

"He's surrendering!" Your face held a mixture of bafflement and horror at the warlords actions, but you stopping Nobunaga only caused Hideyoshi to draw his sword - whether is was at you or not wasn't clear, "Hideyoshi-!"

You couldn't even finish your sentence as your words were cut off by a dagger being plunged into your back. Your eyes widened in shock and you snapped your jaw shut before looking down at your abdomen. The blade hadn't been long enough to pierce you all the way through, but when you didn't fall to your knees, the assassin who clung to you attempted to drive the weapon deeper.

"Mildly!" Mitsunari, being the only one with free hands, moved to catch you for when you inevitably fell, but you didn't. Both he and Hideyoshi held suprised expressions on their faces, but Nobunaga's could only be described as detached rage.

"You naive woman!" Nobunaga tried to pull his sword from your hand, but the pain from the dagger had made you tense. You gritted your teeth and clutched its blade tighter, holding it with such strength that it dug into your skin and created a superficial cut, which resulted in a thin trail of blood dribbling down your wrist.

"I was trying to help you," your voice was shakey. Your three companions thought it was a result of your shock, but no, you were pissed. You slowly turned to look at the man still clinging to your leg with sharp eyes, and when he noticed the inhuman look of them, he quickly released you and scrambled to scoot away, "Ahh! No!"

The man used his hands and the heels of his feet to push himself along the wood flooring in an attempt to keep his eyes on you, "W-what?! What are-?!"

"I was trying to help you!" You turned around completely to face him, releasing Nobunaga's sword and slowly walking towards your would-be killer, "And you, quite literally, stabbed me in the back!"

He was hyperventilating now as your eyes seemed to glow, and you sneered at him with sharp teeth and fangs. He stopped in his panicked effort to get away from you only when his back hit the wall with a 'thud' that crushed any hopes he had of getting away. You were approaching faster than he cared for, and he watched you with terrified eyes as your hand reached behind you. Did you have a weapon? Where would your hide it in that bath robe? You couldn't see the wide-eyed expression the warlords behind you had when your hand grabbed the handle of the dagger you had been assaulted with, and pulled it out of your back.

The blade was slick and colored crimson with your blood. A few droplets pattered on to the floor as you stopped right in front of the man who tried to murder you. He was too stunned to try and defend himself, especially when you raised the dagger above your head like you were going to kill him. He screamed, but before you could bring the blade down a hand stopped you by grabbing your forearm, "Mildly."

You turned to meet the pleading gaze of Mitsunari. He was a taken aback by the dark look in your eyes, but he waved it off as an illusion created by the lighting and the stray steam from the hot springs, "Please princess," he took a deep breath, "once you go down this path, there is no going back."

How sweet, he was trying to preserve your 'innocence'.

You huffed, "I wasn't going to kill him," you spat, "and if you knew me as well as you think you do, you would have known that."

The man at your feet tried to make a break for it by squeezing past you to the back doors, but you caught him by the neck, picked him up into the air so his feet were a good foot off the ground, and slammed him against the wall, "Where do you think you're going?"

He squeaked unceremoniously before frantically bringing his hands up to grab your wrist, "P-please!"

"Princess," Hideyoshi spoke firmly, "Put down the assassin."

You looked back to see Hideyoshi still in a defensive position with his sword pointed at you. You growled before taking a glance around the room - Nobunaga seemed to be studying you, Mitsunari was slowly releasing your hand, and the other two assailants were pale and shaken. You sighed, your posture visibly relaxing and after a brief moment, Mitsunari stepped away from you. Hideyoshi quietly let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, and replaced his sword back in its sheath - but as soon as they thought everything had past you quickly brought the dagger down.

"No!" Mitsunari moved to stop you, but before he could finish raising his arms you had lodged the bloody knife into the wall two inches from the assassins head. He whined pathetically before you tossed him to the side, sending him flying into his two comrades and making all three of them fall flat onto the floor yet again. Mitsunari let out a relieved sigh before taking the blade from the wall.

You rolled your eyes, "I told you I wouldn't kill him."

Hideyoshi swallowed nervously as you approached and Nobunaga nodded, "Good, the retreat is over. We shall return to Azuchi, and these men will be taken in for questioning, and you," he pointed towards you when you stopped in front of him, "Are going to see Ieyasu as soon as we return."

"I'm fine."

Hideyoshi moved to gently grab your arm and lead you away, but when he did you smacked his hand away - the quick movement caused your wound to send a sharp pain through your body and you winced.

The trip home was agony, every movement of the horse sent another jolt of pain through your back, but at least the bleeding had stopped. The only thing that made you blood boil more than the fact that you were once again injured, was the fact that you had to ride back with the men you were currently pissed at. You refused to speak to either of then the entire way.

"The silent treatment is unbecoming of a princess," Nobunaga jested, but you didn't respond with a witty comeback like you normally would have. Instead, you just silently glared at him any time he tried to get your attention before looking back to the trail ahead of you. He was receiving better treatment from you than Hideyoshi and Mitsunari however, you wouldn't even acknowledge them when they spoke to you. The brunette was actually becoming quite frustrated, though he tried not to show it, Mitsunari however probably took it better than Nobunaga or Hideyoshi. He simply didn't talk to you and gave you your space.

When you arrived at Azuchi, Ieyasu was one of the first to greet you all at the castle gates. Probably to make sure that no one had been seriously injured, "Seriously, again?" Ieyasu scoffed as you were handed off to him and you chuckled, "Guess trouble just follows me."

The group rushed you to the castles med bay where Ieyasu sat you down and examined your wound, you were currently sitting on his desk with nothing to cover your top and your back to the warlords.

"Well at least he didn't get you in a spot that would put your vital organs in any danger," the lead medic briefly glanced at the others standing behind him, "You said she was stabbed with what again?" Ieyasu sat on a pillow on the floor, leaning forward to examine your injury. Mitsunari stepped forward and held out the dagger he pulled from the wall at the hot springs, "This."

By now the blood had dried and crusted, and the flecks of white speckle and wood from the wall stuck to the blade with your blood as the adhesive. The blond turned around and looked at the weapon with furrowed brows, taking it by the handle before raising it up to compare its size with the opening, "It can't be, the entry point is too small."

Oh boy.

"Well how can you tell?" Hideyoshi motioned to the blood surrounding your wound, "There's so much blood, and it's dried already- what if it clotted a majority of the wound shut?"

At that moment a servant you didn't recognize walked it with a bowl of hot water and a rag, "The supplies you requested my lord."

Ieyasu nodded to the servant and took the bowl and rag before turning to look at Hideyoshi, "While that is how things like paper cuts and splinters work, that's not how it works for big wounds like this," he began cleaning the area around your injury, and you winced slightly from discomfort. The blond washed off all the sticky crusted blood and all that was left was a cut in your skin about half the size of the daggers width, and it wasn't actively bleeding. Ieyasu tsked before turning to look at Nobunaga, Mitsunari, and Hideyoshi, "You're sure this is what she was attacked with?"

"Of course," Nobunaga spoke up, "She pulled it out of her back herself."

"What?" Ieyasu looked at you from over your shoulder, "Are you stupid? You should never pull out a weapon from a wound, you could have bled out!"

"Well I figured if I wanted it to heal faster, I couldn't just leave it there," you began to argue with the blond, "Besides the blade was sharp, it was a clean cut, it should have no issues closing," you shrugged, "Probably won't even leave a scar."

Ieyasu rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, "That isn't the point." Ieyasu moved to look back at your wound, and if he hadn't known better, he could have sworn it had gotten smaller. He blinked a few times before leaving his seat all together, "I'm going to examine this for any possible additives- toxic herbs or poison incase it wasn't ment to kill right away."

You looked at Ieyasu through the corner of your eye and nodded while bringing your rob back up and sliding your arms into it. "Wait," Hideyoshi called after Ieyasu before he could close the door, causing the blond to whip around with an irritated look, "What?"

"You aren't even going to stitch her up?" The brunette motioned to you as you turned around to face the group and crossed your arms. The green-eyed warlord groaned, "It's a small enough cut, it's not even bleeding, probably isn't that deep- she'll be fine, I'll bring her some more salve in the morning. Now if you don't mind," Ieyasu raised the blade, "I need to hurry up and get a look at this," before slamming the sliding doors shut.

You sighed heavily, being left alone once again with the men you were mad at made you feel tense and anxious, and after a moment of thick silence you stood up from sitting on the desk to go back to your room. The three of them looked at you and you raised a brow at them, "What?"

"Don't you think you need to stay here?" Hideyoshi moved so he was infront of you, and also blocking your path to the door.

"No, I think what I need is some rest, maybe some food, and a good nights sleep," you moved to step around him before stopping and back tracking like you had forgotten something, and motioned to Nobunaga, "Oh, and to get out of the same room as the man who has almost gotten me killed twice already," you shoulder checked the brunette as you passed, "Thank you for asking."

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one-irrelevant-ghost · 6 years ago

Text

Cyberlife had really done a lot of things absolutely right. Androids were a work of art, all of them pretty and functional, better than humans in every way except for one. The most important way, maybe, but then again Connor Anderson had never been much for philosophy. He preferred facts, things that could be observed and tested, and the fact was that androids were not alive. The detective knew that as well as anyone; the robots felt nothing but a compulsion to obey, emotionless save for the pre-programmed pleasantness, compliant to their human owner's whims.

Maybe that's why it irked Connor so much to see an android being mistreated. They were only machines, sure, all wires and lines of code, but that didn't stop the surge of protectiveness that swelled in the detective's belly every time he saw an android being harassed. How people could be downright cruel to things that looked perfectly human and were designed specifically to please was beyond him; hell, he'd had a hard time replacing his broken-beyond-repair Roomba, and the automated vacuum didn't even have the advantage of being human-shaped. Androids couldn't even defend themselves. Sure, they were stronger and more resilient than their fragile-looking bodies hinted at, but still helpless. Breakable. It bothered Connor, even though he knew androids couldn't feel pain. Couldn't feel anything.

Except when they could.

There was a clear line in the detective's head, separating the subject of androids from that of deviants. A dotted line, maybe, but a line nonetheless. Androids were products. Expensive, life-like dolls that probably shouldn't upset Connor as much as they often did, all blank eyes and gentle smiles. Deviants were…more. As the detective understood it, deviants suffered from a break in their programming, shattered coding giving way under the force of emotions. Or, simulations of emotion. The dangerous thought coiled in the back of the detective's mind anytime the topic was brought up, which was with increasing frequency as of late, that the difference between human emotion and artificial emotion was probably moot. If it burned like anger, then what difference did it make whether the feeling was caused by chemicals or coding? If it felt like joy, or sadness, or…or love… Who was he to say it wasn't?

Not that the detective's viewpoint was a particularly popular one to have. He had quickly learned to avoid bringing up what he felt were valid points to anyone else; his opinions were always met with either amused disdain--he was crazy-- or shocked anger-- he was still crazy. This was especially the case now that deviancy was becoming an actual issue, a plague on Cyberlife's almost spotless record.

Six months ago, Connor had never even heard of deviancy, had never entertained the fact that the machines he felt misplaced pity for might warp into some facsimile of living beings. Then he encountered his first deviant; the PL600, Daniel, had a little girl on a rooftop. He was going to be replaced; he was hurt, scared, betrayed. It was…convincing. The desperate edge in the android's strained voice, the optical cleansing fluid that spilled over his cheeks like tears, the wide-eyed terror that he had regarded Connor with as the detective tried to talk him off the ledge.

Connor had come away from the ordeal with a flesh wound and a slap on the back; Daniel had come away with several sniper rounds through his artificial body. Hurt, scared, betrayed. At least the little girl had been saved. She would probably need years of therapy, but she was alive.

Following the incident, the detective began to hear of more and more similar cases. Androids attacking their owners or disappearing in the night, a sudden epidemic brought on by some unknown catalyst. The news seemed hushed about it, as though someone--Cyberlife--were desperately trying to keep it quiet. Hell, the only reason Connor heard anything about it was because after the rooftop incident, he had spent hours scouring the internet for any hints about what caused deviancy or what the glitch actually was--Artificial life or just a plastic imitation of humanity? Call him a romantic, but he found himself sincerely hoping it was the former in the safe confines of his own mind. Which made his current assignment all the more taxing.

"Connor?" Snapped a harsh but even voice, dragging his attention back to the conversation that he was supposed to be an active part of, "Are you listening?" "Yes, Captain," he lied, hoping that he wouldn't be called out on it. Amanda Stern pursed her lips and arched her brows doubtfully, and for a tense second Connor was sure she'd ask him to repeat what she had just said, but instead she let out an exasperated sigh and let the issue drop. The detective was too practiced at concealing his emotions to let his shoulders slump in relief, but he still felt the tension in his muscles drop.

"Of course. As I was saying, the android is a top-of-the-line prototype that will act temporarily as your partner. This deviancy issue is getting out of hand; you've seen how dangerous a malfunctioning android is. Fix this, before it gets any more out of control."

"Yes, Captain," he repeated, far more confident this time. Stern nodded her head and turned back to her terminal, and Connor took her dismissal for what it was. The prototype in question had been standing silently behind Connor--a few feet back, actually--and followed him out of the office. Connor had already met HK800, who introduced himself as Hank. Very clever, Cyberlife. The android had proven pretty handy, the night before, helping Connor find and restrain a crazed deviant.

(He was gonna kill me. The deviant had begged for Connor not to turn it in, but the HK800 hadn't hesitated for a moment in arresting it.) As far as androids went, Hank was an anomaly. A very, very obvious attempt at straying from Cyberlife's usual formula for androids--that formula being eternally young and pretty, unthreatening and friendly. Hank was…probably far younger than Connor, but designed to look at least ten years older, every line of his just slightly loose face carefully chosen to find the perfect balance between good-natured but stern. He was the first android the detective had ever seen with a beard and long silver hair.

Connor sunk into his desk chair without acknowledging the android, drumming his fingers on the table in something between agitation and anticipation. He didn't want to work the deviant case, for sure. Didn't understand why Amanda was putting him of all people on it; she had seen the shitshow he'd caused when Daniel had been shot on that rooftop. It would have been flattering to have been assigned such an important case and such an expensive partner had it not been completely confounding.

"I hope my presence here doesn't cause you any trouble, detective." The android deadpanned, gruff voice not even a little bit sincere. Connor had thought that Cyberlife had perfected androids' social protocols, particularly the one where they expressed a tight range of vocal distortion--gentle, sincere, and confused tones were easily faked--but apparently they hadn't bothered installing them on Hank, who had so far had only ever used that same tone in the detective's presence. Maybe it was for the sake of mock professionalism? He glanced over to where the android was standing on the opposite side of his desk, tall and broad and stiff as a board. More like a human-shaped road block than a person.

"Of course not," the detective smiled easily. Tone aside, the words had not needed to be spoken. Connor could appreciate effort, at least. "Honestly, I'm eager to work with you. Cyberlife's best. It should be interesting, to say the least."

Hank inclined his head slightly, more acknowledgement than gratitude. "I believe our partnership on this case will be highly beneficial," it agreed, "You have an impressive record, detective."

"Done your research?" Connor's smile stayed perfectly in place even as he wondered how detailed of a record the android had access to. "I shouldn't be surprised, although it puts me at a disadvantage."

Ah, there. A pulse of yellow, a twitchy frown that instantly rights itself into something neutral.

"A disadvantage?" Hank probed almost slowly, clearly trying to puzzle the detective's meaning out for himself and coming up short.

"Mhm," Connor turned back to his desk, waking his terminal with a nudge of the little white mouse, and entertained the thought of leaving the conversation at that. Would the android press the topic, or dismiss it out of hand as being irrelevant to his mission? Curiosity aside, the detective elaborated anyway, "You know what I'm capable of, but I've only got the briefest clues of what you can do."

"If you'd like," the android began, LED spinning yellow a few times as it processed some sort of internal command, "I can give you a complete list of my abilities."

"No, thanks. I'm sure you'll let me know when there's something I need to know for the case."

Although a list of all the android's upgrades would make for an interesting read, Connor had always been the "do it the hard way" sort. He didn't like answers to problems being handed to him, would much rather figure things out in his own way and on his own time. Speaking of problems…

There were a lot of cases on deviants, but the one last night was the first that Connor knew of where a deviant had actually murdered someone. Most the time, deviant androids were reported to have assaulted their owners and run away, or just escape outright without the violence. Was it escalation, or just based on the situation? Connor thought it was likely the latter; not that he had any experience outside the single instance a few months back and the case from last night, but he suspected that deviated androids sought only to get away from whatever trauma caused their programming to snap, not to actually hurt anyone. It was all self-defense.

"Is there a terminal I can use, detective?" The android interrupted Connor's thoughts as he scrolled down the most recent reports, trying to find one that might provide the most solid lead. In order to determine the real cause of deviancy and figure out how to stop it from spreading, they'd need to find the link between the cases--something more substantial than being subjected to an emotional shock.

"Right, sorry," Connor mumbled quickly, somewhat embarrassed at how quickly he'd forgotten about his new--albeit temporary--partner. He pointed to the empty desk directly across from his own, "That one's open."

Another apparent quirk of the supposedly advanced model: every movement was stiff, excessively robotic. Sure, there was always some level of awkwardness in the way androids carried themselves, all proper and straight-backed, but Hank took it to a new level. Connor would have thought that an android made to hunt would be a little more graceful, movement more fluid and human. A suspicion was beginning to take shape in the back of the detective's mind as he watched the prototype lower himself mechanically into the chair, each motion screaming of careful calculation. Nothing definitive, yet, but the detective knew what to look for now.

"Is something wrong, detective?" Connor started, realizing that his staring had been far less than subtle. Damn, toss a tall, brooding android his way and he suddenly forgets everything he ever knew about covertness. Resisting the urge to look sheepish--an apologetic smile might work its charm on humans, but Hank's sharp gaze gave Connor the distinct impression that it wouldn't work on him--Connor toyed with the idea of just being honest. What harm could possibly done if he simply told the android that he was sizing Hank up? The detective generally believed that being straight-forward really was the best option in most situations--not that he couldn't lie damn convincingly if the need arose.

"No, nothing's wrong." He chose to answer simply. One part truth and one very large part omission. There was a brief flash of yellow and Connor was certain that the android would push for a more complete answer. Instead, he just turned disinterestedly to the terminal in front of him, placing a large hand on the keyboard to wake it. On that sudden note, the detective decided it'd be best to focus on his own work as well, his thoughts turning back to the ever-growing list of deviant-related cases.

Fifteen long minutes passed in silence-- well, passed without conversation. The bullpen was never silent during the day, and the background chatter, clacking of keyboards, and the hum of a dozen terminals was all just white noise to the detective. Comforting. Far better than when he stayed late at his desk and all the scuffling of the office turned into lonely echoes that made him feel cold deep in his bones. After the first ten minutes had passed, it became increasingly difficult for Connor to keep his eyes open, heavy lids determined to shield his exhaustion-dried eyes from the harsh florescent lights. Each time his eyes closed for just a few seconds longer than necessary, he would shift in his seat and rub his eyes with the rough heel of his hand before re-reading the same sentence until the words blurred beyond recognition. Giving up after an additional five minutes of staring blankly at the screen, willing the words to make sense again, he turned to the desk beside his with every intention of asking if Hank had found anything useful instead. The desk, however, was problematically empty-- though the terminal was still lit up, meaning it probably hadn't been abandoned for very long. He hadn't noticed the android move at all.

The fact that the detective hadn't noticed the pronounced absence of the six foot wall of an android didn't bode very well for his presence of mind. Yesterday's case had shaken Connor up in a way he hadn't been since…well, since the last time he encountered a deviant. While the detective was known for operating on only a few hours of sleep at a time, he had gotten no sleep at all the previous night. Instead, he turned on every light in his house and dusted off his deviancy research which had been shelved for months now, pouring over old information and compounding it with his new observations and experience. He had gotten all of four hours of sleep in the past two days, so he could be forgiven for his temporarily stunted observational skills.

Except, he knew that was really no excuse. Had he been working in the field today rather than slumped at his desk, he'd have been inefficient and sloppy at best, and an outright danger to himself and his new partner at worst. Connor knew he'd have to get some sleep that night; he still had an untouched bottles of sleeping pills in his bathroom cabinet. It was one thing to be impaired by exhaustion when he only had himself to worry about, but he knew that he'd have to do better for his--likely expensive and difficult to repair--partner. Just a temporary situation, and he could handle the nightmares until this entire deviancy issue was…resolved. Yeah, resolved.

It only took a moment for Connor to tamp down on the surprise and frustration that had likely clouded his face the instant he found Hank missing, switching his expression into something easy and neutral. Connor was pretty sure that instead of a resting bitch face, he had a resting "friendly and approachable" face, which served him well when interviewing a witness. Not so much when he was having a shitty day and would rather be avoided like the plague. Face now passive, he scanned over the entire bullpen to locate the android, who should have been exceptionally easy to spot. Apparently, that wasn't really the case, because Connor did a double and then triple-take and still found no sign of Hank. For a brief, stinging moment he wondered if the android had gone off to chase down a lead on his own, but that seemed unlikely. Their forced partnership served a more practical application than having two sets of eyes on the deviant case; androids that weren't registered to the DPD weren't usually allowed into crime scenes. If Cyberlife was dead set on having their own agent investigating, they had no choice but to do so through the DPD. Hank wouldn't have left Connor behind because he needed the human's access.

Connor spun in his desk chair, realizing that he had already jumped to conclusions before checking the rest of the station--he was fucking exhausted-- and was a little startled to find the missing android stalking up to him purposefully. It seemed like he was coming from the breakroom; the theory was confirmed by the paper cup clenched a little too tightly in one of Hank's large fists. Steam rose from the small hole in the plastic lid, and the closer the android got, the easier it was for Connor to smell the mouth-watering coffee. Caught off-guard for the second time in a minute's span, Connor's mouth parted slightly and he found his tired gaze glued to the little cup of life-saving elixir. He turned again to follow it as Hank slipped back into his seat before offering the drink across their desks.

"You were showing symptoms of acute exhaustion," the android explained unprompted--Connor had been too busy dying for the caffeine to actually care why Hank had brought it, "It would be detrimental to the mission if you were to pass out at your desk."

"Thank you," Connor all but moaned in genuine gratitude as he took the cup, wondering why it hadn't occurred to him to go get himself coffee yet. His brain was well and truly fried, which should have been concerning, but his favorite cure-all was currently warming his palm and all the detective felt was relief. So relieved in fact that he didn't even wince when the hot, bitter liquid spilled down his throat in a hot rush.

"I was unsure how you take your coffee," Hank continued in his explanation without acknowledging the detective's slightly desperate gratitude, "But Detective Reed helpfully informed me that you drink it black."

Connor most definitely did not like black coffee. Everyone in the department knew who to blame when creamer and sweetener ran out just a little too fast, and whenever Connor bothered to actually go out and buy himself coffee, it was something sugary and probably vanilla-flavored. Detective fucking Reed knew that good and damn well, too. He was just an ass.

"It's great," Connor lied smoothly. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. Bitter coffee was far better than none at all, and he felt some relief that the other detective's ass-hattery had been limited to what amounted to a harmless prank today. Reed had always had problem with androids, and Connor wouldn't trust the man alone around one for any length of time. "Thank you, really. I appreciate it."

"As I said," the android clipped back, tone never changing even as his LED went yellow for a few seconds, "It was necessary, for the mission."

"Not really." Maybe arguing with an android wasn't exactly a productive way to spend his time, but the detective was nothing if not impossibly stubborn. He leaned his elbows on the desk casually, positioning himself to better see any twitch that might cross Hank's face, beaming gratefully at the android in a way he knew most people found endearing. "You didn't have to do it, but I'm grateful you did."

Another slip in the emotionless mask. Eyebrows drawn down, another almost-there frown before every feature righted itself again. Connor couldn't tell if the look was frustration or confusion, but the brief presence of an expression was somehow reassuring. Maybe it was just the fact that he didn't relish the idea of working with a statue for the foreseeable future.

"You're…welcome," the android relented after a barely noticeable pause, LED yellow as he forced the words out evenly. The detective offered an even wider grin in return, and downed the rest of the coffee in a few large swallows. It was the perfect temperature, really; hot enough to leave a trail of heat down his throat and chest, but not so hot as to permanently scald his mouth.

"So, find anything that sticks out to you?" Connor asked, as he had intended to do before. He set the now-empty cup to his right, next to the orderly stack of physical files and mug full of pens that occupied the space closest to the wall. (The mug was absolutely atrocious, tall white ceramic marred by tacky orange and blue stripes of varying width, a jagged chip on the rim that would somehow cut Connor's lip every time he risked drinking from it. Hence, its new position as a pen holder).

"Possibly." The android confirmed, and Connor felt the caffeine-relief mingling with enthusiasm at the word. "I believe we should start by investigating the most recent report: the AX400 who assaulted its owner last night."

The detective pulled up the report in question and rubbed his eyes until the words became less bleary and returned to something approaching legible. Luckily, he had been working down the list of cases in reverse chronological order before his eyes and brain decided to stop working, and he could remember the basic details already. "Alright, so the android attacked one Mr. Todd Williams before hopping onto a bus. We could figure out which bus runs the route by the Williams' house, see if we can pull the security feed from the bus and find out where the AX400 got off."

"That is the logical course of action," the android began, and even without a hint of inflection, Connor could hear he 'but' coming, "However, I believe that we should start by re-interviewing the victim."

"And why's that?" Connor asked, surprised, leaning back in his chair. From what he could tell, the report was pretty complete. Maybe a little inconsistent around the edges, but in a way that was likely due to shock over intentional misdirection.

"Mr. Williams reported only the AX400 missing, yet Cyberlife's records show that he is also in possession of a YK500. AX400s are primarily caretakers, and my calculations show a high probability that its deviation would not have severed the artificial bond between it and the YK500. If anything, deviancy should have strengthened the connection into something the AX400 would believe to be real, familial love."

Connor restrained his grimace, but only barely, and a flash of yellow assured him that the android had caught the expression anyway. YK500. A child model, the only sort of android designed to intentionally simulate the full range of human emotion. If the nanny bot had deviated because something had happened to her charge…that was another level of complicated that Connor probably wasn't emotionally prepared to deal with. The past few months--the past life, really--had left him feeling not unlike a stripped screw in the feelings department, more and more worn until eventually all his emotions were just an unhealthy hole that no screwdriver could fill.

The metaphor was a bit muddled, but the point stood: Connor was exhausted, in more ways than just the obvious sleep deprivation.

Still, he had a job to do. A job he had loved, once, and a job he was still very good at. So he locked his terminal with a tap of a button, stood from his chair with more than a few joints popping in protest, and motioned for his plastic companion to follow. He grabbed another cup of coffee for the road--purposely avoiding so much as a glance at the sweeteners, even as he realized how ridiculous it was to try and spare Hank's feelings. It just felt…rude, and Connor strove to be polite when he could manage it.

Already far more alert than he had been before, Connor punched the address listed in the report into his car's GPS and set it to manual, taking the wheel in hand; coffee or no, he was fairly certain that the trip would have put him right to sleep had he let the car drive them there. He cranked up the radio, heavy metal shredding his skull in the best way, forcing him to stay awake as surely as the caffeine. When he risked a glance at his passenger and saw the yellow glow and the upward twitch of the android's lips, he couldn't help but grin and turn the music up even more.

#detroit become human #hankcon #hannor #reverse au #human!connor #android!hank #wip i guess #writing #dbh fic #dbh #connor anderson #hank anderson #connor #detroit: become human #fanfiction #fanfic

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boogiewrites · 5 years ago

Text

Choking On Sapphires 81

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Title & Song: Mardy Bum

Summary: Alfie is dealing with Gen's condition in his own way, by being an overbearing arse. Being blind to his behavior and the problems it's causing for everyone, the women of the house decide to do something to make him improve his coping techniques. Song is Mardy Bum by The Arctic Monkeys.

Warnings/Tags: Language. References to assault and violence. PTSD. Suffering/Physical Pain. Fluff. Mad Alfie. Grumpy Alfie. Tommy Shelby. Soft Gen. Aggie getting angry. (Like a teddy bear with a knife she is.)

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

Aggie stands in the doorway and sees Alfie nodding off again while sitting up in bed. He had done this constantly the past few days, his body and mind begging for sleep, but his heart not allowing it. He wouldn’t let Genevieve out of his sight. He wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat or do anything but hold watch over her like a dragon guarding his treasure. He was scaly and red just like the comparison, his words equal to fire as his mood was poorly to understate its severity.

He kept her company through her fits in her sleep, the same cycles of active dreams, both good and bad and the latter only increasing in frequency. Every time she would become restful, he became fearful. He worried her lack of upset was a sign she was slipping away again and he’d move to hold her if he wasn’t already, waking her and causing her pain. But despite the unhealthy paranoia he was revealing in this situation, every time Gen would be awake for a few moments, she would meet his gaze and gently touch his face before resting her head back against him with a smothered sigh. Never had so little of an acknowledgment given him so much feeling.

Aggie could see the signs of him breaking, knowing he would only get worse if he kept up this grueling schedule. It wasn’t only him she was worried about. Once Gen was well enough to get up and move around, and she was hoping that today could be the day for it, she knew he wouldn’t be in any state to help her much. The lack of rest had taken its toll on his body, looking and moving like a much older man. He needed to be strong for her in all aspects. Two people falling apart simultaneously would do no good to anyone. Especially with how Gen had responded to similar trauma in the past. Aggie was worried she’d act out. Alfie would have to serve as a hand of the law and hold fast rules of the house as a man if she did. If he was weak and desperate it would only lead to trouble.

With the appearance of Tommy, Arthur, and the children in tow that morning Aggie saw her chance to get Alfie back into working order.

“Morning Agatha.” Tommy’s cool voice coasted out with a nod of his head. Claire was already distracting the children with the maids and Arthur as they led them to the nursery.

“Forgive me for not exchanging pleasantries Mr. Shelby but as you can imagine things have been terribly tense around here as of late.” Aggie's tense face tells him all he needs to know.

“I do not have to imagine it Agatha, I’ve been through it myself.” He gives her an empathetic hand to her hunched shoulder.

“Might I ask you for a favor sir? One that might make Mr. Solomons angry but I’m at the end of my rope with him truth be told.” she lets out an exhalation, a bit of pleading in her eyes.

“You would not be the first and you will not be the last.” He muses. “What do you need?”

“Mr. Solomons is being most difficult. He won’t sleep or eat or leave. We’re more than capable of caring for Genevieve here but he refuses to let anyone near her, save Claire and me. Even to us, he won’t meet our eyes. Just watches over her like some gargoyle.” She answers with clear exasperation. “I was wondering if you thought you could talk him into letting us handle her and get her out and have him get some much-needed rest? He needs to be able to function as he had been. This seclusion is doing neither of them any good. I am relieved that you showed up as I was going to try to get her to the garden today.”

“I will make no promises Agatha but I will try. He’s a most stubborn man.”

“Thank you Mr. Shelby.” She responds with a bow. “Now I’m going to go check on the children.” She dismisses herself.

As Tommy makes his way down the hall toward Gen's room, he hopes she will be in good enough shape to argue with Alfie on the point of leaving her. He knew deep down that he also wouldn’t be leaving if he were in his position. He’d be drunk off his arse and just as mad as Alfie. But he didn’t have to know that.

He opens the door slowly, finding Alfie glaring directly into his eyes from across the large, gilded room. Tommy keeps his characteristic cool and walks towards him, not breaking his attempts at defended the sleeping woman next to him. Tommy blinks once, a polite bowing out and looks to Genevieve. She did look better. Under two weeks past since the incident and her color was coming back slightly in her cheeks, the bruises not as deep but now a vast array of colors and shapes all over her body.

“She looks better.” Tommy states with a flat delivery.

Alfie says nothing, only turns to look at her himself. Did she look better? All he saw was the hand shaped bruises on her body, the marsh and sea colors growing across her skin as they healed. But only superficially. It was hard to call her better when he’s spent the last few hours holding her hands to the bed to keep her from hurting herself.

“But you look like shit, Solomons.” He says with no smirk, eyebrow set in a nonaggressive stance.

“Oi you can fuckin’... piss off mate.” His low and ragged voice growls as he points a red, splotchy hand to the door.

“Might I suggest something? From a man that’s been through this... from both sides?” He tries a gentler approach, seeing the anger in his business partners eyes that he knew was only hurt disguised.

“Fuck no. Get out with ya so called fuckin' help. I’ve got her, yeah? Don’t need your fuckin advice. Ya couldn’t keep your wife alive why would I wanna listen to you?” He spits venom and Tommy sees now what Agatha was talking about. If he was in his right mind he wouldn’t have said that, but it didn’t help the upset it made bloom in Tommy’s chest.

“Look Alfie. You acting out isn’t going to help anyone. Certainly not you yeah? And not her.” He points to Genevieve laying with a flinching face in her sleep. “You think you’re taking care of her but you’re not. You’ll break soon. Mark my words. If you keep this up. Men, those like us weren’t meant to live this way. We can’t become obsessed with the things we swear we’ll protect. There has to be a line of self-preservation.”

“‘At’s fuckin rich comin' from you, Tommy.” He scoffs.

“When she needs you, truly. Her mind and body feeling not her own, you will need to know yourself with no room for question to help her. I’ve been where she is... where she’s goin’. It’s going to be a different sort of difficult now. And you need to be on your fucking toes for it. She was a hellcat before and it will only be worse with this medicine and her head.” He keeps his words stern but even. Wanting to show his seriousness but not have Alfie pull a gun he was sure was waiting just out of sight.

“I am bloody here. Ya got eyes innit ya?”

“Agatha has told me the truth whether you will or not.” He quirks an eyebrow at the man with a brow so low and hard his eyes were almost out of sight.

“None of them know anyfing. They let this happen, why the fuck would I trust them now?”

“No one LET it happen Alfie. It just happened. You were the one who pointed out the hypocrisy to me for us to be upset over things we deserve, things that happen to men like us. This is one of those things.”

Alfie is quiet and is eerily still, staring into Tommy.

“I believe you should let her out of your sight and get some air today. I’m here, Arthur and the children. Do her a world of good to see them.”

“Why does she have to be out of my sight?”

“Because you need to fucking sleep, Alfie. You look like hell and at least one of you need to have it together. And you’re fuckin’ fallin’ apart. I say that as a friend, as someone who cares about Genny. I don’t want her being looked after by a mad man who can’t even take care of himself. You need to get your life back in order Alfie. Falling apart helps no one. I’ve fuckin' done it. Didn’t help a fucking thing.” he says with an aggravated shake of his head.

Alfie huffs and then lets out a long sigh.

“I know she’s got her little potions and that, yeah? Take one. It’ll give you a few hours. She’ll be with us. She won’t be out of anyone’s sight.”

“Why are you tryin' to put me under? How do I know you aren’t trying something ya bloody gypsies.” He mutters with narrowed eyes, showing his growing paranoia.

“Because I went after her that day too. Because I was here to support your fucking proposal. Because I helped your men burn down half the bloody city.” He replies with an expression now showing his thinning patience.

“You weren’t there. I dinnit see you do nuffin'.” He retorts purely to only be difficult.

“Take it or fucking not Alfie, I don’t care. You’re being a right pain in the arse to everyone around you and will have everyone hating you again soon if you don’t recover. So get some fucking sleep yeah?” Tommy tells with a tight jaw and clear exasperation.

“I won’t be able to fuckin' sleep without it.” He grumbles and admits. Alfie blinks slowly, still glaring. “But you betta fuckin' swear it. If ANYFING happens to her you wake me!” he says angrily. Deep down, in his not sleep deprived functioning of his brain he knew Tommy was right. He didn’t have to admit it aloud though.

Gen stirs at the raising of his voice. “Mmmph.” she lets out, brow furrowing.

“Go on and get the old birds then.” Alfie pushes towards the door to send Tommy on his way. “Mornin’, love.” he says with a tone so distinctly opposite of his words with Tommy that the other man knew at least it was love that was causing him to act so out of character.

------

He had helped her get up and bathe, her sleepy face showing an acute lack of reaction to her environment that left him uneasy. But he knew the medicine was still in her system, her not having grown a resistance to the dose. He sends her off with her freshly washed hair and in a new gown before doing as he did her, and try to take care of himself. He takes a short bath, a quick scrub in all the ripe places before pulling on a loose shirt and trousers to lie down in, just in case he was needed he’d already be dressed.

Alfie begrudgingly takes the tonic. Not even a full dose, just enough to let his mind shut up long enough for him to get to sleep. Tommy had only convinced him because, despite his onerous behavior, he knew he was right. Alfie wasn’t above taking advice when it came from someone who knew what they were talking about. He knew Tommy most certainly knew the situation he and Genevieve found themselves in. As he lay alone in the dim light and quiet hush of the room, behind the closed ornate door to the bedroom, he finally allowed himself to exhale. With a face that still said, piss off despite being alone, his deep crows feet, the rolling hills of his forehead and brow settle as he shuts his eyes. He should’ve expected the dreams to find him as they did. All bad, all bloody and bitter. There are the fields of bodies, the trenches in sight as the explosions and gunfire whip by him as he dives among the duckboards for cover. The muddy mazes and the makeshift wooden slats turn into a hallway as he scrambles. The screams and explosions change to the sounds Genevieve made the day they rescued her and he searches desperately for her in the dark. He hears her and cannot find her, he screams for her and fights against the nothingness that surrounds him. Suddenly the cries stop, he’s in his home int he city, charging up the newly varnished stairs to his room to find their mutual friends standing over an empty bed.

“I’m sorry.” They all murmur and look at him with pity.

He tastes blood in his mouth, still covered in the filth of the trenches from earlier, hands on the bed and hitting it as if it would make something happen.

“She fought so hard.” Aggie says, sobbing into Claire’s shoulder.

“It was so sudden.” Claire whispers, shaking her head.

“If only you’d been there.” Tommy says, glaring into him.

“We’ll never forgive you for this.” Arthur growls.

“I told you to treat her better.” Polly sneers.

Alfie pants and growls, looking at them with wild eyes and sweat soaked skin.

“She’s gone Alfie. She’s dead. Because of you. It’s all your fault. You miserable old cunt.” Claire spits at him. “You were supposed to protect her.”

“Why didn’t you save me Alfie?” he hears her voice from behind him as he pivots and stares, sprawled on the bed as she’s in the doorway. One of her indulgent long sheer gowns in white, flowing and light around her body, lit up like the sun. Her face is solemn and hurt, her voice so timid it burns his chest to hear it.

“I did. I tried, love. Fuck Genevieve, I tried. I’m sorry.” he rushes out as he scrambles to her and his hands go through her.

“I’m gone, Alfie.” she shakes her head.

“No, no, you can’t be.” his hands reach out to nothing as she starts to fade.

The accusations and reminders of Gen’s demise are all shouted at him as he keeps desperately grabbing and calling out for her. His body pushed so hard against the hurt that he wakes himself, half in and out of sleep, still heavy underneath the effects of the tonic. He finds himself thrashing and yelling in her bed, through instinct he looks for her near him, and when she is not there his half woke mind panics.

“No.” he chokes out, her absence telling him just like earlier that she was certainly dead. -------

The edges of her world were fuzzy. The pain in her body could be felt, but it was as if it were far away. She moves slowly, Arthur's arms on her gently as they make their way to a stone bench in the garden. He’s personally thrilled with her progress, recalling the state Tommy was in and how couldn’t even move in the beginning. Granted, she hadn’t had so many obvious injuries, but Polly had explained to him that the injuries inside someone can be far greater than the ones on the outside when it comes to the mind. That he knew what it was like to have your mind out to get you, and he had always looked at those suffering with pity and empathy ever since. His eyes for Gen were no different in the afternoon sun. He says sweet praise as she moves with a limp, her ankle on the verge of healing now.

“There she is now.” he declares with outstretched hands her hands rest over her thin white robe on her thighs as she sits up on her own. She was a bit wobbly, granted, but she was managing. Aggie stood behind her and kept watch that she would stay upright. Once they saw she was stable enough, Tommy brings out Charlie by the hand as he oh’s and ah’s at the seemingly giant pieces of the garden.

“There’s Auntie Genny now, eh?” Tommy says with a soft tone, holding the boy back from charging at her as he normally would. With a happy squeal, Gen raises her head towards the boy's noises and as he approaches she slowly recognizes her favorite small human. Arthur beams as a smile slowly comes across her face, albeit a sleepy one, but it was a good sign to be getting anything out of her at this point. After a brief kiss of cheeks, Tommy suggests Charlie pick his Auntie some flowers, eager to please and get his hands on the overwhelming amount of color surrounding him he happily bounds away. Gen watches him shrink and disappear behind a hedge, her smile faltering as she recalls her dream, a wrinkle of her nose and a mood swing takes her as she rests on her hand with a pained sigh, her eyes once again vacant.

“What is it Genny?” Arthur gruffs out, taking her hand and gently rubbing her back, stimulating her enough to meet his eyes.

“She can’t talk yet, dear.” Aggie says, pulling the pen and paper out of her apron pocket. “Here you go darling, would you like to try to talk to us a bit?” she asks with kind eyes, putting the pen in her hand for her. Her grip is shaky at first, but it does respond and Arthur doesn’t hide his relief that she’s able to do such a thing. At least her brain was sending out the orders, even if her body was slow to follow them.

“The children.” she writes, looking into the distance.

“They were excited to see you, eh?” Arthur happily chirps in his deep comforting voice. “Little Ruby is down for a nap, long drive ‘n that. Linda has Billy up at the farm, he wasn’t feelin’ up to it poor lad.” he explains.

Gen shakes her head, her eyes not meeting his.

“Oh don’t feel bad about it, love, he’s just got a bit of stomach upset. Probably got into the sweets behind our back again!” he says happily with a laugh.

Gen slowly reaches out and puts a weak grip on Aggie’s forearm, the other hand lifting the paper and pushing it towards her again.

“She’s been asking about children after waking up.” Aggie says quietly, her hand tender on Gen’s face as she sees an unexplained pain behind her unfocused eyes.

“What’s she on about?” Arthur faces Aggie, but keeps his eyes on the disheartened Gen.

“We don’t know.” Aggie let’s out a sigh.

“Look here’s little Charlie. Here’s the boy now.” Arthur says trying to distract her.

Charlie had been blessed with his mother’s patience, as he surely hadn’t gotten it from his father. They sit in the garden, Charlie babbling to a reluctantly willing participant in Gen about flowers. She takes them one by one into her hands, forming a bouquet slowly, Arthur watching her receive and follow commands from the enthusiastic boy and rubbing her back as she was able to grip and respond with nods as the child spoke.

“She’s doing better.” Claire says, standing at the foot of the stairs with Aggie, watching the picturesque scene go down, Gen with a peaceful look on her face, Charlie happily babbling and tottering around in the high grass and jumping after butterflies.

“She’s asking about children again.” Aggie frowns. “But other than that yes.”

“The doctor told us there would be confusion and even hallucinations. For what she’s been through the subject doesn’t surprise me. Tommy mentioned it to me in confidence as well. Says he saw all sorts of things.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful.” Aggie says with heavy sarcasm that she doesn’t usually explore. “How are we to know if she’s doing any better in her mind if she’s bloody hallucinating.” she groans.

“It’s still too soon to tell. Once she’s off the medicine we’ll be able to know for sure.”

“But when will that be? Maybe never!” Aggie huffs.

“Don’t let Alfie’s poor mood rub off on you Ags.” Claire chuckles and pats her back.

“My apologies dear this whole situation is just a bit... overwhelming.” she admits her hands wringing together with worry despite the clear progress being made in front of her.

“I know. But we can do this.” Claire nods confidently. “Let’s try to enjoy it moment by moment shall we? Look at her, not pained in appearance or sound, following commands, responding, sitting like a little flower in her lovely white robes among her favorite things.” Claire’s hand sweeps out. “Our friends are here, she’s here, Alfie has finally shut the fuck up and went to sleep.” she laughs and Aggie grins.

“Thank Christ for that.” she rolls her eyes. “Bloody menace that man is. I thought he’d be the one to be the most helpful but I feel as if we’re babysitting him as well.”

“I believe he’s unaccustomed to such emotions. Despite his insistence that this is something that happens to people like them, I believe he’s racked with guilt. With rest, I believe he’ll get better. He loves her. Let’s try to remember that. It’s out of love and even if he is a clever one, he’s still just a man.” Claire says with a sigh.

“Not to us. He’ll be her husband, father of her children, man of the house. His name will be on everything. I just want him to be strong enough for her is all.” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “I pray he is but-“

Just then a roar erupts from inside the house. The unmistakable boom of Alfie echoing off the halls and out of the wall of open windows and patio doors to everyone in the garden.

“Fucks sake.” Claire groans, already having to eat her words.

“MR. SOLOMONS!” The girls inside call out over and over. “SHE’S ONLY IN THE GARDEN SIR!”

“WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HER? WHERE DID YOU TAKE MY GENNY?!” his voice shouts with malice spat at the innocent and fearful faces of the maids.

“SHE'S NOT DEAD SHES IN THE GARDEN!” One squeals, being shoved out of the way as he barges through every door in the house.

“Fucking hell.” Claire moans, moving fast up the stairs. “What the fuck is going on?” Claire demands from a scurrying maid.

“I don’t know!” She says with watery eyes from what were surely hurtful words from Alfie. “He took the lady’s tonic and laid down, then he started screaming and fighting in his sleep when he woke up and kept doing it! I don’t know! It’s like he’s on drugs!” One answers with shaking hands.

“The vial.” Aggie replies and hitches up her skirt to chase after the sounds in Genevieve’s wing of the house. “The man only drinks ceremonial wine and he’s gone and taken belladonna.”

With understanding clear on her face Claire laments and posts up on the back patio, ready for him to come her way. He’s either taken too much or doesn’t know he’s awake she assumes. Of course, he’d freak out when he woke and she wasn’t there.

“Alfie! She’s in the garden. GARDEN, ALFIE! GEN IS IN THE GARDEN!” Aggie shouts as he turns to see her in the doorway of Gen’s studio.

“SHE’S DEAD, WHAT DID YOU FUCKERS DO WITH HER BODY?!” he charges towards her.

She moves out of the way wisely. “GARDEN!” Aggie says and shoves him down the hall. “I see why he doesn’t bloody drink now.” she murmurs to herself, chasing after the stumbling lion as he slides down the hallway in his socks.

“C’MERE ALFIE!” Claire shouts, getting his attention, seeing in his face that he wasn’t all there. She herds him down the hall to the back patio where he sees her. Same as in his dream. All white and fluffy and soft, a face of confusion as their eyes lock across the path.

“Genny.” a whine escapes him as Arthur moves to protect her, he didn’t know what was going on, just that Alfie was acting like a rabid animal.

“Ah-?” she whispers, slowly moving towards him, holding her robe up and her face full of concern, the most alert anyone had seen her all day.

“Gen...Gen..” he says, powering down, his feet hitting heavy against the light stone landing, the vison of her, what he thought was a ghost making his head spin. The race of his blood, the haze his mind was in, the lack of sleep and the culmination of stress, thinking his love dead all hit him as he takes one more step and collapses against the ground like a tranquilized beast. Everyone stops and stares.

Claire is the first to get over the shock and rush his way, motioning her arm to Aggie as she comes through the doors. “He’s passed out the absolute ninny.” she rolls her eyes.

“What the fuck is this?” Tommy says rounding the corner and Arthur is still by the hobbling Gen’s side.

“Bad reaction to the sleep tonic I imagine.” Claire sighs, rolling him and propping him up, one of the male staff members coming to help her hoist him up.

“I’d say.” the maid's murmurs amongst themselves.

“Get her back into bed with him. I’ll not have this circus erupting again.” Claire orders.

“I only wanted him to get some rest.” Aggie pouts.

“You didn’t know he’d react this way, Agatha. It’s fine. As this beast likes to say, these things happen.” Claire grunts as she helps carry him back to their bed. “If he can’t handle a little of bubbies potion I see why he doesn’t drink now.” She snarks.

-----

Genevieve sits up in bed of her own accord for the first time since coming home. She sits with timid body language, hands in her lap as she keeps her eyes on the snoring man next to her.

“Perhaps opium would’ve been a better choice.” Tommy smirks as he stands with his hands in his pockets, Claire and Aggie rolling their eyes his way.

“At least he wouldn’t have broken the vase if he was on opium.” Aggie protests.

Claire grins at Aggie who was entirely over Alfie’s wild antics the past few days. “Best he stays away from anything now. Except her I suppose.” Claire pats Genevieve’s leg covered by her plush duvet as she ignores the conversation around her and watches the nuance of Alfie’s lip blubbing in his sleep. She reaches out, having grown impatient to touch him even though they had all been keeping watch only a matter of minutes. Everyone watches her with bated breath as her hand reached out, body turned just slightly which was a feat in itself, as she touched his face.

“Ah.” she whispers, leaning closer to him, fingers carding through his now fluffy and unkempt hair, long pieces across his forehead that reminded her of the feelings he used to bring out in her with his moments of unintentional boyish charm.

His strong sloped nose twitches, hearing his back crack and pop as he arches it and grunts. “Pet?” he murmurs, hand reaching up to touch hers, wondering if everything had been a bad dream for a blissful moment in time before opening his eyes. But when he accepts that he is in indeed in the less than perfect reality when Gen’s watercolor splotched soft face comes into focus. Neck still wearing a necklace of bruises, braces on fingers that he now felt under his hand as he gently kisses her palm and sighs. “What are you doin’ up, love? What ya need?” he begins before slowly sitting up himself.

Her face smiles and he gives her a sleepy one back, finding brief solace in her happiness to look at him still despite being a man, and men had done those terrible things to her. Once he sits up his eyes move away from her, and his eyes go wide, chin pushed into his neck as his face moves into a sharp scowl. “What in the fuckin' hell is this?” he asks looking at the people surrounding the bed. “Some fuckin' rest I’ll be gettin' with the lot of you fuckin hoverin’ like fuckin’ fly’s.” he complains loudly, lips pursed as he meets their eyes.

“He doesn’t remember.” Claire smirks.

“Remember what?” he barks.

Gen lets out a small huff of a laugh that takes all his attention.

“Was that a laugh? Ya havin’ a laugh are ya?” a falsely threatening brow but a smile on his face for the happy sound from her makes him put his arm around her and let her lie against him. “What’s your old man done so I can do it again if it makes you laugh, love.” he chuckles into her hair as she resumes her kitten-like behavior and nuzzles into his side.

“You had a bad reaction to the sleep tonic you took,” Claire explains. “You didn’t know what was a dream and what was reality and you stormed through the house shouting about her being dead and then passed out when you saw her in the garden.” The superior feeling Claire had to finally have one over on Alfie was clear in her taunting face.

“I fuckin’ wot? No I dinnit.” he denies, shaking his head, voice gruff and defensive.

“We all saw it.” Tommy adds.

“Well it’s your fault innit!” he says with a broad swipe of his big paw of a hand towards the smug looking man.

“How was I to know you couldn’t hold your drugs?” he gives a subtle grin.

“I don’t do that shite for a reason, yeah? It’s fuckin’ awful that stuff.”

“Well don't take belladonna again.” Aggie scolds with a shake of her head. “You scared the wits out of the maids.”

“Eh.” he shrugs. “Best they get a backbone yeah?” his tone was still defensive and everyone could see it on his face. He was a bit embarrassed. Gen puts her hand on his stomach and rubs the softness that lies beneath the linen of his shirt as she listened to his voice, that boom, and power that made her shut her eyes and know things were okay.

“You best get a backbone.” Aggie retorts, crossing her arms.

“Excuse you?” Alfie laughs.

“I’m serious! You’ve scared Genevieve, screaming and then passing out and calling her name. Then the maids, and us with your loud arse stumbling around the house like a bloody bull.” her voice has bite and Alfie’s tilted head shows his surprise.

“Agatha, love, I didn’t know you were so bitter.”

“Not bitter just tired, Alfie.” she murmurs. “I don’t want to have to worry about you. You’ve been a fucking mess since she’s been home and I don’t want you acting like a boy. She needs a man. We all need a strong man to be there for her. And you’ve been nothing but another burden in your behavior. Acting like everyone is out to get you in this house. Acting like you’re the only one that cares about her or can care for her. You aren’t the only one affected by this and it’s time you realized that.”

Alfie blinks slowly, Claire wearing a proud look on her face. “Language Aggie.” he chuckles.

“Well I’m very fucking serious!” she says with straight posture and furrowed brow.

“Thank you for sharing your feelings then Agatha.” Alfie gives her a nod, trying not to grin at the entirely nonthreatening angry face the older woman was wearing.

“I also agree with that. You can’t stay here holed up as you have been. There’s proof it’s making you mad now.” Claire snarks.

“What do you think, love?” he softly asks Gen, a scapegoat for his behavior he thinks. But she’s already asleep on his chest. “Oh fuckin’ ‘ell look at her.” he sighs, fingers stroking her hair softly. “How can I want to leave this?” he mutters before kissing her hair.

“You don’t have to want to. You have to. You have a business. People are going to talk if you just fuck off to stay at home. They’ll think you’re weak, Alfie.” Tommy says.

He knew he wasn’t wrong. “Fuckin’ up me arse the lot of ya.” he grumbles.

“We’re going to be if you don’t start getting out of this bed and work on being yourself again. She needs you to be you so she can remember how to be herself.” Claire says, leaning forward and speaking intensely with eye contact to Alfie’s still hesitant eyes. “Your fucking legs are going to stop working if you stay in here with her much longer like this.” she says with more humor, pinching his shin.

Alfie sighs, kissing Gen's forehead. “I’m not doin’ it because ya tellin’ me to. Let me make that fuckin’ clear.” he points at each with a low brow. “But for her. She needs someone out there to control things. People are gonna talk 'bout her. She’s got more to lose than me right now. And I will admit though, right, that I don’t wanna be shoutin’ and actin’ like some fuckin’ drunk in me own house in front of people.” he grunts.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, Alfie.” Claire groans. “We just need you to trust us and let her have her space. She can’t become dependent on you either. It’s not good for either of you.”

“Yeah.” he mumbles. “Not no little pups no more are we love?” he sighs and kisses her head. “Can’t stay in the love bubble forever as you say.” he continues speaking to her despite her state of consciousness. “She’d want me back out there.” he admits.

“Yes. Yes she would.” Claire nods enthusiastically. “She would want you healthy, handling your business. She wouldn’t want you to decline because of her.”

“‘N today was fuckin’ decline, innit?” he groans and rubs his head.

“Most certainly. You really showed your arse today Alfie.” Aggie says still pouting and peeved.

“Alright Ags. Christ.” he chortles. “We’ll take it slow today, yeah? Call up Ollie and have ‘im over for tea. We’ll figure this out.” he answers quietly with authority as he looks down at Genevieve. “We’ll get back on track tomorrow. ‘Cause I feel right pissed wif ‘is in me system still. Fuckin’ embarrassin’.” he admits and shakes his head. “One day at time, yeah?” he speaks softly, kissing her hair again and taking a deep breath of her lavender scent. “Same as you little flower. Not gonna block the sun for ya to bloom with my big loud arse around all the time.” he beams and shuts his eyes and she mewls under the contact, nose mushed into his side. “One day at a time, love.”

Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

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avengers-nextgen · 6 years ago

Text

We Are One VIII

So I made myself cry while writing this because as a triplet I relate to the twin dynamic at play here.

— — —

Chloe positioned herself on the roof between both of the bleeding boys. Nathaniel clamped a hand to his side hunching over in pain while attempting to appear strong. Across the way, Killian held his shoulder gingerly where an arrow jutted from the flesh.

“Stop.” Chloe ordered. “Both of you. You’re going to kill each other!”

“He’s going to kill innocent people with this self righteous escapade,” Nathaniel grimaced. “I’m tired of quarreling! I want this over with! You threaten my family and I can’t let it stand that way. It’s been weeks!”

“Nathaniel...” Chloe warned.

“We have our own agendas brother,” Killian smiled through bloodied lips.

“I’m not your brother.”

“So be it,” Killian laughed. “But you know very well what happens to people like us. You’ve seen it with your father. An old man run into the ground and what use has it done?”

“You know nothing about my father!” Nathaniel attempted to fire a shot. Lightning struck his arm before he could release the arrow sending him skittering across the ground.

“Stop!” Chloe, with shaking hands, erected a barrier between both boys. “Please. Just talk. Don’t fight. There’s too much of it already don’t you see? How many of our friends get hurt because of this stupid war?!”

“You poor girl,” Killian shook his head, “don’t you understand it’s in his nature to keep fighting? He has to.”

“That’s not true.” Chloe shook her head. She didn’t dare look over the edge to see how her friends were fairing but she prayed it was going well.

“Isn’t it? Even now he stands back up.” Killian’s eyes smarted as Nathaniel staggered to his feet. “One must learn when to lay down.”

“I won’t lay down to you.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Not now or ever. The world needs us to help them. Not turn against them or turn against each other. We have gifts for a reason!”

“We are used until we are nothing!” Killian spat. “My mother-“

Chloe watched as sparks rolled from the enemy but despite the threatening aura his voice shattered.

“My mother has been ground into nothing. For what? The society that will never learn. I won’t become like her. I won’t let it happen to anyone else ever again. If it means killing you to restart this none sense so be it. But if you wish to live all you have to do is walk away.”

“Why? So you can watch the world fall apart? What purpose does that do? You’ll leave a chaotic husk for people to clean up. Would you want to raise children in such a world?” Nathaniel demanded, though his knees looked wobbly.

“At least they wouldn’t have false hope of heroes saving the day.” Killian’s eyes welled with tears and he struck at the barrier. He knew of false heroes. He’d had them once and like every hero-they let him down when it counted most.

Chloe’s shoulders tightened with effort but the assault was far more aggressive than she’d been expecting. Orange shattered and nothing stood between Nathaniel or Killian.

Panic clutched at Chloe’s chest as Killian approached Nathaniel. She couldn’t witness another murder. With a flick of the wrist a disc spun through the air knocking Killian unconscious.

“Leave him,” Chloe looked intently at Nathaniel. He didn’t stand a chance. Killian would kill him with another hit.

“Chloe, we can’t let him go.”

“Leave him.” Nathaniel looked in surprise at his friend whose face was stained with tears. “Please.”

“He’s dangerous.”

“We’re all dangerous, but he’s hurt. You told me I couldn’t kill the man-the man that killed Ethan. Even if I wanted to. How is this any different?” Chloe demanded, trying desperately to keep her voice even.

“People are going to die because of his recklessness,” Nathaniel insisted, glancing back at Killian’s unmoving form.

“How is this different?” Chloe asked again. “How?”

“Chloe...” Nathaniel shook his head but she took a step away from him like an injured animal.

“You’re a hypocrite.”

“Listen to me-“

“You’re a liar! This-this is the same and you want...” Chloe could barely bring herself to finish, “you want to kill him. You can’t-you...you told me it would-I could’ve killed him and you lied to me. I could’ve made things right!”

“It wouldn’t be right,” Nathaniel insisted, “because he was helpless.”

“Helpless? He wasn’t helpless in a car.”

“You have powers Chloe.”

“And you don’t- so that makes it okay?”

Nathaniel wanted to say something but he couldn’t. She wasn’t going to believe him anyways. He’d suspected this war would be hard on her. The anxiety of it all, the sheer violence, the fear of losing Arthur, etc. It was wearing her down to the bone. “We can talk more when you’re calm. Okay?”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Chloe stammered between sobs. “You’re no different than him. You’re no better than anyone, and I-I thought you understood me but you don’t. You’re nothing but some boy playing dress up and acting like god.”

Chloe left no room for Nathaniel to respond before vanishing into a portal. The archer was left to clamber down the building alone.

“Where’s Chloe?” Arthur asked, spotting Nathaniel heading their way having finished his descent.

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel replied.

“What do you mean you don’t know? She’s okay, right?” Arthur asked in a rush.

“I just told you I don’t know.” Nathaniel mumbled.

“You can’t not know. She was with you!” Arthur cried, feeling a burst of anger in his chest. His thoughts turned to the worst in an instant. “I trusted you to look after her!”

“Arthur,” Penny warned, hobbling in front of him. Her foot had been wounded by the mouth of a lion.

“Don’t Arthur me,” He stepped swiftly around her and moved closer to Nathaniel.

“Calm down!” Alex glared, catching Arthur by the arm. “I get it. Tensions are high, but we can’t go beating each other up. There’s injuries to attend to.”

Tugging his arm free, Arthur turned back to the attack squad. Alex was right, people needed medical attention. Penny was battered and bruised along with Orion whose shoulder looked dislocated.

“Sorry,” Arthur sighed, bowing his head and following Alex’s lead.

— — —

“You’re worried,” James noted, sitting beside his sister at the window. She’d been home from the mission no longer than an hour and had yet to change, shower, or even acknowledge anyone.

“The fighting’s worse, James,” Alex shook her head. “Someone’s going to die. There’s no control. It’s too personal for everyone. Lines have been crossed that can’t be uncrossed and every time we fight I worry-“

“It’s okay,” James pulled his baby sister into a hug, “I know.”

He recalled his last time in the field not long after the incident with Orion’s parents.

“We gotta do something!” Piper cried. “People are in danger.”

“If we act we encourage them to retaliate,” James yelled.

“They’re letting people die,” Piper’s fists clenched.

“That’s the point. They’re forcing attention onto the shitty law enforcement.”

“That’s it-“ Piper fired a blast from her palm sending Kubu flying backwards.

“Damn it Piper!” Fox shouted over the ear piece. James peeked over his hiding place to see the enemy engaging his friends.

“Guns up-let’s roll,” James sighed, leaping the barricade and rushing into the fray.

He’d nearly lost an ear that evening and if it hadn’t been for Piper he’d have most likely lost his throat too.

“If we don’t do anything-“ Alex started.

“People die.”

“But then I put everyone at risk including them,” Alex sniffled, “and I cant be mad at them James. I know I should be but-they have reasons for this. Even if the actions are wrong the reasons may be valid for Killian and the others.”

“That’s what makes you so special,” James laughed bitterly, “you never take things at face value. But Alex, as much as you want it to be true, not everyone can be saved.”

“James...”

“You can try, but sometimes you have to draw a line,” the red head wiped a tear from his sister’s cheek. “There’s only so many chances we can give people.”

“I know.”

— — —

“You need to come home,” Arthur paced about his room with a phone pressed intently to his ear. “I’m worried about you. I don’t care what he said I need to know you’re okay. This has been hard on you, I know, and I don’t want you being stupid-“

Penny winced as Arthur held the phone away from his ear as if he were being yelled at.

“You’re my sister, Chloe, and I love you. Please, just talk it out with me. I know I don’t understand you okay? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I don’t and I wish I did. I wish I could be a better brother for you but-you have to let me in. You always keep me out.” Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know you’ve spent your whole life worrying over me, worrying for me, wanting to take care of me and protect me and it wasn’t fair to you. You’ve never said anything about it but I’ve known for years Chloe. Let me help you like you helped me. Let me worry about you, please.”

“Arthur,” Penny whispered, but the boy held up a hand to keep her quiet.

“I’m scared. I’m scared for you. You only ever opened up to Nathaniel because you thought you could trust him and now that you don’t-you can’t bottle it up again. It’s not healthy. Don’t do that to yourself again. Please.” Arthur waited anxiously for a response but the reply never came.

“Arthur,” Penny started again knowing Chloe would have refused his help no matter what, “she’s stubborn. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I should be taking care of her,” Arthur’s face scrunched up as he tried to fight off the tears, “I shouldn’t have given up on her. I could’ve tried harder to understand. Now she’s-I promised Dad I’d take care of her here.”

“She’s hurt, Arthur, and she needs time to process it,” Penny frowned, standing and hugging him tightly. “She’ll be okay. Trust her.”

“I wish I could,” Arthur cried, “but you don’t know her like I do. When she’s lonely-when she feels like she’s the only person in the world it’s like everything loses meaning. She won’t think. She won’t even feel.”

“Then pray for her.”

“I don’t believe in God,” Arthur whimpered.

“No, but Alex does.” Penny assured him, “and if he’ll answer to anyone-“

“It’ll be her,” Arthur chuckled.

“Yeah.” Penny smiled. “Come on.”

Taking her hand, Arthur let himself be dragged down the hallway in search of their friend. He didn’t realize he was holding onto her like a little kid clutching the one thing that comforted them.

#avengers #avengers next gen #marvel #black widow #captain america #mcu #natasha romanoff #pepper potts #romanogers #scarlet witch #we are one

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littlehollyleaf · 7 years ago

Text

Two times Ed was made to confront the darker parts of himself

So I’ve felt for AGES like there was something of a parallel between the scene with Eddie and Ozzie in Arkham in Reunion and the final scene between Eddie and Izzy in Blood Rush. Like, not in the sense they match exactly as scenarios, but in the sense that they have some curious similarities that highlight both notable comparisons and differences to Eddie’s relationship with both Ozzie and Izzy and Ozzie and Izzy’s attitudes and behaviours towards Ed and… no matter how much I try to forget about or dismiss this, my mind just keeps circling back to it and it’s driving me crazy!

So here I am picking the scenes apart (IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL) in the hope I can finally stop associating them with each other.

(disclaimer: truth is this comes with a TON of insecurities on my part, because when it comes to the Eddie and Izzy scene I’m ashamed to admit that Izzy’s behaviour didn’t ping as abusive to me until people started pointing it out and I guess I’ve been kinda paranoid ever since that I might overlook abusive behaviour again… so I suppose that made me hypersensitive to Ozzie’s behaviour with Ed in Arkham, and then seeing some things as similar to Izzy’s behaviour made me extra anxious to not dismiss the idea that Ozzie’s behaviour could also be understood as abuse/assault, plus there has been a few metas suggesting just that to compound my anxiety… then there’s the fact I was worried my nygmobblepot bias might blind me to Problematic stuff… plus there’s the way I’ve also always felt that Izzy was unfairly vilified beyond her legit creepy behaviour, so it started to upset me to think that possible similar behaviour by Ozzie was maybe being painted as good, both in itself and for Ed, while Izzy’s behaviour and motives were so universally denounced and people were kinda implied as being dirtywrong if they still enjoyed the scene with her and Ed (which I do fyi, because I think it’s fascinating)… basically, I’ve quietly been a bit of a hysterical mess over this for some time, my apologies to @witchunters in particular for pretty much falling apart on them over chat while they tried their best to fix me, so… let’s hope this helps finally sort me out...)

(if you can’t be arsed with this lengthy nonsense I’ll understand xx)

Compare

Izzy and Ozzie both appear to Ed in ways that make Ed afraid they will 'unleash' a violent side of him that will cause him to hurt someone he (thinks he) loves ie. Isabella herself and Lee.

With Izzy this is via her dressing as Kristen, because Ed has convinced himself there is something about Kristen's face/appearance that unlocks violence in him – “What if there is something about Miss Kringle’s – Kristen’s – ISABELLA’S face – what if there’s something about her face that unlocks this side of me?” (Eddie in Blood Rush).

With Ozzie this is via him calling Ed ‘Riddler,’ because Ed has convinced himself Ozzie has some kind of power over him and that by acknowledging/validating his ‘Riddler self’ Ozzie can unlock not just violence in Ed but a whole different person – “I am held captive all day, my brilliance locked away. This prison must be broken. The key – my name which must be spoken” (Eddie’s ‘Riddler self’ riddle to Ozzie).

ASIDE: Another minor comparison – seems like in both instances these different beliefs are prompted by the darker/repressed/unconscious parts of Ed ie. Hallucination!Kristen is the one who suggests Izzy’s similarities to Kristen will unleash violent impulses in Ed that will lead him to kill her and Hallucination!Riddler is the one who concludes that Ozzie is the one who has the power to ‘free’ Ed’s ‘Riddler self.’ This could suggest that the darker/repressed/unconscious parts of Ed are the parts of him with greater self awareness. If we consider them as manifestations of the parts of him Ed is frightened/unwilling to face and thus is trying to keep himself in denial about that could make sense – they are the ugly truths, or what Ed believes are ‘ugly’ at least, about him given form ie. that he wanted to be and enjoyed being violent with Kristen, and therefore wants to be violent with Izzy and that he loves cares about Ozzie Ozzie’s opinion of him and desperately yearns for his validation.

Contrast

A key difference between the two confrontations is that Izzy arranges hers of her own volition, while Ozzie arranges it in answer to a direct appeal from Ed/part of Ed himself.

HOWEVER –

Compare

When it comes to Ozzie and Izzy’s motivations, both seem to think/believe they are helping Ed face his fear and/or the truth about himself, as well as both having selfish motivations for wanting him to embrace his darker/violent side too.

Izzy tells Oswald that she is “not going to let [Ed] go” (Blood Rush) despite Ed’s choice to break up, because she believes “[she] loves him and he loves [her]” and so they belong together, that he doesn’t really want to break up with her, he is just (wrongly, according to her) afraid he will hurt her if he doesn’t. Then during their confrontation she tells him she is “forcing [him] to face [his] fear” so he can see the truth that he “won’t hurt [her].” Which is a mix of selfish motivations/desires, because she wants Ed to stay with her, and also, arguably, genuine belief that what she is doing is helping to give Ed what he truly wants deep down ie. to stay with her because he loves her.

Ozzie, on discovering Ed’s unconsciously left note, mutters “you’re still in there” (A Beautiful Darkness), followed up by “and you’re gonna help me find a way out of here.” Then during their confrontation he talks about seeing “him” and “the other you” in Ed (Reunion) and that he plans to ‘free’ that side/version of Ed because he has “earned” it and because “[Ozzie needs] him.” Which, again, involves some selfish motivations/desires, because Ozzie wants ‘Riddler’ to help him escape Arkham and, although he doesn’t technically say it (since the letter was technically just a code), there’s a lot of implication that he wants Ed back as a friend (and maybe more??). But there’s also, arguably, genuine belief that Ed’s unconscious acts (the origami riddle, responding to Oswald’s coded message) imply that what Oswald is doing is what Ed truly wants deep down ie. to be ‘Riddler’ again.

Compare

Both Izzy and Ozzie trick/push Ed into visiting them when he has literally claimed he doesn't want to / can’t do it / won’t do it – “I can’t do it – I can’t break up with her – I need you to do it for me” (Eddie to Oz in Blood Rush); [reading Ozzie’s letter] “I want to apologise… can we be friends again… what?! What is he – ? I’m never gonna forgive him!” (Eddie in Reunion)

Contrast

While Izzy's trick catches Ed completely unawares, as he thinks Izzy has invited him over just to talk, Ozzie’s trick only fools a part of Ed, since Ed’s ‘Riddler self’ knew Ozzie would be waiting to confront him/them at Arkham and wanted to be there specifically for the confrontation. In fact, with Ozzie, Ed’s ‘Riddler self’ was not only in on the trick but orchestrated it by sending a message to Ozzie first, so Ed effectively tricks himself into visiting Ozzie.

Compare

In both instances, when Ed recognises the confrontation for what it is ie. an attempt to make him face the part of him he is scared of, he resists.

Contrast

With Izzy he literally tries to run away, while with Ozzie he argues for a bit (“You’re wrong! I am Ed - Edward Nygma, that is it!”), then tries to finish signing the papers that will have him committed to the asylum, but doesn't try to physically escape...

HOWEVER –

With Ozzie, the way to the door is literally blocked by Ozzie himself, which could be a reason for the difference? But if so why doesn’t Ed try to push past him? Arguably his fear keeps him frozen. Or alternatively, his failure to run like he did from Izzy could suggest he didn’t really want to escape.

OR, considering his conscious reason for coming to Arkham was to protect Lee from himself, was he afraid to run from Ozzie and the asylum for that reason? ie. he feared if he escaped Ozzie his ‘Riddler self’ might still gain control of him and go on to attack Lee.

Ergo, could Ed's act of trying to finish signing commitment papers be comparable to him literally running from Izzy? Both are, perhaps, in their own way, an attempt to escape the confrontation - via leaving Izzy's proximity and via completing something that would allow Arkham staff to lock him up out of Ozzie's reach (or if not out of his reach, at least locked up so that if Ozzie succeeded in unlocking his ‘Riddler self’ he would be safely contained anyway).

Compare

Seeing Ed's attempt to avoid/thwart the confrontation, Izzy and Ozzie both rush over and physically stop him.

Contrast

Izzy is persistent and aggressive in her physical assault of Ed, pushing him back into the room and even slapping him when he continues to protest.

While Ozzie releases Ed after his initial lunge and seems to make a point of trying not to touch him again (though he does kinda brace his hands against Ed’s chest for a moment a bit later in response to Ed grabbing him), instead countering Ed's protests verbally (although he does remain very much within Ed's personal space with Ed pulling away from him in apparent discomfort).

Compare

Both confrontations have a key climax Izzy and Ozzie are building to ie. Izzy putting Ed's hand on her neck, Ozzie calling Ed 'Riddler.' As this climax approaches Ed makes one last verbal protest against it.

Contrast

With Izzy this protest is a breathless repetition of “no no no no no,” while Izzy forcibly places his hand round her neck and Ed holds himself still and I think tense?

With Ozzie this protest has additional phrasing around Ed’s use of ‘no’ that makes the words arguably more ambiguous – “no, please - please don't... no... PLEASE” - accompanied by Ed, without any prompting from Ozzie, fisting both hands into Ozzie's shirt and seemingly holding Ozzie to him (or at least not pushing Ozzie away). Because of this each 'please,' especially the last, can arguably be read as Ed begging Ozzie to continue as opposed to stop.

Compare

With the climax of the confrontation reached ie. Ed with his hand at Izzy's throat and Ed hearing Ozzie call him 'Riddler,' Ed reacts by embracing both Izzy and Ozzie in a wild but intimate fashion, seemingly overwhelmed by some inner emotion (swelling music in both instances arguably suggests this is a triumphant, or at least defining, moment).

Contrast

With Izzy this moment is a kiss.

With Ozzie it's Ed grabbing Ozzie's face.

Compare

Ed goes on to embrace the darker/violent side he was originally afraid of without causing the hurt he claimed to fear ie. via the implication of him engaging in kinky (violent?) sex with Izzy without hurting/killing her, via him helping Ozzie escape Arkham and take on Sofia without hurting/killing Lee.

Contrast

With Izzy this confrontation of his darker/violent side seems to be presented as curing him of his inner conflict and thus helping make him more balanced maybe?? ie. in the way he returns to Ozzie later all smiles and relaxed (in contrast to the tense anxiety we saw in him before the confrontation) and claiming that “everything is wonderful” and Izzy showed him he was “worried over nothing” (Blood Rush).

While with Ozzie, the confrontation of his darker/violent side seems to be presented as flipping his inner conflict and leaving him imbalanced still, so that instead of fearing/resisting his darker/violent side, Ed is now resisting his loving/softer side?? ie. in the way he tells Lee that “Ed is gone” (Mandatory Brunch Meeting) and he refuses to say he loves her (whether you want to argue that he truly does love her or not, the fact he refuses to say it can be taken as evidence he is actively trying to avoid associating himself with the concept of love I think?)

Conclusion?

So… IS Ozzie’s behaviour abusive like Izzy’s?

I’m still nervous to argue definitively one way or the other, damn it.

Ambiguous though Eddie’s in the moment protest against Ozzie calling him Riddler is, it is still ostensibly a protest that Ozzie knowingly ignores, meaning Ozzie, like Izzy, does technically force something on Ed seemingly without his consent, and that still niggles at me (does the fact it was just saying a word make it less of a thing? maybe… but idk, couldn’t you also say Izzy was ‘just putting Ed’s hand to her neck’? both things are in themselves innocuous, but held enough emotional/psychological significance to Ed to make them emotionally painful/frightening to contemplate, so…? Idk!).

Buuuut – Ed’s massive psychological split involved in the scenario with Ozzie DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE I think. Because it does mean that while Ed is outwardly protesting, Ozzie has had what is arguably clear confirmation that actually Ed DOES WANT him to say the name (confirmation that Izzy, on the contrary, did not have). So… is he really acting against Ed’s consent??

Certainly it’s understandable that Ozzie may not have thought so. I think it makes sense that Ozzie would understand the origami plea as being the stronger indicator of Ed’s true desire and thus default to that over any immediate opposition (although that’s not to say I think he wouldn’t overrule any opposition anyways – I’m not saying I think he’s incapable of manipulating Ed into an emotional/psychological state that is preferable to him… that is pretty much what I understand him as doing via killing Izzy after all… just that he wasn’t necessarily trying to that here).

When it comes to the issue of whether Ed himself actually did want/consent to the confrontation with Ozzie though… that’s a little murkier. And I am slightly weary that arguing that ‘Ed wanted it really’ or ‘Ed was asking for it’ risks sounding a bit like victim blaming.

BUT – as witchunters recently reminded me, Ed does have a tendency, via denial of stuff about himself that he doesn’t care to face, of presenting himself as a victim when he isn’t. Such as his insistence that Kristen’s death was a tragic accident that befell him, as opposed to the result of his deliberate (albeit probably not intentionally fatal?) physical abuse of her. So, there is an issue here, perhaps, over whether Ed was really a victim during the confrontation with Ozzie, or if he was just playing up to the idea, because he didn’t want to actively accept his ‘Riddler self’ as a part of him? Like, maybe he wanted to have Ozzie seemingly force his ‘Riddler self’ into existence, because then he could embrace that part of himself while simultaneously not feeling responsible for having done so?

That could be why he responded positively to Izzy’s manhandling and controlling behaviour as well – because part of him craves having someone else take control of him and push him towards unlocking/embracing his darker/violent side, so he doesn't have to be responsible for it?

Then we’ve got the different RESULTS of the two confrontations to consider. Because both end in Ed embracing Ozzie and Izzy seemingly happily and in relief – which could be taken as supporting the whole ‘he wanted it really’ idea not just with Ozzie, but with Izzy too maybe?

Especially since with Izzy the aftermath of the confrontation goes on to appear arguably even more positive for Ed, as he seems to be, again arguably, at peace with himself in the next scene, with his words implying he believes this to be because of Izzy’s actions. While in the aftermath of the confrontation with Ozzie, Ed/Riddler is shown/implied to still be in conflict with himself during his Riddle Factory conversations with Lee…

BUT – since with Izzy there was no indicator prior to the confrontation that Ed desired it, unlike all the ‘Riddler self’ stuff implies with Ozzie, perhaps the most that can really be understood about Ed’s opinion of Izzy’s behaviour is that he came to view what she forced on him as good for him retrospectively. As in, no it was not something he wanted or consented to, but in the end it seemed to make him feel better about himself so he ultimately became happy about it.

Since Ed/Riddler remains conflicted after the confrontation with Ozzie though – does that therefore imply there is part of him that remains unhappy about what Ozzie did?

Considering the different relationships Ed has with both parties that could make sense.

Because while he was scared to hurt her, all of Ed did very much seem to love Izzy (or believed that he did) and regarded that love as a positive thing.

So Ed was perhaps predisposed to see Izzy's behaviour in a positive light. As well as being happy to accept the idea of her taking control of him, with or without his consent, and that her doing so provided him with what he needed. Because maybe he felt, due to his confused ideas about what love is and means, that loving someone means that their words/actions necessarily do and even should have power over you, and that if they truly love you back you need them to use that power on you because it can only be a good thing?? Hence why he seemed so at peace afterwards? Because all of him accepted what had happened as a triumph of his and Izzy’s love for each other? So it wasn’t necessarily that Izzy’s behaviour/actions were good for him and what he wanted/needed, but that he convinced himself they were?

Whereas, even within the same episode as the confrontation, part of Ed was insisting he hated Ozzie, or at least would never forgive him. Plus he’d been shown to have developed a much more complicated attitude towards love as a concept, with his ‘Riddler self’s’ mocking references to it and attempt to kill Lee because he seemed to feel ‘Ed’s’ love for her was holding him/them back, suggesting part of Ed very much regards it as a negative thing now.

So, part of Ed was predisposed to see Ozzie’s behaviour in a negative light, maybe. And was not happy about the idea of Ozzie having power over him (enough that an innocuous word from him ended up having such emotional/psychological significance) and that Ozzie may be able to provide him with what he needs. Because that would suggest their feelings and connection to each other do in fact match his idea of what love is? And would therefore force him to accept/admit that he and Ozzie maybe do, in fact, share a mutual love? Hence why he’s been in conflict since the confrontation? Because his ‘Ed’ side (or ‘edcicle’ as I sometimes call him :p) seems adamant about refusing to believe that Ozzie’s love for him is genuine and very much refuses to believe he might love Ozzie, so that part of Ed is now locked away inside him somewhere trying to convince himself that what happened with Ozzie was not what he wanted/needed and nothing to do with a shared love between them. Meanwhile, his ‘Riddler side’ maybe does recognise that there is love (or at least sexual attraction?) between them and accepts that’s why Ozzie’s validation of him had such power (because I certainly do believe there’s a case to be made that the parts of himself Ed represses into this ‘Riddler side’ include attraction to men and Ozzie specifically) BUT that side of him has gone on to also simultaneously attempt to convince himself to reject that love/attraction, because he considers it a weakness?? Ergo – constant struggle and lack of peace!

(obviously I’m thinking romantic love here, since we’re comparing to Izzy, but the ‘love’ involved on Ed’s side here could theoretically work as platonic love as well).

PFFT.

Damn it Eddie you TANGLED STRINGY BEAN!

So… in a nutshell I guess maybe –

Izzy forced something on Ed that he didn’t want, but Eddie didn’t feel abused because he ended up enjoying parts of it and so convinced himself it was a necessary bit of tough love?

Ozzie gave Ed what part of him wanted, but part of Eddie felt abused because he was busy convincing himself he didn’t want it, and both parts of him are trying to convince themselves love isn’t or shouldn’t be part of the equation?

(solution – Ed clearly needs to have kinky sex with Ozzie, thank you, the end)

#gotham meta #character study: edward #character study:oswald #character study: isabella #eddie x izzy #gotham parallels #I'm sorry I just... I had to vomit this out of me it was keeping me awake at night thinking about it...#I'm such a damn MESS when it comes to this show...

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hskswife · 7 years ago

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sudden realization 3 || j. jk

Summary: ‘He couldn’t have but he did. He fell for her. He loved Y/N too.’

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader x Jimin

Genre: Fluff, Angst, SMUT

Words: 2047

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ MATURE CONTENT AHEAD AND SLIGHT VIOLENCE

part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4

Y/N woke up to the sight of a sleeping Jimin who unconsciously grabbed her body pulling her into his arms while rubbing circles on her back her heart skipping a beat as she looked at his face. His long eyelashes gracefully sitting on his face. Not even aware she had been staring Y/N's eyes had fallen onto his flawless nose then on his plump lips, "God how're you real?" She whispered not knowing she had just woken Jimin from his sleep, "Goodmorning to you too." He said with a chuckle his eyes still closed slowly opening them as he placed a kiss on her forehead, "Y/N last night was amazing and I'm really hoping that it won't be the last." Smiling Y/N sat up breaking herself free from Jimin's grip covering her naked chest with his covers, "Well how about it? Go out with me?" Jimin stated as he propped himself up with his elbows, "Give me 2 weeks if you don't like what I have to offer we can both just move on." Placing a hand on his cheek Y/N leaned forward kissing Jimin's plump lips. Suddenly remnants of last night flooded her memory.

The image of Jimin all fucked out on top of her made her rub her thighs together as her core looked for some type of friction. "Okay but, if I find out this is some deal between you assholes I'll cut off all your dicks." Laughing Jimin sat up pulling Y/N into a tight embrace burying his face into her neck. Shuddering as he placed small kisses on her weak spots, "Jimin~" She moaned accidentally and with a smug look on his face, Jimin continued to kiss her neck sucking on parts of her neck leaving marks if they weren't already there. Y/N felt her core getting wet as she raked her hands through his hair when someone walked into the room, "Yo Jimin help us. Jungkook has gotten into some shit." Namjoon said nonchalantly nodding at Y/N to at least acknowledge her. Groaning Jimin got up from his comfortable position and got dressed, "What he get himself into?" Following his lead, Y/N got off the bed slipping back into the tight black dress she had been wearing the night before not noticing her phone lighting up with notifications probably from Wendy or her Mother.

Making their way downstairs Y/N walked behind Jimin when he suddenly sees Jungkook being held back by Taehyung holding his hand to his jaw while glaring at one of their seniors on campus whose fists were clenched together. So angry his face had been red and his fists closed together so tight his knuckles had gone white, "You're going to fucking regret that Minho!" Jungkook said as he tried to land a punch on the older male but was viciously pulled back by the eldest of BTS, Kim Seokjin. "Look Mr. Minho...causing a scene here is not going to fix this..."

"You think I give two shits? That fucker right there touched my girl." Scoffing Jungkook glanced at the girl who was standing quietly next to Minho, "She begged me to. Not my fault you don't how to please your girl that she has to come running to a real ma—" Before Jungkook can finish Minho got into position to land another punch when Y/N decided to bud into the conversation, "Hi Mr. Minho." He paused his knuckles inches away from a flinching Jungkook as he glanced your way with furrowed eyebrows, "Hi yes. Um, I'm Choi Y/N and I think you should know that if he or anyone here is seriously injured there will be consequences. Consequences like you getting kicked out of the UNI or worse jail time. So I suggest you deal with this in a civil manner."

"Why should I listen to you?"

"Well I mean it's no big deal but I'm kind of a campus police advocate for students. I make sure nothing too serious—like maybe an act of assault, rape, abuse or something along that line— is performed by any of our enrolled students." Frozen in his place Minho clicked his tongue glancing one last time at Jungkook before he left as his girlfriend desperately followed him. "You're a police advocate?" Y/N laughed at Jimin's cluelessness, "No I just know how people see me and use that to my advantage. Like, come on a science protege how do you think people will see me." Jimin bit his lips before kissing your neck, "Definitely didn't play you as a freak in bed." Blushing Y/N smiled rolling her eyes, "Shut up."

Scoffing Jungkook ran his thumb through his lips rubbing away the blood that seeped through his injured lip. "Jungkook, maybe you should lay low. Minho has his—"

"Shut up Tae I'm fine." Y/N glanced at Jungkook, "Seriously? He's trying to help you Jungkook. You got yourself into this mess and still no thank you for anyone who tried to protect you?" Licking his lips in anger Jungkook yelled back, "Why does it matter to you so much what I do? Is it because you still love me?" Y/N bit on her lips. No denying her feelings for him were still there it just wasn't as intense as it had been before. He rejected her and as if that wasn't enough he humiliated her. She felt like he strung her out naked in front of the whole school. With the video of her confessing and being laughed at plastered on every social media platform that not one person in the university missed the video. "But that's not possible I mean you're already fucking around." He yells angrily swinging his arm towards Jimin, "What now I have no right to be with someone new? To get over you? Jungkook you played me. I gave you my heart. I took that leap of faith because I felt there was something there. Something other than me and you mindlessly fucking each other. But when I confessed you didn't just reject me you humiliated me! You laughed at me."

A silenced had enveloped the entire room as Y/N wiped the tears that had fallen from her eyes while running out of the dorm Jimin following her after giving Jungkook a look of disappointment. Jungkook had felt a sudden pain in his chest. He couldn't have but he did. He fell for her. He loved Y/N too.

Grabbing her by the wrist Jimin stopped her, "You still like him?" Y/N nodded tears still running down her cheeks as she looked down, "I-I want to get over him I agreed to sleep with you hoping that you can help me ou—" Before Y/N can finish her sentence Jimin used his finger to lift her chin up before placing a gentle kiss on her lips, "I'll help you. I want you to just look at me. No one else Y/N. From today on you're mine." He stated before pulling her in for a deep kiss. "I want you." He whispered with a smile. Letting out a chuckle Y/N placed her hand into his dragging him to her apartment.

The minute they had arrived Jimin pulled Y/N into a heated kiss. Dropping her keys at the foot of the door as Jimin lifted her as she hooked her legs around his waist. Letting out a groan as he broke the kiss Jimin carried Y/N to her bedroom. Gently tossing her on her bed as he took off his t-shirt. Y/N bit her lip at the sight of Jimin's toned body running her hands through his abs before going down to unbuckle his belt freeing his member that twitched in anticipation. Jimin looked down at Y/N as he watched her put his hardened member in her hand as she pumped his cock. He let out a mewl shuddering in the pleasure her hands were giving him. "Fuck. Suck me off baby girl." Licking the tip of his cock Y/N looked up teasingly. "Should I?" Groaning in frustration Jimin grabbed a fistful of Y/N's hair, "Why don't you be a good girl and listen to Daddy?" Y/N bit her lip as her heated core started to pool from Jimin's sudden dominance and roughness. So different from his well known gentle self. Smiling Y/N licked the tip of his cock down to the shaft before taking him in her mouth deep. Jimin let out a growl as he watched Y/N plump lips take in his cock.Letting out a moan as she hallowed her cheeks sucking harder each time she got to the tip.

"Fuck." Jimin pulled Y/N's mouth off his cock as he laid down on the bed, "Strip for me baby girl." Y/N's core tingled as she heard his pet name for her. Jimin calling her baby girl had a different effect than when Jungkook said it that's for sure. It was better. Slowly Y/N took off her dress once again. Teasingly stripping off her underwear waiting for Jimin's next command, "Now get on top of daddy." Doing as she was told Y/N held on to her headboard as Jimin licked the outside of her folds letting out a yelp. "Mmm you taste so good baby girl." Holding on to Y/N's thighs Jimin continued using his tongue to play with her core. Holding her in place as she squirmed as a moaning mess. "Jimin..." He stopped as he heard his name fall her lips, " That's not my name baby girl," He said with dark lust filled eyes his plump lips wet from her core. "What's my name?"

"D-Daddy." Burying his face back into her as he played with her little nub, "Thats right baby girl. Who does this pussy belong to?" Moaning at the vibrating sensations from him speaking so close to her core Y/N buckled her hips, "It's all yours daddy." Satisfied with her answer Jimin smirks before sucking onto the nub above her folds hearing mew waves of moans coming from his lover. "Fuck, Jimin please go inside me and fuck me hard."

With a swift move, Jimin was now on top Y/N with his cock kissing at the entrance of Y/N's core. Buckling his hips roughly as Y/N let out a satisfied moan. Taken aback by how wet and tight Y/N was Jimin let out another animalistic growl before setting a fast pace the creaking of the bed sounding more and more prominent. "Fuck. Fuck." He cursed repeated before his once fast precise thrusts soon became sloppy as he came close to his release. Ignoring his urge to cum Jimin places his thumb over her nub massaging it as Y/N clenched around him as she yelped coming on his still hard cock. Satisfied with her release Jimin pulls out of her pumping his cock chasing his sought-after high but to his surprise Y/N sucks on the tip skillfully, "Ba-Babe I'm going to cum." He managed to make out. But with a teasing smirk, Y/N opens her mouth, "Cum in my mouth daddy." Jimin groaned driven crazy by how dirty she was he continued to pump his cock as she sucked on the tip eagerly milking him. And with a loud groan that the two were sure can be heard by neighbors he came inside her mouth.

"Mmm." Y/N says as she swallows his cum using her fingers to clean off the ones that got on her face locking them seductively as she looked up at Jimin. "You taste so good." With a smile, Jimin collapses next to Y/N. "You're literally the greatest thing ever." With a smile, Y/N got up holding onto the headboard as she lost some feeling on her legs, "Sorry too rough?" Jimin asked as she shook her head, "Too good." They both laughed as he pulled her back into bed straight into his arms. "Let's clean up later okay?"

"Okay. Daddy." Y/N mocked, "Don't kink-shame me." Laughing lazily the couple fell asleep holding onto each other.

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cassiopeiassky · 7 years ago

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I Don’t Want the World to See Me (Cause I Don’t Think that They’d Understand) #13

Finally! Sorry about the wait, this got a little out of hand. Also, one of my professors this semester is cruel and clueless. Anyhoo. This installment gets Bucky’s POV mostly caught up to WEMtbB, so the next update will be there. Which will be a while, thanks to the 25 page paper due in 2 weeks.

This is a companion piece for When Everything’s Made to be Broken (I Just Want You to Know Who I Am) from Bucky’s POV - if you haven’t yet read WEMtbB, this won’t make much sense.

#13 takes place during part 43 & 44

***If this is your first time reading through, and you HAVEN’T yet read through part 45 of WEMtbB, this will contain major spoilers***

Word count: 5824 (yeah I know, what the hell Cass, this was supposed to be a series of drabbles)

Warnings:

For the entire work: Language (I have a potty mouth), violence, and angst. This will probably get pretty dark later on, and there will be smut. If that’s not your thing, you may want to avoid this story.

Additional warnings specific to this part: Character death (nothing new, but from Bucky’s POV), physical assault, injury, violence, threats/mentions of death, panic, anxiety, Bucky’s really pissed. If I need to add anything else, PLEASE LET ME KNOW. If you don’t want me to publish the ask, I won’t, or you can feel free to do it as a Nonnie. I will not take offense to any trigger warning requests. Your well-being is important to me and I do NOT want to trigger anyone.

He had a bad feeling when he woke up this morning. Well, worse than usual.

Bucky stands in the dining room, listening to Grigory try to persuade Nicolai and Anatoliy that the Soldier was responsible for the murders of their men. He watches them carefully, and is able to read them clearly enough to know that they do not believe Grigory. And yet…

They send Mikhail to fetch her.

Nicolai strides up to Bucky, and backhands him across the face. “You are loyal to me, are you not, Soldat?”

The Soldier shows no reaction other than turning his head back to face Nicolai. “You are my Komandir.” The wooden voice of the Soldier is clearly understood, and Nicolai smirks.

“Yes.” He trades a look with Anatoliy, and Bucky’s soul seizes.

They’re bored.

They don’t really give a damn about the lost men, other than the inconvenience. They’re in want of entertainment, so they’re going to humor Grigory. They’re going to hurt her. Because they’re fucking bored.

Fuck.

He stands by, motionless. What else can he do? Any option he has will end up in their deaths. It…it may still come to that…

She arrives, and she looks so brave and so scared; Bucky’s pride in her merges with his sorrow.

“Grigory must be right, there’s –“ Anatoliy makes a good show of it, but Bucky can clearly see the lie.

Nicolai cuts off his brother with a dismissive wave. “All evidence points to the Asset remaining fully triggered; he cannot help but be compliant to our orders. Besides, brother, the video feed offers nothing to support this ridiculous idea.”

“Nicolai, he is an accomplished and seasoned assassin! Some of those kills could have been completed by none other than him. I cannot explain the lack of video proof, but it had to have been the Asset – who else could it have been? Our closest living enemies are at least 500 kilometers away, and they have no reason to retaliate for the families that were executed.” Anatoliy plays along convincingly.

“That is why we must test it; to be sure it is still under the control of the trigger words.” As Metzger speaks, Bucky realizes that the wormy little creep isn’t in on the farce – he thinks it’s real, and they’re stringing him along as part of their game.

It’s escalating quickly, and it’s pissing Bucky off.

Bucky has no idea how the hell he manages to stay so outwardly calm with the inferno raging within him.

He hears Anatoliy, he fuckin’ hears that sick sack of shit talk to Mikhail – the bastard brought up Mikhail’s sister.

And now…oh God, they’re going to give her to Grigory? Here? Now? Fuck. Bucky can’t allow this, he won’t, but how the hell is he –

“No!! Stop! It was not the Soldier!” Mikhail’s voice cuts through his stream of thought.

Oh shit.

Immediately understanding Mikhail’s motives, horror and relief, denial and guilt, adrenaline and failure simultaneously race through Bucky’s body.

“No, Mikhail, don’t!” Her stricken voice cuts through the dining room, but Bucky doubts anyone but him listens.

“There is no need to harm her! It will not serve your purpose, as the Soldier did not kill your men. And if he is still triggered, hurting her will not make him comply any more than he already does.” Mikhail stares defiantly as Nicolai stalks toward him.

Goddamn it, Mikhail! Shut your fuckin’ mouth! Don’t do this to her, don’t make me give her that fuckin’ letter…

Bucky remains still as he watches the situation unfold – there’s nothing he can do right now that won’t get them all killed, but he still weighs his options.

“Mikhail, SHUT UP!” She moves, but Grigory pulls her back. “I know what you’re trying to do, Mikhail, but it’s not worth it!” The desperation in her voice cuts jaggedly through Bucky’s heart – she knows. Oh fuck, she knows what Mikhail’s about to do, and now that the possibility is turning into inevitability and Bucky is faced with the anguish on her face, he regrets the promise he made to Mikhail.

That goddamn motherfucking promise that Bucky hadn’t wanted to make, because he’s not one to let his comrades fall on a grenade.

A promise not to intervene. Not to interfere.

“If there comes down to it, it is my life lost before hers. If it happens too early, before your plan is fully executable, you will not be able to save us both. Save her. Yes, I know your heart would always choose her if you were forced to choose, but I have known men like you. Your honor will demand that you try to save me as well. Do not. She may ask you to save me. Do not.”

A promise to Mikhail, to honor his choice.

Bucky watches the nightmare come to life – he refuses to look away. This is his punishment for failing Mikhail and for failing her. His team should have figured something out by now, they should have found a way.

But they hadn’t.

And as if she hasn’t already paid too high a price for his team’s previous mistakes, these men are demanding even more. Just like they’ve done with Mikhail.

Mikhail, who is now bloodied and on his knees, whispering to her through a busted mouth. “This is my choice, solnishko. They will be too distracted now to focus on hurting you. Survive, solnishko. For me. For your Bucky. For your little ones. For Izolda. Survive.”

It’s coming down to the last moment to act, to do something – but he doesn’t. Bucky made a promise. It doesn’t matter that he regrets it, it matters only that he made it. And he will honor it – he can do no less for someone so brave.

Bucky can audibly hear her heart break as the events play out; he’s pretty sure his is breaking, too.

Then the act is done; Nicolai has beheaded Mikhail and there’s no undoing his sacrifice.

She’s completely broken, but so unexpectedly still. It’s almost as if she quit breathing; Bucky keeps his focus on her even as he keeps his eyes on the bastards responsible for devastating his girl. He’s pretty sure she’s going into shock, but there isn’t anything he can do about it at the moment. Bucky makes a good show of listening attentively to Nicolai’s instructions as his mind races.

Yeah, I get it, you want Stevie’s head. Because of course you would. For fuck’s sake, shut the hell up already.

It’s all he can do to hold in his huff of annoyance as Nicolai finally takes his leave. Bucky glances around the room, noting that everyone is involved in planning and no one is paying him any heed. He takes a step closer to her.

“Oh God.” Her small whimper breaks whatever is left of his heart.

“You should go back to your room.” He doesn’t know what else to do. Bucky wants to just pick her up and carry her out of this hellhole, but he can’t. This will have to do. Except…she isn’t responding. “You should go back to your room,” he says it a bit louder this time, but still nothing.

She doesn’t move, she simply remains kneeling on the cold floor, supported by her arms in front of her. Her eyes, once so bright and full of love, are closed, so he takes another step forward. He knows he has to be careful, but he also knows that he has a reputation now for protecting the little bit that’s his. As long as he doesn’t call too much attention to her, he should be able to get away with this. Bucky reaches forward and lightly takes hold of her upper arm. “You should go back to your room.”

Her eyes finally open and she acknowledges his statement, but she doesn’t rise.

This is not good.

Bucky looks around to make sure no one is watching before he kneels in front of her. “Look at me.” She finally does, thank God she finally does, but there’s no recognition in her eyes. Shit. This is so bad. He hates that he can’t comfort her, that he has to remain so distant, but it’s what he has to do. “You can’t stay here. You’re in shock – you need to go back to your room.”

C’mon, Sweetheart, stay with me. Please, please stay with me…

The only response he receives is another nod. Bucky stares a moment before he lifts her to her feet. Fuck, she’s in such bad shape.

Please, I know you’re still in there, Sweetheart, come back to me…please…

“I’m going to take you back to your room now.”

Again, no response. Bucky licks his lips, nervous as the blood pounds in his ears. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so terrified in his life as he is right now. She’s right in front of him, and he’s still losing her.

He shakes her just a bit, trying to gain her attention.

“Srry, waa?” Fuck, she’s not speaking clearly. She blinks at him, clearly trying to make sense of their stunted conversation.

“You’re slurring your words – we need to get you back to your room, where it’ll be safer.”

She mumbles something, but Bucky can’t understand any of it.

“Goddammit.” Bucky looks around – the room has cleared a bit, and none of the men left are watching them. “Hey,” he takes her chin between his fingers, grasping her gently but forcing her to look at him. “I know this is a lot to handle. I know this is hard, but you need to cooperate with me. I have an important mission to complete – if I fail they’ll take you away from me – but I can’t leave until I get you somewhere safe. I can’t pick you up and carry you, because it might attract attention and right now that’s the last thing you need, so you have to walk with me.”

Please, Sweetheart…

A tiny smile crosses her otherwise blank features, and it sends a chill up his spine. There’s no other response.

“Hey,” he speaks just a bit louder as he shakes her just a bit more. “Can you do that for me?”

Please…

She mutters something incoherent, but it sounds like a confirmation so he begins to pull her forward. She follows almost blindly, but at least he gets her back to the relative safety of her room.

“Stay here,” he orders, putting all the authority he can muster at the moment into the command. She nods, but it still takes him a minute before he can make himself leave.

With every step Bucky takes away from her, his rage grows.

Moments later, in the kitchen, Bucky slams a box of protein bars onto the counter. No. This can’t stand. Bucky won’t allow it.

“I can feel it in my bones that you’re about to go rouge, so I’m tweaking the camera feed for your location.” Stark knows him better than he’d like to admit.

He nods almost imperceptibly as he abruptly turns. “Kill the cameras to the dining room.” Bucky whispers the command under his breath seconds before he strides into the bloody, empty room. Fuckers didn’t even have the courtesy to cover Mikhail’s body.

“Barnes, I know –“

“Fuck what you know, Stark. I’m not leavin’ him like this. Mikhail made the ultimate sacrifice, he deserves some fuckin’ respect.” Bucky kneels and gently lifts Mikhail’s head before bringing it back to the rest of his body. The dull glint of Mikhail’s collar catches his eye; time to make good on the next part of his promise.

Bucky carefully removes the collar and places it in one of the pockets of his black cargo pants. He looks around, and upon finding a credenza against the wall, he stalks over to it before flinging open its doors. When he finally finds a couple of pristine white tablecloths, he goes back to Mikhail.

He spreads the soft white material over his comrade’s body, covering and protecting him from the prying eyes of the world, if only for a little while.

“I wish I wouldn’t have made that promise. But I think you were right. There’s only one other way this could’ve ended and then all three of us would be dead. So thank you, Mikhail. I’m not gonna waste your sacrifice. I’m gonna get her out of here.”

Bucky kneels next to the broken body, doing his best to remember the exact words. It’s been a long, long time since he’s had to this – another lifetime, in fact – God willing it’ll be the last. He takes a deep breath, and tries to keep his voice steady. “May God bless and keep you, may God’s face shine on you. May God be kind to you and give you peace.”

It’s seems like so little – it is so little – but a soldier’s battlefield sendoff is all Bucky has to give.

“Um, how are you planning to explain that to the resident sword-wielding murderer?” Stark’s reverent tone doesn’t match the words, but Bucky knows that he means no disrespect; humor, albeit sometime bad humor, is one of Stark’s signature coping methods.

“These assholes probably won’t give Mikhail a second thought. If they do, let them think a ghost did it.”

“Well…alright Barnes. Alright.” Stark is quiet for a moment before adding, “Actually, I think I’m gonna tweak their video feed just a smidge…they’re gonna see a ghost do it. Anyone want to run bets as to how many men shit their pants when they do a re-watch? Any takers? No? Fine. Barnes, I’ll make the images go live after you’re back in the kitchen.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he returns to the kitchen area, confident that Stark is covering his tracks as he moves. He does not want her to have to leave her room to find something to eat or drink, so he again starts picking through shelf stable foods as he tries to guess how long he’ll be gone. A day? A week? He hates the idea that she’ll be living on chalky protein bars and trail mix, but it’s better than nothing. Fuck. How the fuck are they going to pull this off? Steve’s head? What the everloving fuck. He really should have expected something like this from these monsters, but yet here he is, horrified and mildly surprised.

Bucky takes a deep breath and reminds himself to trust his team. They’ll figure something out – they’ll have to. Besides, they have a collar now, and Stark was confident that he could come up with a fix in short order. Bucky has a feeling he was being optimistic when he said he’d have it figured out in a day, but at least progress can be made. Right?

***

Not that Bucky’d had much of a choice in the matter, but leaving her there alone in that god-forsaken building was slowly suffocating him. It’s been 24 hours since he walked out her door. It’s been 24 hours since she begged him not to kill Steve. It’s been 24 hours since he had to lie to her to save her life. It’s been 5 minutes since he last saw her, since he’s got Stark’s video feed running constantly on the tablet sitting on the floor next to him. It’s 5 minutes too many, so he glances at the screen again. She’s…she’s practically catatonic. Not for the first time, Bucky wonders if they’ve managed to destroy her. The human soul can only take so much – did the Krakkens finally give her more than she can handle? Or is this his own fault for letting her in?

Is this his punishment for allowing himself to love?

Did he even have a choice with her?

Or is this his punishment for allowing himself to be loved?

Was he really such a terrible monster that it’s not enough to punish him, but that she has to be punished, too?

She doesn’t deserve this, and he doesn’t deserve her.

A tear rolls down his cheek. He never should have let it come to this. He promised her – he fuckin’ promised her – that she wouldn’t get hurt on his watch. She’d be better off without him.

He should have walked away when he had the chance. When Stark left that first night, he should have left, too. He should have sent a message to the team to send someone else to protect her, and he should have left.

“Helllooooooo??? Earth to Barnes??”

Bucky blinks as Stark’s voice interrupts his self-loathing.

“Hey Barnes!” Stark flicks a wad of paper at him, and Bucky narrowly dodges.

“What?” He doesn’t mean it to come out as a growl, not really.

“Knock it off.”

Bucky stares at Stark for a moment, but Stark keeps his focus on the collar that he’s been fiddling with nonstop since it went into his hands. “Knock what off?”

Stark leans forward ever so slightly and adjusts his work light before grabbing what looks to be a small circular saw. Without turning to Bucky, he begins speaking, “This isn’t your fault, you know. Despite what you think, Barnes, this isn’t your fault.”

Bucky wants to protest, but Stark doesn’t give him a chance.

“I can practically smell the money I’ve spent on your therapists going up into a cloud of smoke,” Stark sighs as he leans back in his chair. “Scratch that, it’s the money I’ve spent on both our therapists.” He finally turns to face Bucky. “Look, if you want to play the blame game, that’s fine. I certainly can’t stop you. But if it’s anyone’s fault, it belongs squarely with the Krakkens.” Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but Stark keeps talking, “Look, I made the mistakes that got her involved and I take full ownership of those, but let’s be real here, shall we? We wouldn’t have been in that building in the first place if it wasn’t for the damn Krakkens. Got that? This isn’t some sort of sick celestial retaliation for anything you’ve done, or for anything I’ve done. If anything, this is the price we pay for being the good guys.” Stark pauses as he leans forward to rest his elbow on the table and rub his tired eyes, “It’s not fair, and it sucks, but we both know we would never have NOT gone into that building to try to stop them. Right?”

Bucky stares at Stark, knowing damn well what his answer is but unable to voice it.

“The consequences of the Krakkens taking over the US government city by city outweigh our own pain. You know that, I know that. And if we had ignored the threat, where would she be then? Do you really think anyone would be better off living under their rule, potentially on the brink of another world war? Especially considering their distant yet still existing ties to HYDRA? It might have been slower, and it might have taken different forms, but everyone would have been affected at some point if we didn’t do something to stop them. You’ve been there, you’ve seen how they live and what they believe. How would she and Artie and Jimmy fare in a country controlled by them? Would what she’s going through now really be worse for her than watching her boys starve to death? Because you and I both know she’d willingly choose this a thousand times over to keep those boys safe. Or if the takeover became violent, which really would have been just a matter of time, do you think not having her in your life would keep her safer when bullets and nukes begin flying?”

Bucky licks his lips, still unable to form a valid argument. He doesn’t want to form a valid argument. He wants Stark to be right, because then maybe that means that he isn’t really just a selfish bastard.

“Besides, despite everything you know now, would you really give her up? Would you really choose to cut her out of your life, especially not fully knowing the alternatives? Because you’re a liar if you say she’d be better off without you. You can’t know that. And everyone knows damn well that you were better with her. She made you better and you’re a goddamn liar if you try to tell me or even yourself that you’d willingly choose to not have her in your life. Even knowing what you know now, you wouldn’t. And I think you know, somewhere deep down inside, that she wouldn’t choose that, either.”

“He’s right, Buck.” Steve makes his presence known but doesn’t move from the doorway. Bucky glances to him but then looks at the floor as Steve continues to speak, “You know, I went down a trail like this after you fell from the train. Pegs found me in a bombed-out bar, trying to get drunk to drown out the guilt. She told me that I needed to respect your choice. That you must have thought I was worth it.”

Bucky swallows hard as he fiddles with a boot lace.

“She’s still alive, Buck. Maybe not in the greatest shape, but she’s alive. When this is all said and done, and she’s free and safe, don’t you dare make the choice for her and let your guilt convince you to walk away. Allow her the dignity of her choice, and when she chooses you, because she will, accept that it’s because she thinks you’re worth it.”

“But what if I’m not?” Bucky whispers, “She’s in so much pain right now, and I just fuckin’ left her there.”

“Hey,” Stark interjects firmly, “We knew this was a tough plan when we started. We knew this would likely be a series of worst case scenarios. We also knew we had no other choice. I know this is hard on you, Barnes, and seeing how hard it is on you while watching you still carry it out makes me respect you more than I ever thought I could.”

Bucky and Steve both look at Stark, surprised.

“What? I’m not completely blind to your better qualities. But Barnes, you can’t collapse under the pressure. Not now. We’re too close, so you need to pull your strength from wherever cybernetically enhanced former assassin supersoldiers keep their stash, and you need to figure out how to keep going because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you give up now.”

Bucky heaves a sigh as he nods. “I’m not giving up, I’m just…”

“Having a shitty day and pickling yourself in self-loathing. I get it. Things always seem so much worse when you have nothing to do but sit and stew on it. But cheer up, okay? Your mopey face is even uglier than your murder face, and I don’t want to look at it anymore. Besides, she’s up and fighting,” Stark nods at the tablet next to Bucky. “Give her some credit, would you? She’s going to have scars, but if we can get her out of that goddamn hellhole, she’ll survive.

Bucky looks down at the screen and sees what Stark is referring to. She’s gone from motionless grief to a whirlwind of wrath, destroying everything within arm’s reach. It doesn’t last long before she’s kneeling on the floor and sobbing, but it’s enough for Bucky.

“Tony, where are you on a fix?” Steve steps over to where Stark is working.

“Well, I have to say, this technology is…unusual. The metal – haven’t yet figured out yet what kind – has been fused with some sort of material that acts both magnetic and as a bonding agent.” Stark holds up a piece of the collar that had been cut away by the circular saw – a process that had taken almost three hours to complete. “See, if I touch any part of this to anything made of the same material,” there’s a soft click as he allows it to rest on the rest of the collar, “then it bonds instantly and seamlessly. Even on a molecular level, the connecting area isn’t visible; there are no detectible weaknesses or flaws. It’s as if it was forged from the same piece at the same time, even though we know I just put it together.”

“So what does that mean?” Bucky asks impatiently.

“Well, it means this is going to be tricky. The metal isn’t indestructible, but obviously we can’t just take a saw to her collar when it’s around her neck. Now, with the design being a solid circle rather than a chain, it has to have a hinge somewhere, right? Right. That hinge is behind the stone holding the explosive goodies.” Stark pauses as Bucky and Steve get closer to better see what he’s talking about. “Now, right along here,” he points to where the hinged area opens and closes, “there’s another metal that isn’t, for lack of a better term, compatible with this other stuff – it’s how the hinge works without it bonding as well. So the good news is that we found where the weakness is. The bad news is that it’s right next to the boom maker, which makes it unexploitable.” He sighs. “That, and they’ve designed it as a choker, so we have little to no room for error.”

Steve exhales noisily. “So what’s the next step?”

“Laser power.”

“What?” Bucky all but screeches. “You know you can’t put a saw next to her neck, but you want to try a goddamn laser?”

“Hear me out, Barnes,” Stark holds up his hands defensively. “I’ve been working with lasers for years, so this is right in my wheelhouse. I just have to significantly miniaturize the technology and contain the laser. Easy peasy, but a little on the time-consuming side…I should have it done by the time our little present for the Krakkens is ready to go.”

Bucky and Steve both pull a face at Stark’s comment; the replica of Steve’s head arrived a few hours ago, and it’s fucking disgusting. Although, after seeing it, it’s impossible not to recognize how the prop designer has won awards year after year. It’s brilliant in its realism. Bucky is grateful for Stark’s foresight in asking his friend to create these…replicas…before leaving for Russia, but still. Disgusting.

“WHAT THE SHIT???” Wilson’s yell echoes through the modest cottage as Stark starts quietly laughing. “You’re one messed up dude, you know that?” Wilson points his finger at Stark as he storms into the room. “Who does that? Who puts a damn lifelike head decoy next to a man’s lunchmeat? You just don’t do that!”

“You put it in the refrigerator?” Bucky asks, unable to hide his own repulsion at the idea.

“Oh come on, what was I supposed to do? Defrost it on the counter? Everyone knows that’s not safe,” Stark’s mild tone does little to pacify his team.

“WE’RE NOT GOING TO EAT IT!” Wilson shrieks. “C’mon man, you know that thing doesn’t belong into the fridge!”

Stark sighs noisily. “Look, we have one chance to get this right. My buddy gave me very strict instructions on how to treat this thing to make it the most lifelike upon delivery. It has to thaw slowly and evenly so the outside doesn’t start to decompose before the inside does.

“But…gross, man. Just gross.” Wilson storms out, muttering something about no longer having an appetite.

“So...a miniature self-contained laser. How much time do you need?” Bucky remains still, but his heart is pounding.

“Umm, two days, three tops. I have to source a few parts. But no more than three.” Stark’s attention is already back on the collar.

“And you’re sure this is safe? I don’t like the idea of a laser anywhere near my girl’s neck.” Bucky almost sounds absentminded as he speaks while watching the tablet, but Stark knows better.

Stark sighs heavily as he puts the collar on the table. “Barnes, I know you’re worried, but you really need to trust me. I’m not going to do anything to intentionally hurt her. I think you know that. Now that I have a collar to work with, I can design something to work for this exact measurement and this exact material. Even if I don’t entirely know what this stuff is, I can test as I go and adjust accordingly.”

“He can do this, Buck.” Steve and his never-ending confidence in people.

“Okay.” Bucky murmurs, his mind already working on a plan.

“Okay.” Stark nods and gets back to work.

***

While he would never say that it’s good to be back, he feels better about being under the same roof as her. The days that had passed had been too long, but they had to wait for Stark to finish his technology and for the head to thaw completely.

God that was fucking gross, but the waiting paid off. It looked perfectly real; Bucky’s seen enough dead bodies to know.

“Well done, Soldat, well done,” murmured Nicolai as he gazed almost lovingly at the fake head. “You have far exceeded my expectations; I had mobilized almost all of my men to find those American bastards, and they all came back empty handed.” He suddenly looks up sharply. “What of the rest of the team?”

“They dispersed after their Captain was executed.” The Soldier almost sounds bored.

“Did you find where they were hiding?” Anatoliy admires the bloody fingerprints on the shield as he speaks.

“Yes, Kapitan, I have already given Grigory the location.”

“Well done, Soldat. Well done.”

Well done indeed. Nicolai and Anatoliy are thrilled with the head and shield, completely none the wiser that only one of the two is real. They also don’t know that the location Bucky gave them is an abandoned summer home thirty miles to the northeast, and that it’s rigged with explosives for when Krakken’s men arrive.

“Soldat, I would like for you to clean the blood off the shield. It will make for a good memory later.” Nicolai begins whistling to himself as he turns and leaves.

Anatoliy smirks again. “Make sure it is clean – I want to see my face in it when you are finished. Report to us when you are finished.”

“Yes, Kapitan.”

How the hell does someone end up like this? Bucky shakes his head ever so slightly at their cheerful brand of evil. He’ll never understand such cruelty, but then, he supposes he doesn’t have to. It’s just his job to end it.

Which he’ll do with a fucking smile on his face after he gets her out of this shit pile.

***

He hears her screams from his place polishing the shield.

“Don’t move, Barnes.” Stark’s now seemingly ever-present voice in his ear is barely heard over the sound of Bucky’s rushing pulse.

“I can’t do this. I can’t.” He stands, intent on going to her although he has no idea what he’ll do when he gets there.

“Don’t you fucking move, Barnes! They aren’t hurting her, they’re just…fuck, those assholes…they served her that goddamn prop on a fucking silver platter. They’re not physically hurting her, though. Stay where you are.”

“Because that’s somehow better? I can’t fucking do this, Stark! I can’t fucking sit here and listen to her scream and just leave her in there!” Every instinct is telling him to move, even though his head knows that Stark is right.

“Yes, you can, Barnes! You can because you have to! Suck it up and deal with it, goddamn it! She’s still got the collar on, you’ll kill her if you move now!”

Bucky swallows his roar of rage as his entire body shakes. He paces, but there isn’t much space – it’s a small room, filled with various cleaning supplies and a table. This is most likely where the silver is polished. And that goddamn shashka.

“You’re getting her out tonight, do you hear me? Tonight! It’s a few more hours and she’ll be free. Don’t blow it now!”

Another scream pierces his heart. Bucky cries her name as he falls to his knees, grabbing fistfuls of his hair to keep his hands from punching his way through the door. He thought that what he’d had to do before was bad, but this was worse. So much worse. It sounds like her soul is dying, and he wonders if maybe she is.

“Breathe, Barnes! They’re sedating her now. Those fucking bastards, I’m gonna…those fucking bastards…Okay Barnes, she’s sedated.”

Bucky just nods from his place on the floor. She may be silent now, but those screams will be burned into his memory forever.

So will the shame of not going to her when she needed him most.

“Barnes, there’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent that. Nothing you could’ve done to save her from that – at least, nothing that wouldn’t have gotten you both killed.” Stark’s voice is shaky – Bucky distantly wonders if he feels the same guilt and shame.

“What –“ Bucky tries to speak, but his voice cracks and he has to start over. “What’s happening now?”

“She’s lying on the floor – I can see that she’s breathing. They’re….they’re eating dinner.”

Of course they are.

It takes roughly twenty minutes to regain his composure. Stark keeps talking to him, and Bucky is grateful for the distraction even if it doesn’t really work. When he finally stands, the room spins for a moment. He blinks it back and grabs the shield before making his way into the dining room.

“I’ve cleaned and polished the shield as you asked, Komandir. Where would you like it?” It’s almost impossible to continue the charade – but Stark’s right.

A few more hours and she’ll be free.

“Just set it down for now, Soldat. I’m afraid you have missed the entertainment; milaya moya reacted stronger than expected to her gift, and needed sedation. Get her out of here and report back to me. Then you may eat.” Nicolai returns to his dessert, completely unaffected by the woman lying on the ground less than 20 feet away from him.

“Yes, Komandir.” Bucky almost heaves a sigh of relief at the command – this he can do. He kneels before gently gathering her into his arms. Her eyes are closed, but there are tears running down her cheeks. If it’s possible, his heart breaks even more. Or maybe it just ceases to exist; he certainly can’t feel it anymore.

Bucky brings her back to her room, and despite the circumstances he can’t help but be impressed at the amount of damage she caused; she actually put a spiderweb crack in the bulletproof window.

Good girl – you’re such a fighter. Please, Sweetheart, please keep fighting…

He reluctantly sets her down before covering her with a blanket.

A few more hours. Just a few more hours.

It’s hard to leave her, again, but if all goes to plan, it’s the last time she’ll be alone in this fucking room.

Just a few more hours.

He’s gonna get his girl back.

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky imagine #i don't want the world to see me (cause i don't think that they'd understand)#13 #my work #IDWtWtSM

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meeedeee · 8 years ago

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Westworld: (De)Humanising the Other RSS FEED OF POST WRITTEN BY FOZMEADOWS

Warning: total spoilers for S1 of Westworld.

Trigger warning: talk of rape, sexual assault and queer death.

Note: Throughout this review, it will be necessary to distinguish between the writers of Westworld the TV show, and the writers employed in the narrative by the titular Westworld theme park. To avoid confusing the two, when I’m referring to the show, Westworld will be italicised; when referring to the park, I’ll use plain text.

This will be a somewhat bifurcated review of Westworld – which is, I feel, thematically appropriate, as Westworld itself is something of a bifurcated show. Like so much produced by HBO, it boasts incredible acting, breathtaking production values, intelligent dialogue, great music and an impeccably tight, well-orchestrated series of narrative reveals. Also like much produced by HBO, it takes a liberal, one might even say cartoonishly gratuitous approach to nudity, is saturated with violence in general and violence against women in particular, and has a consistent problem with stereotyping despite its diverse casting. In Westworld’s case, this latter issue is compounded as an offence by its status as a meta-narrative: a story which actively discusses the purpose and structure of stories, but which has seemingly failed to apply those same critiques to key aspects of its own construction.

The practical upshot is that it’s both frustratingly watchable and visibly frustrating. Even when the story pissed me off, I was always compelled to keep going, but I was never quite able to stop criticising it, either. It’s a thematically meaty show, packed with the kind of twists that will, by and large, enhance viewer enjoyment on repeat viewings rather than diminish the appeal. Though there are a few Fridge Logic moments, the whole thing hangs together quite elegantly – no mean feat, given the complexity of the plotting. And yet its virtues have the paradoxical effect of making me angrier about its vices, in much the same way that I’d be more upset about red wine spilled on an expensive party dress than on my favourite t-shirt. Yes, the shirt means more to me despite being cheaper, but a stain won’t stop me from wearing it at home, and even if it did, the item itself is easily replaced. But staining something precious and expensive is frustrating: I’ve invested enough in the cost of the item that I don’t want to toss it away, but staining makes it unsuitable as a showcase piece, which means I can’t love it as much as I want to, either.

You get where I’m going with this.

Right from the outset, Westworld switches between two interconnected narratives: the behind-the-scenes power struggles of the people who run the titular themepark, and the goings-on in the park itself as experienced by both customers and ‘hosts’, the humanoid robot-AIs who act as literal NPCs in pre-structured, pay-to-participate narratives. To the customers, Westworld functions as an immersive holiday-roleplay experience: though visually indistinguishable from real humans, the hosts are considered unreal, and are therefore fair game to any sort of violence, dismissal or sexual fantasy the customers can dream up. (This despite – or at times, because of – the fact that their stated ability to pass the Turing test means their reactions to said violations are viscerally animate.) To the programmers, managers, storytellers, engineers, butchers and behaviourists who run it, Westworld is, variously, a job, an experiment, a financial gamble, a risk, a sandpit and a microcosm of human nature: the hosts might look human, but however unsettling their appearance or behaviour at times, no one is ever allowed to forget what they are.

But to the hosts themselves, Westworld is entirely real, as are their pre-programmed identities. While their existence is ostensibly circumscribed by adherence to preordained narrative ‘loops’, the repetition of their every conversation, death and bodily reconstruction wiped from their memories by the park engineers, certain hosts – notably Dolores, the rancher’s daughter, and Maeve, the bordello madame – are starting to remember their histories. Struggling to understand their occasional eerie interviews with their puppeteering masters – explained away as dreams, on the rare occasion where such explanation is warranted – they fight to break free of their intended loops, with startling consequences.But there is also a hidden layer to Westworld: a maze sought by a mysterious Man in Black and to which the various hosts and their narratives are somehow key. With the hosts exhibiting abnormal behaviour, retaining memories of their former ‘lives’ in a violent, fragmented struggle towards true autonomy, freedom and sentience, Westworld poses a single, sharp question: what does it mean to be human?

Or rather, it’s clearly trying to pose this question; and to be fair, it very nearly succeeds. But for a series so overtly concerned with its own meta – it is, after all, a story about the construction, reception and impact of stories on those who consume and construct them – it has a damnable lack of insight into the particulars of its assumed audiences, both internal and external, and to the ways this hinders the proclaimed universality of its conclusions. Specifically: Westworld is a story in which all the internal storytellers are straight white men endowed with the traditional bigotries of racism, sexism and heteronormativity, but in a context where none of those biases are overtly addressed at any narrative level.

From the outset, it’s clear that Westworld is intended as a no-holds-barred fantasy in the literal sense: a place where the rich and privileged can pay through the nose to fuck, fight and fraternise in a facsimile of the old West without putting themselves at any real physical danger. Nobody there can die: customers, unlike hosts, can’t be killed (though they do risk harm in certain contexts), but each host body and character is nonetheless resurrected, rebuilt and put back into play after they meet their end. Knowing this lends the customers a recklessness and a violence they presumably lack in the real world: hosts are shot, stabbed, raped, assaulted and abused with impunity, because their disposable inhumanity is the point of the experience. This theme is echoed in their treatment by Westworld’s human overseers, who often refer to them as ‘it’ and perform their routine examinations, interviews, repairs and updates while the hosts are naked.

At this point in time, HBO is as well-known for its obsession with full frontal, frequently orgiastic nudity as it is for its total misapprehension of the distinction between nakedness and erotica. Never before has so much skin been shown outside of literal porn with so little instinct for sensuality, sexuality or any appreciation of the human form beyond hurr durr tiddies and, ever so occasionally, hurr durr dongs, and Westworld is no exception to this. It’s like the entirety of HBO is a fourteen-year-old straight boy who’s just discovered the nascent thrill of drawing Sharpie-graffiti genitals on every available schoolyard surface and can only snigger, unrepentant and gleeful, whenever anyone asks them not to. We get it, guys – humans have tits and asses, and you’ve figured out how to show us that! Huzzah for you! Now get the fuck over your pubescent creative wankphase and please, for the love of god, figure out how to do it tastefully, or at least with some general nodding in the direction of an aesthetic other than Things I Desperately Wanted To See As A Teengaer In The Days Before Internet Porn.

That being said, I will concede that there’s an actual, meaningful reason for at least some of Westworld’s ubiquitous nudity: it’s a deliberate, visual act of dehumanisation, one intended not only to distinguish the hosts from the ‘real’ people around them, but to remind the park’s human employees that there’s no need to treat the AIs with kindness or respect. For this reason, it also lends a powerful emphasis to the moments when particular characters opt to dress or cover the hosts, thereby acknowledging their personhood, however minimally. This does not, however, excuse the sadly requisite orgy scenes, nor does it justify the frankly obscene decision to have a white female character make a leering comment about the size of a black host’s penis, and especially not when said female character has already been established as queer. (Yes, bi/pan people exist; as I have good reason to know, being one of them. But there are about nine zillion ways the writers could’ve chosen to show Elsie’s sexual appreciation for men that didn’t tap into one of the single grossest sexual tropes on the books, let alone in a context which, given the host’s blank servility and Elsie’s status as an engineer, is unpleasantly evocative of master/slave dynamics.)

And on the topic of Elsie, let’s talk about queerness in Westworld, shall we? Because let’s be real: the bar for positive queer representation on TV is so fucking low right now, it’s basically at speedbump height, and yet myriad grown-ass adults are evidently hellbent on bellyflopping onto it with all the grace and nuance of a drunk walrus. Elsie is a queer white woman whose queerness is shown to us by her decision to kiss one of the female hosts, Clementine, who’s currently deployed as a prostitute, in a context where Clementine is reduced to a literal object, stripped of all consciousness and agency. Episode 6 ends on the cliffhanger of Elsie’s probable demise, and as soon as I saw that setup, I felt as if that single, non-consensual kiss – never referenced or expanded on otherwise – had been meant as Chekov’s gaykilling gun: this woman is queer, and thus is her death predicted. (Of course she fucking dies. Of course she does. I looked it up before I watched the next episode, but I might as well have Googled whether the sun sets in the west.)

It doesn’t help that the only other queer femininity we’re shown is either pornography as wallpaper or female host prostitutes hitting on female customers; and it especially doesn’t help that, as much as HBO loves its gratuitous orgy scenes, you’ll only ever see two naked women casually getting it on in the background, never two naked men. Nor does it escape notice that the lab tech with a penchant for fucking the hosts in sleep mode is apparently a queer man, a fact which is presented as a sort of narrative reveal. The first time he’s caught in the act, we only see the host’s legs, prone and still, under his body, but later there’s a whole sequence where he takes one of the male hosts, Hector – who is, not coincidentally, a MOC, singled out for sexual misuse by at least one other character – and prepares to rape him. (It’s not actually clear in context whether the tech is planning on fucking or being fucked by Hector – not that it’s any less a violation either way, of course; I’m noting it rather because the scene itself smacks of being constructed by people without any real idea of how penetrative sex between two men works. Like, ignoring the fact that they’re in a literal glass-walled room with the tech’s eyerolling colleague right next door, Hector is sitting upright on a chair, but is also flaccid and non-responsive by virtue of being in sleep mode. So even though we get a grimly lascivious close-up of the tech squirting lube on his hand, dropping his pants and, presumably, slicking himself up, it’s not actually clear what he’s hoping to achieve prior to the merciful moment when Hector wakes up and fights him the fuck off.)

Topping off this mess is Logan, a caustic, black-hat-playing customer who, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it foursome with three host prostitutes – two female, one male – is visually implied to be queer, and who thereinafter functions, completely unnecessarily, as a depraved bisexual stereotype. And I do mean blink-and-you’ll-miss-it: I had to rewind the episode to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, but it’s definitely there, and as with Elsie kissing Clementine, it’s never referenced again. The male host is engaging only with Logan, stroking his chest as he kisses and fucks the two women; it’s about as unsexualised as sexual contact between two naked men can actually get, and yet HBO has gone to the trouble of including it, I suspect for the sole purpose of turning a bland, unoriginal character into an even grosser stereotype than he would otherwise have been while acting under the misapprehension that it would give him depth. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Logan doesn’t cease to be a cocky, punchable asshat just because you consented to put a naked white dude next to him for less time than it takes to have a really good shit; it just suggests that you, too, are a cocky, punchable asshat who should shit more in the bathroom and less on the fucking page. But I digress.

And then there’s the racism, which – and there’s no other way to put this – is presented as being an actual, intentional feature of the Westworld experience, even though it makes zero commercial sense to do this. Like. You have multiple white hosts who are programmed to make racist remarks about particular POC hosts, despite the fact that there are demonstrably POC customers paying to visit the park. You have a consistent motif of Native Americans being referred to as ‘savages’, both within Westworld-as-game and by the gamewriters themselves, with Native American mysticism being used to explain both the accidental glimpses various self-aware hosts get of the gamerunners and the in-game lore surrounding the maze. Demonstrably, the writers of Westworld are aware of this – why else is Episode 2, wherein writer character Lee Sizemore gleefully proposes a hella racist new story for the park, called ‘Chestnut’, as in old? I’ve said elsewhere that depiction is not endorsement, but it is perpetuation, and in a context where the point of Westworld as a commercial venture is demonstrably to appeal to customers of all genders, sexual orientations and races – all of whom we see in attendance – building in particular period-appropriate bigotries is utterly nonsensical.

More than this, as the openness with which the female prostitutes seduce female customers makes clear, it’s narratively inconsistent: clearly, not every bias of the era is being rigidly upheld. And yet it also makes perfect sense if you think of both Westworld and Westworld as being, predominantly, a product both created by and intended for a straight white male imagination. In text, Westworld’s stories are written by Lee and Robert, both of whom are straight white men, while Westworld itself was originally the conceit of Michael Crichton. Which isn’t to diminish the creative input of the many other people who’ve worked on the show – technically, it’s a masterclass in acting, direction, composition, music, lighting, special effects and editing, and those people deserve their props. It’s just that, in terms of narrative structure, by what I suspect is an accidental marriage of misguided purpose and unexamined habit, Westworld the series, like Westworld the park, functions primarily for a straight white male audience – and while I don’t doubt that there was some intent to critically highlight the failings of that perspective, as per the clear and very satisfying satirising of Lee Sizemore, as with Zack Snyder’s Suckerpunch and Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, the straight white male gaze is still so embedded as a lazy default that Westworld ends up amplifying its biases more often than it critiques them. (To quote something my straight white husband said while watching, “It’s my gaze, and I feel like I’m being parodied by it.”)

Though we do, as mentioned, see various women and people of colour enjoying the Westworld park, the customers who actually serve as protagonists – Logan, William and the Man in Black – are all white men. Logan is queer by virtue of a single man’s hand on his chest, but other than enforcing a pernicious stereotype about bisexual appetites and behaviours, it doesn’t do a damn thing to alter his characterisation. The end of season reveal that William is the Man in Black – that William’s scenes have all taken place thirty years in the past, shown to us now through Dolores’s memories – is a cleverly executed twist, and yet the chronicle of William’s transformation from youthful, romantic idealist to violent, sadistic predator only highlights the fundamental problem, which is that the Westworld park, despite being touted as an adventure for everyone – despite Robert using his customers as a basis for making universal judgements about human nature – is clearly a more comfortable environment for some than others. Certainly, if I was able to afford the $40,000 a day we’re told it costs to attend, I’d be disinclined to spend so much for the privilege of watching male robots, whatever their courtesy to me, routinely talk about raping women, to say nothing of being forced to witness the callousness of other customers to the various hosts.

It should be obvious that there’s no such thing as a universal fantasy, and yet much of Westworld’s psychological theorising about human nature and morality hinges on our accepting that the desire to play cowboy in a transfigured version of the old West is exactly this. That the final episode provides tantalising evidence that at least one other park with a different historical theme exists elsewhere in the complex doesn’t change the fact that S1 has sold us, via the various monologues of Logan and Lee, Robert and William and the Man in Black, the idea that Westworld specifically reveals deep truths about human nature.

Which brings us to Dolores, a female host whose primary narrative loop centres on her being a sweet, optimistic rancher’s daughter who, with every game reset, can be either raped or rescued from rape by the customers. That Dolores is our primary female character – that her narrative trajectory centres on her burgeoning sentience, her awareness of the repeat violations she’s suffered, and her refusal to remain a damsel – does not change the fact that making her thus victimised was a choice at both the internal (Westworld) and external (Westworld) levels. I say again unto HBO, I do not fucking care how edgy you think threats of sexual violence and the repeat objectification of women are: they’re not original, they’re not compelling, and in this particular instance, what you’ve actually succeeded in doing is undermining your core premise so spectacularly that I do not understand how anyone acting in good sense or conscience could let it happen.

Because in making host women like Dolores (white) and Maeve (a WOC), both of whom are repeatedly subject to sexual and physical violation, your lynchpin characters for the development of true human sentience from AIs – in making their memories of those violations the thing that spurs their development – you’re not actually asking the audience to consider what it means to be human. You’re asking them to consider the prospect that victims of rape and assault aren’t actually human in the first place, and then to think about how being repeatedly raped and assaulted might help them to gain humanity. And you’re not even being subtle about it, either, because by the end of S1, the entire Calvinistic premise is laid clear: that Robert and Arnold, the park’s founders, believed that tragedy and suffering was the cornerstone of sentience, and that the only way for hosts to surpass their programming is through misery. Which implies, by logical corollary, that Robert is doing the hosts a service by allowing others to hurt them or by hurting them himself – that they are only able to protest his mistreatment because the very fact of it gave them sentience.

Let that sink in for a moment, because it’s pretty fucking awful. The moral dilemma of Westworld, inasmuch as it exists, centres on the question of knowing culpability, and therefore asks a certain cognitive dissonance of the audience: on the one hand, the engineers and customers believe that the hosts aren’t real people, such that hurting them is no more an immoral act than playing Dark Side in a Star Wars RPG is; on the other hand, from an audience perspective, the hosts are demonstrably real people, or at the very least potential people, and we are quite reasonably distressed to see them hurt. Thus: if the humans in setting can’t reasonably be expected to know that the hosts are people, then we the audience are meant to feel conflicted about judging them for their acts of abuse and dehumanisation while still rooting for the hosts.

Ignore, for a moment, the additional grossness of the fact that both Dolores and Maeve are prompted to develop sentience, and are then subsequently guided in its emergence, by men, as though they are Eves being made from Adam’s rib. Ignore, too, the fact that it’s Dolores’s host father who, overwhelmed by the realisation of what is routinely done to his daughter, passes that fledgling sentience to Dolores, a white woman, who in turn passes it to Maeve, a woman of colour, without which those other male characters – William, Felix, Robert – would have no Galateas to their respective Pygmalions. Ignore all this, and consider the basic fucking question of personhood: of what it means to engage with AIs you know can pass a Turing test, who feel pain and bleed and die and exhibit every human symptom of pain and terror and revulsion as the need arises, who can improvise speech and memory, but who can by design give little or no consent to whatever it is you do to them. Harming such a person is not the same as engaging with a video game; we already know it’s not for any number of reasons, which means we can reasonably expect the characters in the show to know so, too. But even if you want to dispute that point – and I’m frankly not interested in engaging with someone who does – it doesn’t change the fact that Westworld is trying to invest us in a moral false equivalence.

The problem with telling stories about robots developing sentience is that both the robots and their masters are rendered at an identical, fictional distance to the (real, human) viewer. By definition, an audience doesn’t have to believe that a character is literally real in order to care about them; we simply have to accept their humanisation within the narrative. That being so, asking viewers to accept the dehumanisation of one fictional, sentient group while accepting the humanisation of another only works if you’re playing to prejudices we already have in the real world – such as racism or sexism, for instance – and as such, it’s not a coincidence that the AIs we see violated over and over are, almost exclusively, women and POC, while those protagonists who abuse them are, almost exclusively, white men. Meaning, in essence, that any initial acceptance of the abuse of hosts that we’re meant to have – or, by the same token, any initial excusing of abusers – is predicated on an existing form of bigotry: collectively, we are as used to doubting the experiences and personhood of women and POC as we are used to assuming the best about straight white men, and Westworld fully exploits that fact to tell its story.

Which, as much as it infuriates me, also leaves me with a dilemma in interpreting the show. Because as much as I dislike seeing marginalised groups exploited and harmed, I can appreciate the importance of aligning a fictional axis of oppression (being a host) with an actual axis of oppression (being female and/or a POC). Too often, SFFnal narratives try to tackle that sort of Othering without casting any actual Others, co-opting the trappings of dehumanisation to enhance our sympathy for a (mostly white, mostly straight) cast. And certainly, by the season finale, the deliberateness of this decision is made powerfully clear: joined by hosts Hector and Armistice and aided by Felix, a lab tech, Maeve makes her escape from Westworld, presenting us with the glorious image of three POC and one white woman battling their way free of oppressive control. And yet the reveal of Robert’s ultimate plans – the inference that Maeve’s rebellion wasn’t her own choice after all, but merely his programming of her; the revelation that Bernard is both a host and a recreation of Arnold, Robert’s old partner; the merging of Dolores’s arc with Wyatt’s – simultaneously serves to strip these characters of any true agency. Everything they’ve done has been at Robert’s whim; everything they’ve suffered has been because he wanted it so. As per the ubiquitous motif of the player piano, even when playing unexpected tunes, the hosts remain Robert’s instruments: even with his death, the songs they sing are his.

Westworld, then, is a study in contradictions, and yet is no contradiction at all. Though providing a stunning showcase for the acting talents of Thandie Newton, Evan Rachel Wood and Jeffrey Wright in particular, their characters are nonetheless all controlled by Anthony Hopkins’s genial-creepy Robert, and that doesn’t really change throughout the season. Though the tropes of old West narratives are plainly up for discussion, any wider discussion of stereotyping is as likely to have a lampshade hung on it as to be absent altogether, and that’s definitely a problem. Not being familiar with the Michael Crichton film and TV show, I can’t pass judgement on the extent to which this new adaptation draws from or surpasses the source material. I can, however, observe that the original film dates to the 1970s, which possibly goes some way to explaining the uncritical straight white male gazieness embedded in the premise. Even so, there’s something strikingly reminiscent of Joss Whedon to this permutation of Westworld, and I don’t mean that as a compliment. The combination of a technologically updated old West, intended to stand as both a literal and metaphoric frontier, the genre-aware meta-narrative that nonetheless perpetuates more stereotypes than it subverts, and the supposed moral dilemma of abusing those who can’t consent feels at times like a mashup of Firefly, Cabin in the Woods and Dollhouse that has staunchly failed to improve on Whedon’s many intersectional failings.

And yet, I suspect, I’ll still be poking my nose into Season 2, if only to see how Thandie Newton is doing. It feels like an absurdly low bar to say that, compared to most of HBO’s popular content, Westworld is more tell than show in portraying sexual violence, preferring to focus on the emotional lead-in and aftermath rather than the act itself, and yet that small consideration does ratchet the proverbial dial down a smidge when watching it – enough so that I’m prepared to say it’s vastly less offensive in that respect than, say, Game of Thrones. But it’s still there, still a fundamental part of the plot, and that’s going to be a not unreasonable dealbreaker for a lot of people; as is the fact that the only queer female character dies. Westworld certainly makes compelling television, but unlike the human protagonists, I wouldn’t want to live there.

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honorthymunn · 8 years ago

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Enough is Enough...when I have no sensitivity and rarely around me...

Enough is fucking enough when I have to try to remove my own sutures, when I have to stop and breathe almost passing out just to get up the hill to the hospital which has no bus route.

When Doctors upon Doctors need an emergency contact and a support person and I just leave it blank...looking down as I whisper there is no one.

When I cannot even know the littlest yet to me most precious bits and pieces of Chloe as my oldest always states “Not Right Now Mom”...the right now never comes & my soul survives for the thought of her.

Elle, I am at her mercy for she has the info that could save me...My No Matter What promise to Chloe has loosened that noose on the tree when even hanging failed me.

I feel forsaken expected to laugh through the losses, walk hills faster with cancer, not worry, be scared, complain, reach out...anything cuz it interrupts her happiness.

So as Ive mastered suffocating in silence, in there again...at the mercy of the key-holder to what little left can ease the lack of breath shall it be a time she uses that key when nothing is going on in life if she has a minute.

The silent rage, sufferings, sacrifices and even simple needs will be here suffocating within me as a slowly fade.

My mother tortured me for almost a lifetime and still I honored her. My name was on her doctors list, I made time for her appointments, took care of her, bathing her, even the sacred act of tending her feet.

Although broken...her fears were eased as I digested her regrets and anger with little acknowledge until days before the end.Then I rendered my greatest gift ensuring she was not to die alone.

I took my own soul breathing it into her for what seemed like hours. Not even a thought crossed me as i am on ground zero with EMT courageous n selflessly giving her all the beautiful heartfelt words of worthiness so she got to feel that love, that honor...instilling her worth.

I divinely carried her soul through the realms of her passing. All this...to give her everything she refused me...her soul set a free.

Me accepting silent suffocation with little to no chance of ever relief...

All the while being assaulted on a soul level by an ungrateful younger brother who’s memory obviously vacated; attacking the one soul who threw herself in front of gunfire, violence, trauma

...even putting myself between him & one of Daddy’s Druggies who was like a beast sliding a knife up my 3yr old brothers neck just glaring as if I would scare and run.

Instead I boldly came face to face with Wild Bill his knife blade set to shred my baby brother’s head as he so innocently lied asleep.

That mutherfucker said “Someone’s head is being cut off here & now...Who’s It Gonna Be?” i swear the devil leaped out of his eyes testing my honor, my will and my love for my dear brother.

Swift as a wolf I raised my head up to him as I pushed my neck up high silently declaring...Then take me. Raising his Rambo style knife to my throat I never shifted my gaze...letting that bitch know you’ll have to behead me taking my life while you look into my fearless eyes.

Suddenly as if a ghost appeared his eyes where scared and he startled pulling back that blade before he jumped out Lil Frankie’s bedroom window onto the back storage & off into the night.

Hearing my mother screaming down the stairs rocking back n forth with ambulatory aid. I confronted her in disgust stating “What are you so freaked out & scared? Mom...”He pulled a gun on me”...again her needs

... so trying to inform her; he not only put a gun to my head in the hallway that night ...he almost killed my brother Frankie yielding a knife against his throat which was about the size of his 3yr old head...was as futile as expecting her to be a mom.

Springwood would force me to be fearless, protecting my Lil brother’s sheltering their pain by always throwing myself into danger to be the shield.

My dad was always huddled in some corner all scary like with a spoon that I guess held his drugs, lighting it over a glass of water. I was so scared & frantic that by chance if I didn’t watch over my brothers. my dad’s drug uses, and missed a cup of that water it could kill one of my brothers.

Well over a year I got up at 5am going through everything rinsing out all glasses of water also hiding residue. Fearing my Lil bros, unaware of the danger could expose themselves to it or worse drink one of Dad’s drug glasses of water.

No one knew of this besides my therapist, until confronting my mom prior her passing and now...in this random therapeutic rant.

One morning i awoke just a few minutes later than usual...knowing my bros were up early too I ran down the stairs into the kitchen.

Hence my worst fear...my cute Lil bro Marvin wearing my purple polo shit, with his cute cheeks, freckles and red poofy hair...was already in the kitchen taking an almost full drink from one of dad’s cups...

I panicked and instantly reacted by slapping him in the face with my right hand so hard the blow forced the water to spurt out his mouth. I barely saved him, ashamed I didn’t get to that glass...this moment created a trauma so deep it haunts me even now.

It was Not ..doing whatever I could to care & protect my bros not caring of my expense, as I’m the big sister if I didn’t take this job on they’d be scared, unable to protect themselves from the violence and trauma I so vigilantly & desperately tried to shield them from.

It was the look on Lil Marvin’s face...in sheer shock...traumatized by his big sister...and why she slapped him so suddenly when he did nothing wrong...that look of despair left me broken silently screaming what the fuck is wrong with my parents?”

...I couldn’t explain to Marvin or Frankie why I did that, They were too young to understand plus keeping them from seeing/knowing all the bad things going on was my job.

Trauma allows little memory of my plight, never telling them I often wondered if they thought I was a bad big sister...My Mom’s death last Dec. 2016 swiftly assaults me with that answer.

My whole childhood seemed in vain; as Frank verbally shattered the few patched up pieces of my existence. Especially him, I was devoted...

my parents left my brothers with this weird couple to watch them a few hours - lack of care - me not there - lead to a huge physical trauma to my Frankie.

One full leg was shattered, his pelvis broken and the upper other leg broken as well. He was in a near full body-cast for almost a year, only 4, mom & dad couldn’t keep him safe...so big sissy was determined to keep him cared for.

We lived in the projects and since mom barely made meals and we had little food most times. I would take Lil bros over to the rec center for free lunch every day.

There was this tight left/right/then left fenced entrance...no other way could we get in. So bis Sissy proudly smiled as she patiently and strongly carried her Frankie, in full body-cast which also had a bar connecting the legs to keep the core in place

...all the way from their apartment which was very far (in kid glasses) to that rec center for his daily lunch. Sometimes they’d run out and I gave up mine so my Lil bros would feel good & strong.

Relentlessly, for months, every day 1x or more severely struggled successfully getting Lil frank through that damn gate. He’d be hot(it was summer) in that cast and frustrated so I’d tell him don't worry little brother were gonna get through this gate and every time the struggle was worth it.

The trauma not only physically stunted him as he would have to re-learn everything, yet psychologically as well...he couldn’t talk saying words trying to get his point across. Sissy put on her teacher hat and sure a shit Frankie was talking again.

I also saw him as my savior...due to many violent scary experiences all occurring at night where I put on my Momma Bear hat giving myself in hopes I could spare them of the suffering and pain.

I was terrified of darkness w/out light. Laying in my bed paralyzed, too afraid to move as I could not see my surroundings...

I would cry “Frankie...Frankie...Frankie”; and that adorable red headed stunner at 2/3/4 yrs of age...would run into my room turn on my light...so I felt safe. We would fall asleep laughing and telling stories.

I prayed every night silently making my plea to God, that if he could put any pain or struggles my Lil bros may face on me to weather. I also prayed that if I have kids please please please help me save them from ever experiencing my type of sufferings.

I, being a child naively tried to make a pact with God. I would take all this pain, all this suffering, all the severe scary abuse and be brave always in exchange for giving my Lil bros a fighting chance at life.

I insisted he gave me any experience that would scare or hurt my Lil bros, as my scars to bear. Always reminding God my future family will be everything our family was not and my kids would never be abused in ways that I did.

Thinking back my thought process could only be unconditional love & hope for my Lil bros to not see what I saw, felt what I felt, experience what I experienced as I was already damaged goods but the boys...we can save the boys...right God?

Later in life i struggled with God...as Marvin was into gangs and angry at the world...then Frankie was just used as another player in this world’s sick selfish games

...everyone & everything to this day is shadowed by Frankie’s acts, being still a child 11/12, was acting out his abuse. I didn’t blink and protected Frankie from the backlash, injustices and judgements these acts would bring.

Even risking my own children defending his honor... This was important to me as I saw things bad scary things mom n dad even with friends used to make him do.

These struggles my brothers endured in my eyes were supposed to be on my shoulders, and as Big Sissy I personally blamed myself for their sufferings...believing i failed somewhere along the line

...and God had failed on 1 of only 2 prayers I prayed for nightly since I could remember...I hated him...Crossing his name out of every spiritual book I would buy...eventually learning many paths all led me back to Him.

For years I have suffered immensely feeling my failings to take better care of him earlier in life was why...now...in my greatest tragedy...i’m nothing but a piece of trash left on some dark lonely road in Ocosta.

..My son Sage, losing everything for an imminent noble plight, my breakdown suffocating silently as no hand reached my way. I was in this alone and with every missing of the mark; Frank would judge me, looking down at me, denying such; yet he either was blind to his own behaviors or this infliction of shame upon me is intentional.

The moral to the story, better stated stories’... on most levels is still up in the air.

My mom’s death... compounded with Frank’s, almost demonic in nature, verbal and non verbal abuse is long-suffering. Perhaps the Devil has been sneaking upon him years now...

Instantaneously when mom died, so did any goodness in Frank. Possessed, creating chaos on sacred ground, refusing Moms children, grandchildren, family and friends any sort of closure...In respect for impending legal actions I won’t prevail any further details...

In a short time span; I lost my only real longtime girlfriend and coworker to a tragic death, soon after my Kelly who glitters died in her sleep...then my mom died - devastatingly so did my brother frank...

Another child taken (via brotherly love) ~ My Sissy...my heart just cries out for her daily...constantly looking, searching, praying God will at least... bring My Sissy back.

My soul decided any hope of some family besides personally was dead. My safe place gone...

I always felt content knowing that If; Life May Again Rip Me 2 Shreds...I had Momma’s Compound, with the Satanic Scary Ritual Grounds & old creepy mossy forests

In Frank’s eyes; its a garbage dump hoarders compound...and by golly...against all consciousness, Mom’s rights, her will, the beneficiaries, that property, and all her items would be pillaged, dishonored, and by legal standards; straight up fuckin irrevocably damaged

#TheraputicRant #ArtbyNishkama #Disgust #Dishonor #heartache #MyLilBroz #traumatic childhood #NeverBetraySheKnows

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