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zoruui · 3 years ago

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Word Count: 5058

Pairing: Commander Night x Reader

Summary: You hadn't planned on having a legion dropped upon your lap so soon after your knighting, and you never expected them to be the infamous 82nd of all units. With you as their newly appointed General, their leery commander is anything but pleased. You grapple with earning the respect of your men, but unbeknownst to both you and your commander, something beyond your control is beginning to fester.

Content/Tags: gender neutral jedi reader, slow burn (but like speedrun slow burn), unresolved tension, touch starved, hurt/comfort, developing friendships, enemies to friends to lovers (not exactly enemies really, night is just passive aggressive LMFAO) order 66

AO3 Link: x

CHAPTER 1-”the lion with a thorn in its paw”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

21 BBY

Your transport ship’s landing hatch extends with a hiss as it finally docks inside The Reaper.

This marks your first assignment as a fully-fledged Knight. It may not be your first time being dispatched without the company of your Master, but you can’t say you aren’t at least glad to have Rex and Cody along for the job. The mission is sending you all to a rather remote planet bordering the Mid and Outer Rim, on reports of a threat to a village with Force-sensitive younglings. It was by a stroke of luck that Cody was able to get a hold of the ever distanced 82nd Legion through a mutual contact for a joint mission. From what you’ve read off what little of their public and military records that are available to you, they don’t often work with other units, if at all.

“Keep the objective in mind, but make the most of your time with them. This is quite the rare opportunity,” your Master suggested good-naturedly before you departed her flagship. You thought it was an odd piece of advice, but you know Master Endivain wouldn't mention something without reason. You could only wonder what she meant by “make the most of your time with them” and why.

The vessel’s hangar bay is quiet, save for a few clones doing routine maintenance on their starfighters or transporting supplies. Cody and Rex follow closely beside you. You don’t consider yourself “ship-savvy” but if the outdated designs of the floor layout and equipment are anything to go by, even you could tell that this is an older model of assault starship. You rub your nose to stifle a sneeze. Perhaps the air cooling system has seen better days, as well- the cold chill that nips at your skin almost makes you wonder if you’ve somehow landed on Hoth.

“You doing alright?” Rex asks.

“Just a little chilly.” You offer a small smile and pull your heavy woolen robes closer around your shoulders. “Though I’m starting to think I should’ve worn winter gear instead.”

Cody says, “Well, if this campaign goes smoothly, you won't need to be here longer than you have to.”

“I guess we can only wait and see...” The texture of your robe is rough between your fingers. You were advised to stay behind aboard The Reaper, while Rex and Cody were to be called back to their own vessels after the briefing. They figured they’d visit if they had a little time to spare, since they hadn’t spoken with this unit’s commander in person for some time.

Rex speaks quietly, “I’ll be honest, I never thought we’d see the day where we’d have the 82nd as support.”

A rickety old mouse droid rushes past Cody’s feet and he narrowly avoids bumping into it. It beeps an apology before scurrying off. “Neither have I.” He mutters, “But these situations are their specialty and they’ve dealt with these specific creatures before. Either way, we can’t risk having a repeat of the Stalgasin hive. Not if they’re available this time.”

“Agreed." You nearly grimace at the memory. Ahsoka told you all about the incident. Some mind-controlling parasites sound like something that would be up the 82nd’s alley. You wouldn’t be surprised if it weren’t the worst they’ve had to deal with either.

It isn’t long until the three of you are approached by a trooper.

“Welcome, commanders. We’re honored to have you.” He salutes the three of you stiffly. “Sergeant Major Hull reporting.” He stands straight, his hair cropped neatly to standard regulations. A geometric tattoo creeps up from the collar of his undersuit and along his neck and jawline. The pauldron fastened over his right shoulder mirrors his rank.

You give a slight bow of the head, “Thanks for coming to greet us, sergeant.”

Hull nods, “If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the bridge.”

“Lead the way.”

He guides you down the hangar towards the south wing and your gaze wanders back to the troopers you pass. The other clones preferred to call the 82nd “gravediggers” - a term meant to be delivered with callousness and bite. They aren’t the most “popular” unit, to say the least. A few greet and salute Rex and Cody, but otherwise keep to each other. They carry themselves differently compared to the 501st, who’ve been in your company for some time now. The clones under Master Skywalker’s command were fiery and headstrong, but these troopers felt inward. Not shy or cold or particularly unwelcoming. Just different, and comfortable among themselves.

Speaking of different, you can’t quite tell why but even their ship feels a bit strange. You noticed the moment you docked. You peer up at the towering ceilings and trace the slithering network of pipes and wires. It heaves slowly through its dusty vents, its old flesh patched with newer, unfamiliar panels of durasteel. The air this ship pumps through itself is crisp, cold, and sterile.

A lift is hailed and its doors rattle slightly when they open. Curiously, you ask Hull, “We’ll be meeting with Master Ollis, right?”

He presses a button and with a subtle whir of a complaint, the lift begins to ascend. “Unfortunately, the general has since passed. You’ll be meeting with the commander instead.”

You hum, “Mm, I see…” Ah. A frown tugs at the corners of your lips. If you can recall correctly, Master Mar Ollis was their third general to date. You only ever saw him in passing at the Temple during your early studies as a padawan, and never knew him personally. But the news of his loss is disheartening. He always seemed so sure and steadfast…

Soon enough, you arrive at the command bridge. The observation deck is dim and thrumming with a low chatter, the occasional beeping of consoles, and the residual drone from the bowels of the ship. The familiar expanse of space is dark and peppered with stars through the transparisteel windows.

“Here we are. Commander Night should be with you in a moment.” Hull departs with a salute, leaving the three of you to gather and wait by the holotable.

You lean against a weathered gray alloy packing crate and absent-mindedly fiddle with the soft leather details of your belt as you half-listen to Rex and Cody’s light chat. Understandably, you never had the opportunity to meet the commander in person before, but you’ve heard his name occasionally float around the 501st and the barracks back on Kamino. Especially among the younger cadets. Most of the rumors were either related to his apparently notorious reputation or why the Kaminoans appeared to dislike him as much as they did. But the cadets who were absolutely desperate for a true challenge actually looked forward to the rare instances in which Commander Night returned to supervise graduation tests and scout for new troopers. He was not described as someone who is easily impressed or pleased. And you don’t think he’d leave any exception for you, Jedi or not.

Master Endivain’s words echo in your mind. Try to make friends. How hard could that be?

Beside you, Rex knows a pensive face when he sees it. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, sir. The commander may have a bit of a...critical attitude, but he’s one of our best. Tough as a rancor and smart as a whip.”

You offer him a small resigned smile, “Thanks, Rex. I guess I’m just curious about who I’ll be working with. Not that the boys gave him… raving reviews. But you knew each other, right?”

“Back when we were cadets, yes. Fought together in the first battle of Geonosis actually, before he was transferred to a different unit.” Rex rubs at the back of his neck. “We fell out of contact after that.”

Cody dusts a speck off his pauldron, “Frankly, I don’t think we’d really be here if Hunter didn’t patch me through to the commander’s comm channel.”

Behind you, a lift finally opens with a hiss.

“Commander Cody, Captain Rex. It’s been a while, boys.” Night responds with a slow nod of acknowledgment. His voice, low, smooth, and measured, is warmer than you expected despite its gravel (at least, it sounds warm when he’s speaking with his brothers). His armor is stained a blueish, inky black- a stark contrast to the warm standard ivory. He stands tall with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You and your men are more elusive than we thought. I’m almost hurt you haven’t kept in touch all this time.” Rex says lightheartedly as he places his helmet on a crate beside the holotable and the three of them exchange their handshakes.

“We all have our places to be. But I’m glad to see you’re still kicking, Captain.” Night turns slightly and you notice the grisly, jagged scar that runs across his left eye and cheek, across the corner of his lips, and the bridge of his nose. A peppering of grey and light brown streak from his temples and the nape of his neck. His hair is well kept, but a rogue curl falls lazily over his forehead. And he looks exhausted . The dark circles are heavy beneath his eyes and there’s a tiredness in the way he moves. You realize now that what little official holopics or recordings there were of him never showed his face. Clones were men of a thousand faces, yes, but they were each undoubtedly unique.

You snap back to yourself when Cody introduces you and warmth rushes to your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Maker, where are your manners? It's rude of you to stare. You bow your head hurriedly, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Commander. I look forward to working with you.”

Finally, Night’s attention settles on you. He didn’t pay you much mind when he arrived but now he looks at you as if you’re some stowaway that crawled onto his ship, or even a pebble beneath his boot. You can’t sense exactly what he’s thinking, not that you would pry, but you don’t need the Force to tell that he’s judging you. Nonetheless, he returns a slow bow of the head, “Welcome aboard, Master Jedi.”

Something tells you that may just be the best you’ll ever get from him.

With no interest in a reply, Night turns to the holotable and powers it on. “If you’ve all read the initial report, then we may begin the briefing.”

The initial report, crafted carefully by the 82nd’s senior researcher from recent ground reconnaissance, was generous with its information. It provided a relatively thorough map of the destination planet, Koseron 8, and their data on the invasive predators that have been terrorizing it.

At face value, the mission is an extermination job, but the two younglings that were reported missing are your top priorities. For now, you listen intently as a strategy is formulated. An image of the objective is projected above the holotable; a laurek - a rare species of carnivorous subterranean fauna previously known to be native only to a planet far into the Outer Rim. The beast’s body is long and segmented with a sickly pale leathery hide. Despite the insectoid fangs protruding from its jaws and long neck, its face is flat and eerily human. Its forward facing eye sockets are sunken and deep set, with lips curled into a sharp, toothy snarl. But its looks should be the least of your concern, what with the species’ insatiable appetite for midichlorian-enriched blood.

The projection fizzles out to display a slithering network of tunnels below the barren expanse of a desert. The laurek seemed to have made quick work of their new environment. But it’s a peculiar place for them to be, you think. From what you’ve read, they’re exceptionally sensitive to sunlight. Their skin could crisp up like rice paper on oil if they remained exposed to it for too long.

You ask, “If they’re vulnerable to sunlight, can’t we lure them to the surface, where they’re at a disadvantage?”

Night’s gaze flickers to you, as if reminded that you were even there, and his brow furrows just the slightest. “That used to be an option, but based on their recent movements and behavioral patterns during the day, we can only suspect that these have either grown starved enough to be desperate or somehow adapted to their sensitivity.”

Rex huffs, “I guess it can never be that easy.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Night switches the map to a series of data, graphs and charts, “The more we study them, the more unnatural the laurek on Koseron seem to be. Generally speaking, lasting evolutionary change takes thousands of years to develop. And considering that the earliest account of their sightings on this planet was barely 3 standard months ago, there has to be something else in play here.”

Cody crosses his arms and brings a hand to his chin, “I doubt just anyone would express this much interest in creatures that have a natural taste for Jedi. You think these could be some Seppie lab rats?”

“I believe there could be a high possibility of that.”

You didn’t like the idea of it. It could mean the Seps potentially have access to the locations of all recorded Force sensitive children. To even infiltrate the Temple’s vault would be beyond risky on their part. You speak up uneasily, “Evidently, the best case scenario is that this is an isolated incident or pure coincidence. If the Temple's vault was somehow breached without any of us knowing, then we’ll have a whole different issue at hand, and it’ll have to be escalated directly to the Council.”

Night nearly scoffs, “Of course. But currently, we do not have the intel to make any solid theories behind this yet, so we’ll anticipate and prepare for the worst. And that includes Separatist involvement of any degree.”

“How do you say we should approach this then?” Rex asks.

“Skinner will take a small portion of the squad and follow any leads on the missing younglings. The rest of us will deal with the laurek. These things are no greater krayt dragons, but they have numbers and are sturdy enough to be resistant to blaster fire and even lightsabers to a lesser extent. Taking them on one by one would be a waste of time and ammunition.” The map zooms into a specific area. “Fortunately, their tunnel system is within proximity of an active volcano and there are three paths that connect to a lava chamber where they dispose of their scraps, here and here. I’m sure you can tell where I’m going with this.”

Cody remarks, “It looks promising. Rounding up so many of them isn’t going to be easy though.”

Night’s gaze is on you again. “Then it’s a good thing we already have our bait.”

You blink. “...Pardon?”

The rest of the briefing is quick and concise and the plan is solid and straightforward. But the commander did not make it easy. Every fleeting interaction between the two of you felt like a challenge- like he was waiting for you to make some rookie proposition that he could pick at. You aren’t particularly chuffed about the role he dropped on you, in fact, you would’ve volunteered yourself for it anyway. It’s the most effective position that you could think to take. However, funnily enough, now you’d believe it if you were only brought onto this mission solely as bait.

As the meeting wraps up, the doors to one of the lifts slides open. Hull steps out with another trooper at his side and he clears his throat. “You’ve got another incoming transmission. It's the director.”

There’s a subtle and tired droop to his shoulders before Night accepts a tablet from Hull. He turns to the three of you, “If there are no further questions, this concludes the briefing.” The holotable is powered off and he secures his helmet over his face. “It’s good seeing you two again. We’ll make quick work of this.” He exchanges a parting handshake with Rex and Cody, sparing you nothing but a brief glance behind the shadow of his dark visor. Only when he and the sergeant head off into another office, does the tension roll from your back.

Something beeps on Cody’s commlink and he tucks his helmet beneath his arm, “Excellent, right on schedule. We should be on our way, sir. We’ll see you on the ground.”

Rex gives you a heavy pat on the back as he passes, “Hang in there.”

You shrug and chuckle lightly, “I’ll try. Safe travels you two.”

The other trooper, having waited patiently on the side, salutes Cody and Rex as they take one of the lifts back down to the hangar. He approaches you with an easy and pacified smile, though you feel it doesn't fully reach his eyes. His dark curls, parted through the middle, reach just above his ears. A faded Medical Corps sigil is branded on his shoulder pad.

“Chief Medic Hollow at your service. Hull said you’d need an escort to your quarters.”

“It’s nice to meet you, and that’d be appreciated, thank you,” you say politely.

He steps aside and lets you step into the lift first before joining inside. He leans against the wall opposite of you with an ankle crossed over the other and quips bluntly, “So, you’re the Jedi we’ve been hearing about? You look a little younger than the ones we usually get.”

Amused, you replied, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He gives you a cheeky, good-humored look as though to say ‘you do that’. The lift falls into a natural silence as his attention falls back on his datapad, save for the muffled drone of machinery. But a question still hangs at the back of your throat until you decide to speak up, “I hope this isn’t rude of me to ask, but - is he normally like that?”

He hums absentmindedly, “Who?”

“The commander.”

Hollow glances at you briefly from the screen of his datapad, “Ah, he gave you the ol’ cold shoulder?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘the cold shoulder’ per se but…” You start to fiddle with the end of your sleeve. Well, actually, maybe you would.

The lift comes to a stop and you follow Hollow out. He waves his free hand dismissively, “He’s like that with all the Jedi that come in here, but he means well and for good reason. Not to mention all the paperwork and meetings he’s been dealing with lately. I don’t know how he does it. Especially since his insomnia’s only been getting worse.” He shakes his head, “I try to get him to rest but let me tell you, he’s stubborn and a horrible workaholic. But hey, that’s what makes him commander.”

“That so?” You don’t know whether or not you should feel relieved that Night’s distaste towards you isn’t personal. You’ve never met a clone who had such an ill view of Jedi. There’s a lot you wish Hollow would unpack, but you choose to refrain from digging further.

“Yeah, I mean, y’know, I may be a medic but if it were me trapped with all those boring meetings, I don’t think I’d last a day.”

“You don’t say.” You fold your arms into the warmth of your sleeves.

At this point, the medic begins to ramble off about his day to day woes and a placid smile settles on your lips. His short tales of messy shenanigans with his brothers keep your mind from wandering back to your somewhat tense meeting with the commander and you laugh along with him. You imagine he and Kix would get along pretty well if they ever had the chance to meet. You don't even notice that you’ve reached your destination until he stops in front of the door to your quarters.

“And this is where I leave you.” Hollow gestures with a tilt of his head, “If you’re ever feeling peckish, the dining hall is three levels down. Make two rights and a left past a storage area and you’ll be on the right track.” He snickers to himself, “That is, if you’re craving vitamin slush.”

You give a soft laugh, “Sounds appetizing, I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for the help and company, Hollow.”

“Eh, no need to thank me. And look on the bright side. You play your cards right and maybe he’ll warm up to you eventually.” The clone smirks and gives you an easy, two-finger salute. With that, he takes his leave and you wave goodbye as he disappears back down the hall.

You tap the access switch to your quarters and think to yourself, ‘I hope so’.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The ship has been in hyperspace for a while now- about 13 standard hours to be more precise. Your private quarters isn’t anything out of the ordinary and is perfectly by the code. Clean, quaint, and minimalist with a meditation mat tucked by a small bunk. The refresher is modest and the crate kept by the desk holds a set of sleeping robes that are neatly folded, if not a tad big on you.

You’ve preoccupied yourself with rereading your notes from the briefing or meditating, but it doesn’t do much to help with the light itch of restlessness in the back of your mind. You slump forward on the desk and drum your fingertips on its surface, staring at your handheld holoprojector. You know your Master would appreciate an update soon, though you’re not sure how to go about a report- or where to start, for that matter.

You aren’t bothered by Commander Night. The galaxy is far too big and busy for you to worry about how one individual thought about you. And the lightsaber that hangs at your hip is not and never should be a tool that instantly commands someone’s respect. You suppose now, you’re more intrigued by him than anything. You pick up the holoprojector and idly balance it between the desk and your finger, watching the worn metal glint. You only hope his attitude doesn’t compromise the mission; if Rex and Cody’s faith in him is worth its weight, you trust that it won’t.

A low grumble from your stomach pulls you from your thoughts. With a heavy sigh, you lean and stretch out the tight muscles in your back. Maybe having something to fill your stomach would help you clear your head. Throwing your heavy robes over your shoulders and slipping into your boots, you lock the door to your quarters behind you.

You recall Hollow’s directions. Take the lift down three levels, make two rights and a left... As you wander, the sound of the heel of your boots on the metal floors echoes against the walls. Somehow, the ship seems drowsier than before. The illumi-panels along the hallway have dimmed slightly to paint the corridors a pale, dreamy blue. You hear the occasional beep of maintenance droids and the hushed voices of the few troopers on their late patrols. By now, you’ve grown a little more accustomed to The Reaper ’s low temperatures.

You don’t realize you’ve got company until you hear a low mechanical whirring beside you. An R5 unit, one you remember seeing briefly at the observation deck during the meeting. The black paint of its plating is faded and littered with scratches and deep dents. It continues forward without a word.

“I don’t reckon you’d like to join me for a quick bite, would you?”

The astromech doesn’t respond or address you for what feels like a solid minute or two. As if registering your question at last, it slowly turns its head towards you. Its lone red sensor light flickers and a glitchy beep gurgles from its loudspeakers.

You watch it move on ahead of you into a darker hallway and mutter to yourself humorously, “Huh. I guess everyone’s a critic.”

You make the last turn and the hall opens up to a larger space. The lighting is sparse here but you can see stores of supply crates lined into neat stacks. A few were put aside and cracked ajar, with some of their contents strewn atop their lids. Hollow mentioned a storage area, so you should be going in the right direction. You pass through quietly. Curiously, you approach one of the open crates and take a quick peek. Jetpacks, ascension guns, assorted survival gear…These must be some of the equipment being prepared for the mission.

“A bit late to be exploring, isn’t it, Master Jedi?”

You nearly jump out of your skin and whip around, “Oh! I'm sorry, Commander, I didn’t realize you were still up.” Night stands by one of the crates partially in shadow. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he inputs something in his datapad, and you realize he’s been here, double-checking their inventory for the mission.

“Likewise,” he replied dryly.

You shift awkwardly in your place. “You don’t always have to address me so formally, by the way. I wouldn’t mind, really.”

His nose turns up to the idea. “I’ll hold on to the formalities, thank you.” His back is to you as he continues inspecting a crate of JT-12s.

A few seconds of silence pass but they hang over your head like a thick canopy. Feeling bold, you decide to try your luck. “Would you want to join me for something to eat? I was just on my way to the dining hall.” You see his hand falter for a second while he types and you add, “It’ll be quick, I promise. I can even help you with the work too, if you’d like. I might as well be useful while I’m here.”

Night carefully places the jetpack back into the crate and pulls the cover back over. A cloud of dust kicks up and you stifle a mild cough. Patting down his kama, he drawled, “No need. I was just leaving.”

You aren’t surprised that he’s cutting the conversation short. Hollow wasn’t kidding when he said the commander was stubborn. A part of you nags that you should just cut your losses and leave this whole thing be, let sleeping akk dogs lie, but you wish he would at least just communicate with you. Something has got to give. Against your better judgment, you blurt, “Have I done or said something to offend you?”

This makes him pause. The space between the two of you feels wide and empty. “Offend me?” There’s a hint of cold amusement in the inflection of his voice, as if you’ve asked the silliest question. “No. You haven’t,” he says flatly and powers off his datapad, “Now goodnight, Master Jedi.”

With a frown, you press on, “Commander, if we’re going to be working together- if you could give me a moment-” You take a step forward and reach out to catch his wrist.

The moment your hand touches him, you feel the air thrum, then freeze like ice in your lungs. A flare of white flashes in your mind before a heaviness settles deep in the pit of your stomach. Night glares at your hand clasped around his clothed wrist. You feel an echo of distrust, melancholy, weariness, and a slurry of voices you cannot recognize. His gaze flickers back up to you. You don’t know why but a shiver shoots down your spine. Whatever you were going to say dies pathetically in your chest.

You release him and hold your hand close to your body, as if you’ve touched fire. Your cheeks feel flush with shame- you didn’t mean for that to happen. Night's jaw is set tight, but he doesn’t yell or lash out. You steel your resolve, though a vague tremble remains in your voice, like your heart has been pushed up your throat, “I…I apologize. But…I want to stand by my words because I feel it’s best to establish this now. If we’re going to be working together, then I don’t believe it would be beneficial for either of us to constantly be on edge like this-”

“With all due respect, sir,” Night's voice is quiet and measured, “I’m afraid you may be misunderstanding the conditions of this temporary partnership so allow me to make this perfectly transparent.”

He takes a step closer and this time you can’t help but waver. The small of your back bumps against the chilled metal of a crate behind you. You know you aren’t in danger, and physically, he’s no taller than any other clone. But his presence feels heavy, intense, and oppressive. Breaking eye contact, you swallow and focus on the mauve markings painted across his armor that glow faintly in the shadow of the broad line of his shoulders.

“All you require from me is my obedience and cooperation. I will obey your orders and lay down my life if you give the word because that is what I was bred for. But we will not be ‘friends’, nor will we even be acquaintances. Once this mission is over, we’ll part ways and that will be the end of it.” His tone is smooth and eerily calm despite the sharp venom in his words. However, the warning look that burns in his eye betrays the facade.

You know better than to continue to fight that.

Deciding you are no longer worth the trouble, Night’s posture shifts and he takes a small step back. He turns and says bitterly, “That should be one less burden off your precious shoulders.”

The commander disappears back down the hall, but you do not miss the way his hand- the one you nearly touched- flexes and clenches into a fist at his side. A dull throbbing still pulses behind your eyes and you rub at your temple. Well. That entire ordeal could have gone a lot smoother. You shake the headache off and make your way towards the dining hall alone. Maker, what were you thinking? You’re sure this isn’t what Master Endivain had in mind when she suggested that you ‘make the most of your time with them’.

But if this is where Night wants to draw his boundary, then who are you to protest? And it’s just as he said. Once this mission is over, you’ll part ways and that will be the end of it.

#star wars #tcw #clone trooper oc #clone trooper x reader #commander night #82nd legion #i crawl back from my male living space with this measly offering #literally took so long to clean up for no reason #EMBARRASSING #anyway #ride wit me #fly wit me #on this journey to order 66 angst #fishermandraws

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dadsbongos · 2 years ago

Text

why did you ask me out? (3)

1 / 2 / chapter 3 - heartbroken but alive / 4 / 5

5.4K words

warnings - quick c-tier slur, jason carver is homophobic (go figure) and shoves you into a desk, eddie outs you to your friends in a convoluted and roundabout way (everything ends fine), speedrun enemies to friends to lovers trope

summary - You and Chrissy are long-lost best friends that join sides to pull one over on the girls hoping to make you prom queen as a bet. Things don't always go to plan - sometimes you realize you're in love and sometimes the girls shoot back at you.

1986. Senior Year.

It felt pathetic to still be in love with her then. Hell, it feels pathetic now.

Chrissy isn’t one to lie, you know that after this she won’t let you go like she did over the summer of ‘82, but you’re sort of dreading that. Having to pretend you’re okay hearing about Jason Carver and his stupid hair and his stupid lips and his stupid body.

You never understood how Chrissy and Jason started dating. Sure, she left and she stood by but she was anything except evil. Jason Carver, however, was evil.

“How’re you and Jason?”

“We’re not talking.”

You hate to smile, but she doesn’t seem too upset so you hope they secretly break up. Not because you’re jealous (a little bit because you’re jealous) but because he’s so terrible and she’s so good, you doubt that anything he could ever do would be worthy of her affection. Not that you think you’re much better.

“What happened?” Chrissy swipes a shade of red over your palm and quickly pairs it with a pink, then turns to her own forearm to do the same.

“We got into a fight,” she frowns, “I feel bad that I don’t…” you wonder why she bothered bringing you if she was just going to test the shades on her skin anyway, “I don’t really care.”

It’s whispered. Shaky. Like she’s petrified at the idea of being overheard.

“I mean, maybe it’s just… that time,” you mutter, hoping you can sound dismal enough to be convincing, “Jason’s an asshole, in case you haven’t noticed.”

She most certainly did. Chrissy picks out the palette from the shelf and moves to the lipstick. Her gentle fingers brush over a few until she crosses a vermillion shade and holds it up to your face. She squeezes one eye shut before nodding to herself and shoving the lipstick into your hand, then taking up a watermelon pink for herself.

You think you might’ve said the wrong thing, but you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Chrissy’s making a mistake with Jason and if it really hurts her to hear you say that, you’ll apologize - but you won’t be taking it back. He screams in the face of common decency and still gets to call himself the golden boy. He gets to claim that the tragedies of Hawkins fuel the basketball team and he gets to be selfish and he gets to call innocent kids with innocent passions freaks.

He’s worse than an asshole. You think he’s a monster.

She tells the girls that you two are done shopping and sits by a bench at the front of the store while they finish up. You join her and find it too awkward to look at her pensive face. Just before you can mutter a half-sincere apology, though, she’s speaking again.

“You wanna know what happened?” Chrissy’s voice is so quiet, you’re almost worried you imagined her speaking.

“You two fought,” you’re just as quiet, leaning closer so that the two of you can feel alone, “You just- “

“No, during the fight. What it was about,” she turns to face you and you have to force yourself to lean back, lest the other patrons think you want to kiss her (you do, but that’s not for them to know), “I haven’t told anyone and I don’t think he’s told anyone either.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to,” her foot bounces and you remember a time when it was excusable for you to place a hand on her knee in public. Now you’re a little too old to explain it on not seeing the issue, “He found out I was smoking weed, and he almost punched a hole through my wall.”

“Jesus, Chris,” you don’t mean to gasp, but you couldn’t stop it before it flew from your mouth, “That’s bad. Like, insane bad.”

“I know. I wanna break up with him so bad,” she’s even quieter than before. Like it’s forbidden she have such a desire. Like she’ll be locked away if she’s heard.

“So, just do it,” you don’t understand the world she’s in, but you know enough to know that people like Chrissy more than they like Jason, “Your status as queen won’t change or anything.”

“I don’t wanna be alone, and if we break up then he’ll spread rumors or make it sound like I’m crazy,” she sucks in a sharp breath, “I can’t be alone like that.”

“You won’t be,” for the first time tonight, Chrissy’s shocked by how earnest you sound. You take one of her hands in yours, and she finally has the courage to lock eyes with you, “You won’t be alone. I’ll be there. The Hellfire guys will love you, too,” you turn away to cough awkwardly, “I- I know we’re not the cheer squad or the sports teams or anything, but we’re good people. I like to think so, at least.”

“No, I know you all are,” she presses her lips, “My mom would lose her shit, though.”

“Your monthly swear makes its appearance,” when she glares at you weakly, you look down, “Sorry,” she chuckles in good humor and you feel the tension leak from your muscles, “Fuck your mom, though. Not literally, but just, like, fuck her. You know? She’s not looking out for you.”

Not like I did.

You choose not to say that on account of how douchey it sounds.

“At the expense of sounding naive, I’ll admit that for the longest time I had no clue why my mom hated you,” Chrissy lets out a hollow laugh, “I just did what she said so it’d feel like she actually liked me.”

Your hand moves from hers to her shoulder, you’re careful - gentle, even - as you press your thumb into her skin.

“I don’t really care that much anymore,” she laughs again but it feels more lively, “I just want you.”

“That’s good, it’d be awkward if this were part of the bet, too.”

“Not so loud or they’ll know you know,” she giggles now, full and hearty and alive, leaning into your side, “I like this.”

“Me too.”

Chrissy suddenly bounds up from the bench and to the cashier. A row of nail polish was on display and she’s carefully examining it for just the right color (Chrissy never had enough nail polish despite having her bin and desk cluttered with the bottles, not that you were really complaining). You join her at the register as the cheerleaders flock out from the aisles and towards Chrissy.

She holds up the nail polish once it’s been scanned, “Black! I didn’t have any and I figured you’d wanna have some color for tonight.”

“What? You don’t like,” you hold up your hands, “chipped to shit, ugly ass moss green?”

“Not particularly,” she teases, nudging your hip with hers. You take the bag of makeup and nail polish from her hand and begin out the store with the other girls.

1982. Eighth Grade.

“Thanks again,” you murmur to Chrissy, “I know this isn’t your scene.”

“What? I’m happy to come,” she seems uncomfortable in the cramped bedroom of your family’s trailer, but says nothing.

The boys shuffle about in the room as you finish tuning your bass. Well, almost all the boys. Gareth was sitting out in what was technically your family’s backyard with his drum set. You bounced up from your bed and over to the open window he sat outside.

He had his walkman on, the tape for Corroded Coffin’s song of choice already loaded and ready.

“Thanks again!” you cheer and he nods, lips pressed thinly and you can feel how embarrassed he is like this. You move into position with the rest of the boys and shoot Chrissy a nervous smile. She gives one back.

“Sorry if you hate it,” you look down at your hands. Callused and rough and sometimes you wondered if Chrissy would hold them anyway.

“Don’t be a bunny,” she waves off. She insists on the phrase even though it’s so dated by now. Cute, she calls it.

Eddie signals off to Gareth and the two quickly find their rhythm. You don’t look back up at Chrissy, knowing full well that if you do then you’ll lose your nerve.

The middle school talent show was soon and Chrissy was more than willing to sit in and listen to what Corroded Coffin had lined up.

Chrissy isn’t much surprised you chose a KISS song, though she’ll admit that the choice of I Was Made For Lovin’ You did shock her. Although, according to you it was either this or Paranoid by Black Sabbath and she took your word that Paranoid was too long.

She doesn’t know that you chose this song for her and she doesn’t know that your hands shake because you’re in love with her and she doesn’t know how badly you sometimes wish you were a boy so that it’d be easier for you to love her. But that’s okay, the favor is returned eventually.

Because what you don’t know is that soon after this, she would slowly stop being your best friend. And after that, she’ll slowly stop being your friend altogether.

1982. Freshman Year.

The summer months have you scorching for a reason besides the heat. You hate to admit it, but you’re mad. Mad enough that when the boys are setting up their instruments, they can all feel the ick that radiates off you in thick rolls.

“Are you sure you’re gonna keep your cool?” Eddie narrows his eyes at you, as if he’d see through your lies if he stared hard enough, “This is our first gig and if you fuck up ‘cuz you’re all heartbroken your cheerleader best friend is gone, we’ll kill you. Collectively.”

“If this goes wrong it’s ‘cuz you’re slumming it with a bunch of 14-year-olds, not ‘cuz I’m heartbroken,” you grumble, making a point of staring at the shiny finish of your bass rather than looking at your lead, “Because I’m not, by the way.”

“So are,” Jeff instantly denies, “I saw you staring at her during lunch. And algebra.”

You totally were and you totally are.

“So what?”

“So, you’re upset,” Gareth jabs one of his drumsticks between your shoulder blades and you whip around to glare at him, “It’s fine, just own up to it.”

“I’m not even upset, it’s fine,” you look up as the nurses herd in the attendees of Corroded Coffin’s first ever gig, “How we even got booked at a nursing home is what you guys should be focusing on.”

Eddie shrugs, shooting you a wink, “I know a guy.”

The elderly didn’t appreciate Corroded Coffin’s rendition of War Pigs by Black Sabbath quite as much as you’d hoped they did.

1986. Senior Year.

The girls have disbanded and now you’re up in Chrissy’s bedroom as if she never left. Here you are, watching through her vanity mirror as she carefully, carefully, applies the red eyeshadow to her outerlid. Her lips are pursed and sometimes she bites her tongue when she’s focusing, it brings you back to every time you wanted to kiss her in this very bedroom. Right now being no exception.

You can’t help but roll over onto your stomach, just to stop staring at an image more beautiful than any painting in the Louvre. Quickly, you decide to busy yourself with her cassette player, rummaging through her tapes and shaking your head - hoping above all hope that she notices you.

“What’re you doing over there?” she hums, moving onto the pink shadow now.

“Searching for something good.”

Despite knowing exactly what you’re about to say, Chrissy opens the door for your jab anyway, “Find anything?”

Madonna - Like a Virgin Michael Jackson - Billie Jean Fleetwood Mac - Farmer’s Daughter ABBA - Angeleyes Madonna - Borderline Madonna - Burning UpMadonna - Crazy For You ABBA - Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!

Jesus Christ, maybe you’re as pretentious as Eddie.

“Nope,” your fingers continue to flick through tapes until you come to the end of the line, “Remind me to make you a new mixtape.”

“What? You think your music taste is better than mine?”

“Yup,” you reply without hesitation.

“Wow,” she turns now, looking at you as you lay back in her bed. Cat that ate the canary grin and crossed legs and fidgeting fingers, “Such a snob.”

“‘m not a sob,” you protest even though you’re partially convinced it’s true, “Just want my girl to have good music.”

For some odd reason, your heart doesn’t seize when you let the pet name slip. Not when Chrissy’s smiling as she turns back to the mirror and picks up the lipstick she got herself.

“Your girl, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, then come here and let your girl put on your lipstick, ‘kay?”

“‘kay.”

You slide off Chrissy’s bed and kneel down in front of her, your hands settle on her knees and she uncaps the dark red lipstick.

She holds up her hand to your chin, “Can I…?”

Without thinking, you nod, eyes falling closed, “Whatever you need.”

Carefully, her hand takes to your chin, and tilts your head upwards. The press of lipstick is gentle as she swipes it across the skin. It almost feels like in another life this could lead to something more. Smudged pink and red lipstick and frisky hands and Jason Carver never getting the privilege of so much as seeing Chrissy Cunningham ever again.

But this isn’t that life and Jason will be going to prom, most assuredly. So you sit still until she’s done and when she is, you look in the mirror. Blinking away the bleariness, you grin and watch how the deep red accentuates your lips.

“If I was a guy, I’d kiss you,” Chrissy nods to herself. More so to say you look pretty than an actual desire, you’re sure.

“If I was a guy, I’d kiss you,” you repeat.

Chrissy hopes you mean it the same way she does, but she isn’t sure that you mean it genuinely - so she lets it slide as a compliment rather than voiced desire.

“Now, nails,” she grabs the black polish and shakes it while you lay your hands flat over her thighs. Repressing a shiver (a good shiver, she’s flustered to admit), Chrissy unscrews the cap and picks up one of your hands, “This way, it can dry and we’ll have time to put on the dress.”

1984. Sophomore Year.

You went on a secret date one time. With a girl. With Vivian Coord - one year your senior and captain of the tennis team.

You two shared the same chemistry class and she was pretty and nice and you liked talking to each other. You found out she liked girls by accidentally finding old doodles of her and another girl in her notebook and she found out you liked girls when you told her in a split second attempt to calm her down.

This date was nice. You two went skating and got the pleasure of disguising the hand holding as her guiding you through the rink. But there was something missing, and you really felt bad.

“I don’t wanna lead you on,” you turn to her before she can let you out of her car, “I’m just…” one hand flies up in dramatics, “not over my ex.”

“Yeah,” she nods slowly, one hand bumping against the steering wheel, her lips press and she shrugs, “I’m not either.”

“Is she the one you drew, creeper?” you tease.

“Shut it,” Vivian jokingly pops you in the arm.

“She is,” you open the door and wave, “Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with yours.”

Vivian was funny and lighthearted and she could take it just as much as she dished it - you have no idea why your heart wasn’t in the rink with her tonight.

You’re lying when you think that.

Your arms are wrapped around yourself tightly in the chill that blows through Hawkins. You watch your feet hit the dirt road leading into Forest Hills and you can’t help but wonder.

Why would you lie in the car? Vivian barely knew you, why did it matter what she thought of you now?

Well, it was easier than admitting you were still in love with a girl you had no chance with.

Vivian could swallow the ex response, but if you even tried spooning the Chrissy Cunningham schlop to her, she’d slap it out of your hand.

Chrissy is so high above you now that sometimes it’s crazy to remember there was ever a time you two would practice kissing together. There’s a Chrissy-sized hole in your head when you think about your loved ones and there’s a Chrissy-sized hole that blares through your heart when you see her and Jason kiss in the halls.

A few months later, Vivian and the junior would get closer and when you’d spot them linking pinkies under the table at lunch, you knew what that meant. You’re happy for them, you are - you’d just rather not be alone.

You don’t know it as a sophomore, but even years later - you still go on to daydream about Chrissy Cunningham.

1986. Senior Year.

You know why you’re here. To fuck with Anne Mark and Lily Pham. You know that just as well as you know how sad it is to still be in love with the cheer captain dating the star basketball player.

But as Chrissy is applying the black polish to your nails, it feels different. Nobody is here to impress or trick and this is purely for you two. This isn’t about the bet or fucking over either girl doomed to peak in high school. This is about you and Chrissy and the fact nobody else is home.

And the fact that Jason Carver is probably on his way out as a taken man.

She gently blows against the polish as if it’ll actually dry that much faster before switching to your next hand, “Do you want a top coat?”

“No, I like when it peels,” when she gives you a bewildered stare, you restrain a shrug for the sake of her work, “I think it makes me look cool.”

“You look cool all the time,” she grins.

Her hair is in pigtails that you helped do. It gently cascades down and sometimes it falls into your face, but you don’t mind. You’d spend forever with your face pressed into the gentle waves and loose curls of her honey blond hair if you could.

But you don’t admit that, instead you say something completely lame, “I forgot how to dance.”

“You don’t just forget how to dance.”

“Well, I did.”

“Don’t be a bunny.”

“That phrase expired like six years ago.”

“Well, I like it.”

“You do you, Chris.”

Keep on truckin’, she mouths and you roll your eyes, but there’s such an undeniable smile swiped over your red-stained lips that she doesn’t even care.

“No, but really, I don’t know how to dance.”

“Nobody knows how to dance,” she grins, “They just follow everyone else’s lead and think they look cool. But you know what?” hm, you hum, “I think the coolest people are actually the ones that don’t follow the others, and do what they want - they know how to dance.”

“What about the people who don’t dance at all?”

“They’re waiting for somebody to show them it’s okay to.”

You watched her carefully. Her soft eyes under this pink light. She sits so pretty and looks so kissable. You clear your throat, “Who do you think I’m waiting for?”

Chrissy looks away from her work on your nails, just for a moment, “To show you?”

“Yeah.”

It’s so ballsy to say me, but something about the way you’re looking at her makes her feel like that’s the exact answer you’re waiting for. If she’s wrong you might run away like she did. But if she’s right and she doesn’t say it, nothing will happen. That should be good, right?

Nothing changes if nothing happens and everyone’s happy.

So why does the idea make her want to roll into an early grave?

She’s tired of doing nothing, so she relents.

“Me.”

“Really?” if your tone weren’t so clearly teasing, she might’ve been embarrassed.

But there’s light in your eyes. She did well. So she doubles down and nods, “Yeah.”

“You’ll have to stick with me, then,” you watch her lips curl into an ‘o’ shape as she blows on your other hand’s coat of polish, “Show me how to dance.”

“I can’t show you, but I can encourage you,” she sets your hand down and you back away for her to stand, “like in fifth grade, during the winter dance.”

“You remember that?”

“How could I forget?”

I fell in love with you that night, you both almost say.

…

Chrissy’s heels have advanced since elementary school. You’re fitted in a pair of black pumps she says are reserved for church and court and she’s got on kitten heels.

“I always have trouble with the straps,” she pouted while pulling them on.

Looking back on it, you think it was just a ploy for her to not have to do anything. You don’t regret it, though.

You click one heel into place. Then the next.

Your fingers linger at Chrissy’s calf as you look up at her. She smiles down at you and leans forward, you don’t move.

“Thanks again for coming,” she whispers, so close you can feel her breath gently sweep across your lips.

“Sounded fun,” you lean ever closer, “I missed you a lot.”

“I missed you a lot, too.”

And just like when you guys were eleven, back in sixth grade in 1979, the last night of 1979, you both lean in.

You’re both more experienced now, though. Heads tilted and lips soft, her hands cup your cheeks and yours settle on the tops of her thighs. Your thumbs press into the soft skin and she hums sweetly. She parts your lips with the press of hers and gasps when your hands just dare to climb a little higher.

Then, she’s pulling away, “We still have somewhere to be.”

You pull away, too and your hands settle onto your own thighs, “Probably best you fix our makeup.”

Chrissy’s head turns to the mirror and her eyes widen at the sight.

One minute you’re both laughing at the specks of red riddled into Chrissy’s pink lipstick and the pink faintly sprinkled into your red. The next minute? The next minute, Jason Carver is bursting through the window she forgot to shut and is calling you a carpet-munching freak.

All boyfriends have their way of apologizing, you suppose.

“What is she doing here?!” he shouts and Chrissy jumps away like you’ve been set ablaze.

You can only stare up at him in terror. The man who’s given Dustin and Mike twisted ankles. The man who’s given Jeff a black eye. The man who’s given Gareth two split lips over one summer. The man who chased Grant down the road with his lackeys. The man who dumps cola over you whenever he sees you’ve made an effort to look nice. The man Eddie swears is the real Satanist, despite all his prayers to God. He stands before you with an iron fist.

“She has no right to be here, she’s against God, Chris,” Jason storms over to you and winds a hand behind your neck, squeezing like you’re a kitten and he’s the mother. He pulls back until you’re sitting straight on your knees, “What the fuck is she doing in your room?!”

“We’re just hanging out, Jason,” she tries to reason, “Let her go!” now she’s firmer, heels harsh on the carpet as she stomps forward and pushes her boyfriend, “Let her go, Jason Carver!”

“Let her go? Let her go?” he laughs in her face and gives another harsh squeeze to your neck, “You’re siding with this- this freak?!”

“Yes, I am!” she shouts, “And we’re so over- so just let her go or I- “ her eyes dart down to you nervously and you know whatever threat comes next is a lie, “I’ll call the cops!”

“For what? Treating a freak the way she deserves?” Jason grins like a hyena before dying prey, shaking his head, “I’ll let her go, Chris.”

She doesn’t relax, though. If anything, she’s more tense than before.

Jason doesn’t let you go, more like he tosses you. The second his elbow yanks back you know you’re in trouble, his fingers slip from your neck and your head bangs into the side of Chrissy’s vanity.

A throb forms at your forehead as she screams and Jason pushes her back when she goes to lift you.

From your angle on the floor, you can faintly see up the Sixteen Candles poster Chrissy hung and you can see the hole in the wall that Jason did end up punching.

1985. Junior Year.

The five of you do this every year now. Well, maybe not this specifically - the beer part - but the five of you - Corroded Coffin, Hellfire, freaks, etc. - gather around Eddie’s trailer at the end of every single school year to shoot the shit and drink. This year the drink is beer, now that Eddie is lax enough to let you all have alcohol on his property. It’s a step up from whatever soda he has stocked in the fridge.

You all like to look back on good times and pretend that Eddie should still be in high school. This coming year, especially, since you’ll all be seniors when Eddie should technically be a sophomore in college.

Not that it matters to any of you. Judgment is hardly found between your quintet and you all look up to Eddie (in a half-brotherly, half-role model sort of way that none of you are willing to own up to). Yes, as the DM and face of Corroded Coffin he’s the leader, but he’s also the only guy willing to give four misfits a place to call theirs. Judgment and scorn are hardly a thing between you all, but now you wonder how true that is.

When it’s brought up, you can’t help but seize and wonder if tonight is the night that discrimination finds its place in your home across from home.

“Wasn’t there that rumor? That you’re gay,” Jeff chuckles against the lip of his beer, “God, that was fucking weird.”

“So weird,” Grant nods, then turns to you, “Where’d that even come from?”

You shrug, suddenly feeling heat lick at your skin under their collective gaze, “Dunno.”

Eddie’s smile falls at your mood change, his brows draw tight, “Do you really have no clue?”

The question isn’t insulting nor is it insinuating anything. Not framed as though he knows something he shouldn’t. It’s pure curiosity.

If there’s anything you want to tell us, now’s the time.

Not in a mean way. More like gentle (if annoying) prodding, like a sitcom mother.

“Yeah. No idea.”

Gareth is suspiciously quiet and attention turns to him. He simply stares at his shoes. Unmoving, unwilling to speak. All eyes return to you and you’re just the same.

Eddie scoots closer to you, he tilts his head, eyes squinting in that stupid way he does when he doesn’t believe you, “Is…”

Your eyes finally shoot up and he hates the fear he sees. It reminds him of how he used to be before his shell grew.

No, this is different. Nothing like when the popular kids would sneer at him and make his life hell. You’re scared of him. You’re scared of your friends.

“Is it true…?” he’s quiet enough to where you can easily back out and just shake him away.

Jeff and Grant lean away as if you need the air to breathe. You swallow harshly and look to Gareth, who only stares right back.

Gareth takes the bold move to whisper to you, “No matter what happens, I’m here,” when he can tell you don’t believe him, he continues, “Not joking. I’ll quit the band right now in outrage.”

That gets you to smile and the other boys mirror it.

“It’s okay,” Jeff finally hunches forward again, “if it’s true.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Gareth adds as he pulls away.

Part of you is scared to come through with the truth - too scared to lose the boys you consider family. Another part of you is scared of hiding yourself from them. Gareth is with you, and if you two don’t have a place here then you trust him to follow you to another one. And if that place isn’t right, then you two can build your own. Maybe Jeff and Grant will even join you both.

But what about Eddie? The one that built the palace you all reside in? The one who held his hand out to you that day with an overly broad smile when Gareth said you could play bass. The one who stands up to Jason when you don’t have the energy. The one who said he wanted to run away with your group and be a traveling circus in his van.

If the boys were your family, Eddie was your bona fide brother. You can’t take the disappointment, but the question is out and he’ll know no matter what you say. The silence would double - it was true and you were ashamed. You’re tired of being ashamed, though.

“Yeah,” you huff and stand, starting to walk away only to turn right back.

They stare up at you. Whether in disbelief or shock or horror, you can’t ultimately tell.

Your hands shove into your pants pockets and you look at the starlit sky.

You decide to close up before they - before Eddie - can say something to shatter you completely.

“If you have a problem with it: fuck you, but please don’t tell anybody,” you kick up dirt from the road, staring down at your shoe rather than the band of boys, “Like it even matters, people already fucking know.”

Slowly, they all come to a stand in front of you.

“Nobody actually knows,” Eddie lays a hand on your shoulder, “and none of us care.”

“We care,” Jeff steps in, pushing Eddie to the side so he can look you in the eyes, his gaze is kind and his smile is reassuring, “just not in the way you’re worried about.”

“We just want you to be happy,” Grant pitches in, “It might take getting used to, but we still love you.”

“You’re one of us, little witch,” Eddie wraps you in his arms, refusing to let go even as you groan about the lingering smell of cigarettes on his clothes. His embrace is chain tight but you can’t bring yourself to want out of it.

Gareth sticks back in the hopes nobody picks up on the fact that he already knew. You two happen to spot each other from over Eddie’s shoulder, though, and he nods with a thumbs up - you return it.

I’m proud of you, he mouths.

You spent years wondering what everyone in your life would say about you liking girls. What would your parents say? They were open-minded but you could never be completely sure. What would your neighbors say? What would your classmates say? What would Chrissy have said? Her mom would surely disapprove.

Your arms slowly come around Eddie and you squeeze, head lowering until it’s pressed against his shoulder.

Years wasted pretending your heart didn’t beat just a little faster when a pretty girl would smile at you (back when they did, anyway; before you were a total outcast). Months wasted pretending the welcoming bartender at The Hideout that liked to call you hun had no effect on you. Years pretending you weren’t in love with Chrissy Cunningham.

Chrissy was gone but her hands remained wrapped around your heart. If she couldn’t say she loved you then you were content to lay, heartbroken but alive, with the boys you knew were home.

You hate the way your lashes wet and the way you know Eddie can feel your tears blotting through his Metallica shirt. You feel hands rub your back lovingly and you feel Gareth join the hug with a “don’t tell anyone about this” as if his reputation actually matters to him.

You hated that Chrissy left, but you feel so loved - it’s all you could really ask for. Maybe a little more.

A heavy hiccup falls through you and Eddie presses a tender kiss to your head, just like a big brother would. You’re quiet, but you’re sure they hear you,

“Thanks guys.”

They just hug you tighter.

#chrissy x reader #chrissy cunningham x reader #chrissy cunningham x you #chrissy cunningham fic #stranger things x you #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #wdyamo fic #chrissy.🍑

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athetos · 3 years ago

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Glimmadora is so healing to me… I love speedrunning to enemies to friends and then slow burning friends to lovers… they don’t even know when exactly they fell in love but they realize one day and it overwhelms them in how powerful and right it feels… they fight and almost lose each other but their relationship is repaired to be even stronger than ever… they listen to Angella and take care of each other… sun and moon themed gfs… she-ra is like twice glimmer’s height… everything is perfect about them

#glimadora #ash.spop

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nevermindirah · 3 years ago

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Yitzhak!

is a character! who Gregadiah What-Is-Math Rucka gave us almost no information about!

I've gone through Tales Through Time #6: The Bear and #1: My Mother's Axe with several magnifying glasses and done a lot of googling and taken my copy of the Tanakh off my shelf for the first time since (well, since the last time I needed to read Torah for TOG reasons, which I think was Booker Passover headcanons) and here's the best I can come up with.

In The Bear we meet someone who goes by the name Isaac Blue:

Read on for a lot of comic panel analysis and historical research and Jewish flailing!

So what do we know about this Isaac Blue person?

He's Lorge, he's got curly hair, he's basically a taller version of Joe as drawn by Leandro Fernández (ie an antisemitic stereotype why the fuck did they approve this character design?? and then why did they double down and copy-paste it to Yitzhak??):

He's got a mezuzah on the doorpost of his house in Alaska!

I screamed about the mezuzah way back in January in this post where I (very reasonably) assumed this character was Joe and spun myself a tale about how Booker is still Joe's brother so the mezuzah stays up even though Booker isn't welcome in that house for a century. Bottom line: the mezuzah is a tradition with origins in the commandment from Deuteronomy 6:9 to "write the words of G-d on the gates and doorposts of your house" and evolved over the course of the Rabbinic period into the modern mezuzah we see here.

I did unnecessary levels of google image search to glean absolutely no useful information about Yitzhak’s origins from this panel:

I've decided the variant cover of TTT 6 is Yitzhak because of a panel in My Mother’s Axe, shown here, and what's likely an unnecessarily deep reading of Exodus, discussed further down:

The person at the right of the bottom panel is wearing the same clothes as in the TTT 6 variant cover and has the same shoulder-length curly hair and hairy forearms.

Left to right, the people in this panel are Lykon (I'll never get used to him being white in the comics), Andy, Noriko (I think? why doesn't Andy mention her by name here?), and Yitzhak. Andy's robe has a stereotypically Greek design on the sleeve cuff, and I had to stop myself 10 minutes into a Wikipedia rabbit hole because Gregorforth doesn't think that deep about this shit. The solid clues as to timeline that we get in this panel are:

Andy's iron axe

the presence of Lykon, who Andy first met in 331 BCE

So all we know is that Yitzhak is an immortal, he was a contemporary of Lykon, and he's Jewish.

Isaac is the most common Anglicization of Yitzhak (which in turn is the most common Anglophone transliteration of יִצְחָק‎), and Greg always uses the (transliterated) Hebrew when he refers to this character. Yitzhak is the long-awaited child of Abraham and Sarah in Genesis, the child who G-d commanded Abraham to sacrifice but spared at the last minute. I see what you did there, Gregory.

Why Isaac Blue? This is where I pulled out my Tanakh. According to the New JPS translation, blue is the first of three colors of yarn listed in Exodus 35:6 among the gifts requested of the Israelites to construct the priestly garments for the Tabernacle and later the Temple. Then in Numbers 15:38 the Israelites are commanded to "make themselves fringes on the corners of their garments throughout the ages; let them attach a cord of blue to the fringe at each corner."

And now for sandbox timelines party! Gregadiah gave us ALMOST NOTHING to go on, so I'm gonna make my own fun.

I, like many modern Jews, think the stories in the Tanakh are foundational mythology that are valuable because of how they've shaped our people but that contain some fucked-up shit and either way aren't meant to be a record of historical facts. Modern scholarship generally agrees that the community we now call Jews emerged as a distinct group of Canaanites sometime in the late Bronze Age (cw this video's host says the Name of G-d aloud despite being a religious studies scholar who knows that is not a name anyone but the Temple priests are allowed to say). The first non-Biblical written record of the people Israel is from an Egyptian source c. 1200 BCE, and the Biblical kingdom of David and Solomon was probably an exaggeration of whatever really happened during the Bronze Age Collapse. We start getting into historical-fact territory a few centuries into the Iron Age:

588 BCE Solomon's Temple destroyed, Babylonian exile begins

538 BCE Cyrus of Persia allows Jews to return to Jerusalem

515 BCE Second Temple construction complete

332 BCE Alexander the Great At Something I Guess conquered Judea, beginning the Hellenistic period of Jewish history — 331 BCE Andy & Lykon find each other

167 BCE another jerkface Greek king desecrated the Temple and basically outlawed Judaism

164 BCE recapture of Jerusalem and Temple rededication during the Maccabean Revolt

70 CE destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, beginning of the Rabbinic period of Jewish history that we're still in now

What if... and hear me out... what if immortals come in pairs, and the pairs are:

Andy & Quynh

Joe & Nicky

Booker & Nile

LYKON & YITZHAK

What if Yitzhak was a priest of the Second Temple? What if he and Lykon killed each other just like Joe and Nicky would in the same city around 1300 years later, but instead of enemies-to-lovers speedrun with an absurdly long happily-ever-after, when Lykon died permanently Yitzhak decided to separate from Andy and Noriko and become the hermit we later see in Alaska?

We don't know how old Yitzhak is compared to the others, only that he was a contemporary of Lykon at a time when Andy was using an Iron Age version of her mother's axe. Other plausible origins for him:

a Jew of the early Rabbinic period, maybe a child or grandchild of people who were still alive before the Second Temple was destroyed

a Judean of the Second Temple era under the Romans or Greeks or Persians, maybe a priest, maybe not

an exilee in Babylon, maybe of the generation who got to return, maybe of the generation who was exiled (he doesn't look like he was 50 at his first death but who knows, he could've been mortal for both)

an Israelite of the Kingdoms of Israel and Judah, maybe a priest of Solomon's Temple or again maybe not

an Israelite wandering in the desert with Moses

THEE Yitzhak, ben Avraham v'Sarah, our patriarch who was brought up for sacrifice and then spared, and then spared again, and then spared again, and again, and again...

or! he could also be a Canaanite or other Levantine who predates the people Israel, who at some point in his very long life chose to join our mixed multitude, who like Andromache before him (and like Avram and Sarai would in this case do after him) took a new name to reflect the magnitude of influence this people has had on him

Why do I keep saying Yitzhak might have been a priest? It's thanks to the one detail in the artwork I could plausibly connect to solid research without getting a PhD real quick. Take a look at the gorgeous detail on the opening of his robe in the TTT 6 cover. He's dressed in rags, holes and dirt everywhere, rough stitches probably from hasty repair work — except for the neck opening. Compare that to this description from Exodus 39:23 of the construction of the priestly garments for the Tabernacle: "The opening of the robe, in the middle of it, was like the opening of a coat of mail, with a binding around the opening, so that it would not tear."

The next verses describe the intricate designs for the hem of the priestly garment. Yitzhak's ragged garment looks like the hem was torn off entirely.

Am I overthinking this? Yes I am! You're welcome!

My friend and historical research hero @lady-writes is in a Discord server with Gregadiah and asked the man himself some questions about all this. He clearly thinks he's being sneaky?? No shit Yitzhak is Jewish, dude, I want DETAILS!

I will not be giving up my Jewish Booker headcanon, I've put too much thought into it by now, the internalized shame of antisemitism explains Booker's depression too well for me, and it just adds so much richness to Booker/Nile both being children of forced diasporas. Fortunately (for him, not me, bc I'd do it anyway!) Gregothy supports fan headcanons even when they're not in line with his own:

One last thing before I close like 100 research tabs and go back to writing historical fantasy and/or porn! I love that, despite that atrocious caricature of a face design, our canon Jew and our fanon Jew are both Lorge and Soft and Kind, flying the face of the antisemitic stereotype of Ashkenazi Jewish men as small and weak, but also not falling into the New Jew / Muscle Jew stereotype that Zionism created. (I am trying SO HARD not to talk about Israel/Palestine for once ughhhhhhhhhh) Anyway here's a (US-centric but very good) primer on both these stereotypes of Jewish masculinity. Is this why I'm forever projecting my transmasc diasporist feels onto Jewish Booker the service sub? 🤷🏻‍♂️

I’ll reblog a second version of this with full image descriptions so that there’s a version accessible for folks who need IDs as well as a version accessible for folks who get overwhelmed by walls of text.

#TOG POC Love Fest #yitzhak #jewish booker #tales through time spoilers #tales through time #tog meta #tog #jewish things #mine #antisemitism #hi i'm an antizionist jew no i don't really want to talk about it

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floralovebot · 3 years ago

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please talk more about Helia TOT the only things I can get of him are crumbs TTOOTTTT!!!!!! (But like can I get more Helia and Riven head canons plllssss <:]]]? I don't mind if they're shipy lol (I like reading about your head canons about Helia, it's awesome!!!)

UE UE UE it's a hard life being a helia stan </3

i'll do ship headcanons since the others are platonic!

i Love thinking about how they would even realize they like each other??? because you know these idiots would not realize. riven gets stuck in his "helia is a little stuck up prissy pants" until they become friends and helia is in his little "i don't need friends they disappoint me" phase for literally two years so like? when.

so basically i'm thinking they speedrun enemies to friends but slowburn friends to lovers

and eventually it's kinda like the one spiderman meme but instead of it being two people recognizing each other it's these two idiots realizing they like each other

also that one meme but it's sky rushing into their room screaming "I KNEW YOU GUYS WERE DATING" and helia puts his book down and goes "we are? why didn't you tell me :("

riven mindlessly plays with helia's hair so much. like it's literally autopilot, he doesn't even think about it.

i think riven likes to kiss helia's neck! and helia likes to mindlessly play with riven's hand which occasionally means kissing them if they're in range (also the occasional bite because it surprises riven every time. you'd think he'd be used to it at this point but no??)

riven ropes helia into pranking the other specialists! everyone is fair game but of course sky is a popular target. riven thinks there's an added benefit to dating helia because sky lets him get away with everything but then he realizes sky just doubles back on him 😞

helia looks up "harmless pranks" much to riven's annoyance but they do complete every single one on every single list they can find. god they're so annoying </3

when they argue it can get pretty ugly :( but not because of them! they tend to argue once and then silently brood until someone breaks first but when they do that the specialists tend to side with helia and that obviously just makes riven feel worse, especially when helia's the one in the wrong.

one of their arguments started with helia saying he didn't want riven trying to protect him during missions anymore and riven edgelord supreme immediately assumes that helia is undermining him again and they keep going back and forth until helia finally just yells that it's because he loves riven and doesn't want him to get hurt. cue harsh silence and ~prolonged eye contact~

pain

on a cuter note, they love going to cafes and restaurants! meal dates are literally their favorite kind of date and they almost always eat together anyway so why not?

they do still get jealous every now and then but they're also at a point where they're now so confident that they just scoff to themselves when someone tries to flirt with the other aljdghdjla it's both cute and infuriating (sky: you can't be that full of yourself, riven: nsfw joke that i can't say because i want this post to be safe boooo)

#aldghladhgjlad #this was so fun thank you 🥺#i love literally every helia ship but rivelia definitely has a special place in my heart 🥺#i always come up with new headcanons for them too like they wont leave me alone 😞#answered #anonymous #winx rivelia #winx helia #winx riven #mine.headcanons

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caspercryptid · 3 years ago

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caitvi wings au has always been fun 2 me

Okay, this... got out of hand (don't they all)

CWs: Injury, gunshot wounds, fighting, (speedrun enemies to lovers?) Caitlyn Did In Fact Shoot Vi, It's Fine, Implied/referenced broken bones, falling, blood, implied fantasy speciesism (discrimination against nonhumans)

___

This is bad.

The wing’s a bad place to take a shot on a good day, a bad place to take a shot during takeoff or landing, a bad place to take a shot in sunny fucking perfect weather. This is not a good day. This is not the ground, it’s raining, and Vi is falling out of the sky.

She goes head over heels and tries to brace herself but she knows without a doubt that this is going to hurt, no matter how prepared she is, there’s nothing that’s going to save her. She has a few seconds too long to think about it, too little desire for introspection to let her life flash before her eyes, but she spares a few apologies for the promises she’s not gonna get to keep, the people she’s not going to get to call, Sorry I wasn’t a better daughter a better friend a better sist—

She hits a dune, rolls, can’t help the half-scream that’s knocked out of her when her bad wing gets caught under her as she goes, tries to slide, flips again, lands in a heap of her own black and red feathers and wonder how much of it’s her colors and how much is her blood.

She tips her head up, feels the rain on her face. Everything is hazy gray, like she’s fading out into the cloud cover, even as she fights, tries to count her breaths, tries to breathe deep enough to check how badly she’s injured. The answering sharp red flare of pain provides the answer. Bad. bad enough that she doesn’t know what ribs it is that have taken the hit, if it’s her back, if it’s her wings. It’s bad enough that it doesn’t matter. She’s not going to make it.

She’s not going to accept that.

She’s gathering her strength, still counting, still figuring out the exact angles of her joints and how much she can muster, even through the haze, as she hears the footsteps. She stays slack, closes her eyes. Play dead. Catch them unawares. She doesn’t know if she has the strength to— she’ll find it. She has to.

The footsteps pick up into a run, get clumsier— that’s unprofessional— and then there’s the distinct sound of—

“Shit.”

It’s close enough that this is almost certainly the only chance Vi is going to get, so she moves. She launches herself up and forward in the direction of the voice, managing to knock the figure onto it’s back before she’s even opened her eyes, and then—

She makes a mistake.

It’s only half a second, half a second of faltering when she opens her eyes, half a second of shock at the splash of raven hair across the sand, of the wide started eyes, of the parted pink lips, of Oh, she’s beautiful, and then she moves like a coiled snake and flips, slamming Vi down underneath her so hard that Vi feels something give in her wings and can’t suppress another choked-off scream, and then there’s steel against her throat.

“Don’t move.” the other woman orders, and Vi hisses.

“Not a lotta choice in the matter there, sweetie.”

“Don’t call me sweetie.” “Well I don’t know your name, now do I?”

“—Caitlyn.”

Vi’s vision clears enough from the pain to give focusing her eyes another attempt. The woman on top of her has hair strung in a low pennant pony-tail. Her clothes are tactical gear, and there’s a rifle across her shoulder.

...of about the specs it’d need to be to shoot Vi down from half a mile off.

Fuck.

“Can’t say it’s nice to meet you, Caitlyn.” Vi manages.

“Likewise.” Caitlyn says, clipped. She looks... stressed. Something in Vi’s mind is trying to put up a signal that something is strange here. She’d learned to trust that instinct, she lets her head drop, giving the impression of surrender and a little bit of distance from the knife.

“Forgive me for putting up a decent fight for my life.” She snarks. “I’ll be sure to fly into the bullet next time. Just let me go and we’ll try this again, huh?”

Something looks raw and hurt in Caitlyn’s expression, but to Vi’s shock, she just...drops the knife. Sits back and shrugs off her backpack.

“What are you doing?” Vi asks.

She should really have learned to stop asking people with the guns that question a long time ago, but maybe the 454th time or whatever really is the charm, because Caitlyn answers.

“I need to dress the wound in your wing.”

Vi’s eyebrows pull together. That... didn’t make sense.

“....Why. Would you do that. You put it there.”

“Because I didn’t mean to.” Caitlyn says, voice clipped, and for a minute that doesn’t process at all. No one carries a rifle like that unless they know how to use it.

“Because you meant to shoot me in the head?” Vi hazards. “Because I really didn’t mean it about the releasing me again for sport, Angelface, I only get hunted recreationally—”

“Oh will you—” Caitlyn cuts herself off, takes a deep breath in, lets it out again. “—there was. A griffon. I’ve been tracking. I’m not— I only hunt animals. Not people.”

“....Some wouldn’t consider me a people.” Vi says, slowly.

“Well, I would.” Caitlyn says, flatly, like the very suggestion otherwise is offensive. “—It was a small griffon. It’s raining. It has a similar coloration.”

“You... hit me by accident.”

“You don’t need to rub it in. Is it true that— your kind have hollow bones?”

Vi blinks, processing. “—Yeah. Why?”

Caitlyn finishes the work she’s doing on Vi’s wing, which— is stinging a little less now, and carefully folds Vi’s wings the best she can, moving carefully, although Vi thinks that the lingering her hands are doing might be more reverent than medically necessary. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Vi’s so caught up in the feeling of careful hands against her wings that for a second she forgets that she asked a question entirely, doesn’t catch Caitlyn’s non-answer, is taken completely by surprise when Caitlyn moves her arms underneath Vi.

“Hold onto me.” She instructs.

“What are you—”

Caitlyn lifts her without further comment, tucking Vi carefully into her arms, arm under Vi’s wings to provide cushioning for Vi’s back and ribs, ignoring the startled noise Vi makes as, despite herself, she obeys her instincts and reaches up for Caitlyn’s shoulders.

“Try to relax.” Caitlyn says. “—But stay awake. You need to be awake to tell me if the pain gets any worse.”

The pain has gotten worse, but Vi breathes through it, focuses irrationally on the way Caitlyn smells. It’s... floral. Has to be strong, she can smell it through the rain. She closes her eyes and presses her face more into the hard edge of a shoulderpad.

“Got it.” She grits out.

“You may find it easier to stay awake if you... make conversation.”

“You want me to make small talk with you? After you shot me?”

Caitlyn hisses out a breath. “I am trying to help.” she says, tone controlled, and...shit, that tone kinda sounds familiar. Kinda sounds like the one Vi uses when she’s upset.

“You’re a really good shot.” Vi says.

“There’s no call to rub it in—”

“No, hang on.” Vi says, cutting her off. “Hang on. I’ve got a point with this one. You’re...not used to missing this bad, huh?”

The silence is heavy, the only sound the movement of Caitlyn’s boots on the sand that’s starting to give way to proper ground, the steady drum of the rain.

“....No.” she admits. “I’m not.”

“Well. At least it’s a failure of your eye and not your aim.”

“My eye is my aim.” Caitlyn snaps, and wuh-oh. She sounds more upset now, “If I didn’t hit what I was aiming for I don’t get to retroactively claim—”

“There was nothing in the sky with me.” Vi points out. “You didn’t get mixed up between two targets. I was the only target.”

“I—” Caitlyn cuts herself off with a sigh. “Why are you comforting me?”

Vi snorts. She is, isn’t she?

“No idea.” She mumbles. “Hate seeing pretty girls upset, I guess.”

“Well I hate seeing pretty girls bleeding because I shot them.” Caitlyn deadpans, which startles a laugh out of Vi, rapidly followed by a hiss of pain as her ribs object to the jolt, and Caitlyn adjusts her.

“No more jokes.” She mumbles.

“Save ‘em, if you stick around.”

Caitlyn gives her a curious look, and Vi clarifies, trying to disguise vulnerability as banter.

“—I mean, hey, if you want to leave an injured harpie alone with a medic and just hope they’ve got my best intentions at heart, I guess I could use the practice fist fighting—”

Caitlyn hisses. “—No, I wasn’t going to leave. I just figured you would want me to wait outside. Considering.”

“Nah.” Vi says. “Not every day I get picked up.”

She gives it a beat, grins. Caitlyn sighs, but her cheeks are a little bit pink, and Vi’s tallying that a win. Truthfully, she’s... feeling out of it. The haze of the hit and the pain are a hell of a drug. She shouldn’t be allowing this at all, but it’s....working. She’ll take it.

“—Name’s Vi.” She offers. “By the way.”

“Vi.” Cait says, and the way her accent curls over it makes Vi want to ask her to say it again, and oh. Alright. This might be trouble.

Well. She’s always liked trouble.

#caitvi #vi x caitlyn #violyn #piltover's finest #wingfic au #casper's haunted fic tag #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #tw falling

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charlesemersonwinchesteriii · 2 years ago

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Charles & Hawkeye

Thank you anon! And thank you to @marley-manson @majorbaby and @charleshawk4077 who also all asked me about this same pairing. Feeling very beloved amongst the CharHawkers this week <3 My friends and allies from a neighboring land to which I venture gladly and often <3

Sidenote I wish that highlight color was blue but I couldn’t figure out how to get a colored highlight tool in any fucking program I know so I had to use the stupid yellow snipping tool highlighter. Life is so fucking hard when you have to have everything be Just Right but also you’re incompetent. But we’ve all seen The Light That Failed so moving on.

So these two are sooooooooooooooooooo

Listen. I’m just gonna say it. Hawkeye/Charles has about as much canonical evidence as Hawkeye/BJ to me. Like there’s more Hawkeye/BJ content/fodder/moments/whatever purely quantitatively because they have more scenes together but in terms of the level of homoeroticism and bonding and tenderness and all that, qualitatively Hawkeye/Charles is on equal footing. You know what I mean? Obviously the dynamic is super different but just in terms of the quality. I mean look at all these tropes. Enemies to friends to lovers. Rivals. Clown and straight man comedy duo. The Round One And The Pointy One. It’s almost too easy.

Sometimes I think that’s why it’s not a personal passion of mine, even though its fantastic potential is obvious to me. It’s kind of the same problem as Donna/Charles. It’s just too easy. It feels like Charles speedruns his character development in these two relationships a bit, compared to the rest of his character arc (as much as he has one lmao). I’ve talked before about how when it comes to fanfiction, I don’t require the whole slowburn play by play for these ships, but in canon the cute moments do sometimes feel, not unearned, but not earned quite enough. Especially since the constrictions of the episodic sitcom format means Charles’ development and Hawkeye’s treatment of him completely regresses whenever the plot necessitates.

In the end it also ties back to my main Charles grievance. Hawkeye (and everyone else by extension) is somehow always treating him both too kindly and too cruelly. It grates on me, you know? Like the yellow highlighter.

But in spite of all that: excellent duo, obviously. The chemistry is fantastic, every episode centering on their relationship is a total classic, all their moments together are memorable. The fandom really DOES sleep on this one, and it genuinely puzzles me! CharHawk nation rise!! RISE!!!

#me seeing normal people do this ask game and just post the bingo without an accompanying rant:#Ah so smart so simple so streamlined. Could not be me.#Starky loves Anons #Starky loves answering questions #CharHawk #mash #''So what even is your opinion?? That you don't ship this pairing but you think everyone else should???'' Yes :)#also I don't NOT ship it it's just not my OTP for either character #like in my supreme alpha reality Hawkeye is in a Hunnicutt sandwich and Charles is disowned for sucking working class tgirl dick #but in another also very nice reality CharHawk are living out a little hallmark movie together. because you MUST admit. they're v hallmark.#[announcer voice] Coming up next; a new heartwarming Hallmark Original Movie (TM): Christmas In Crabapple Cove!#anyways THANK YOU FOR ALL THE ASKS!!!!!!

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discountalien-pancake · 3 years ago

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Favorite asian shows and movies I’ve seen so far, ranked in order of most to least tragic:

My Country: The New Age (kdrama) - compact period drama about a turbulent transition of power in medieval Korea. Childhood best friends turned enemies due to social inequality and interference from hidden players. If you believe the true romance is between Hwi and Huijae, I would like to introduce you to a Nigerian prince. Beautifully shot, lit, and costumed. The music is perfection (and available in spotify). Hands down the best fight choreography I’ve ever seen. Throwaway lines and small moments from earlier episodes come back to haunt you. Starcrossed soulmates try and fail to sever their bonds.

Song Lang (viet movie) - a movie about a (fictional) rising star of traditional vietnamese opera and a gruff debt-collector with his own personal ties to the artform. Incredibly well-crafted loveletter to vietnamese opera and 80s sai gon. Produced by Ngo Thanh Van (yes, Quynh from the Old Guard NTV). Honestly one of my fave queer movies ever, though the romance is only implied. Doesn’t have the same flavor of being made for the straight cis female gaze that chinese danmei do. Starcrossed first love that leaves a mark on the soul. My parents loved it.

Move to Heaven (kdrama) - even more compact contemporary drama about an autistic young man who loses his father. His deadbeat uncle moves in as his guardian, and shenanigans ensue. The episodes roughly follow a Monster of the Week format, each focusing on someone who has passed away and going through the things they’ve left behind in order to give the deceased a voice. Meanwhile the protagonists have to confront the loss they’ve experienced in their own lives. Warnings for some ableism that is addressed as the characters grow. A bittersweet, beautifully crafted story about love, grief, and closure. You will cry. Bring tissues.

The Yin Yang Master: Dream of Eternity (chinese movie) - folks, it’s gay. A giant evil snake is reborn and a young yin yang master has to join forces with a demon-hunter to stop it. The problem is Qingming is rumored to be the son of a fox demon, while Boya’s mother was murdered by a fox demon. Black/White lovers. Fan Gay and Flute Gay. Enemies to soulmates speedrun. A high fantasy chinese drama that doesn’t fall victim to trying to pass off a couple of scrawny prettyboys as martial arts masters (sorry, word of honor, but i could snap those boys like twigs).

Romance of the Tiger and the Rose (cdrama) - 24(?) episodes, ridiculous good fun about a scriptwriter who falls into her own story (yes, i know, just trust me on this one). Unfortunately her character is slated to die in the third episode, and she has to think on her feet to save herself. Murder husband absolutely adores his schemer wife. One questionable scene about midway through ep 19(?) that has its purpose but is definitely deeply uncomfortable and upsetting. You’ll know it when you see it, and you can skip 30 seconds and continue without any issues. Otherwise it is a wonderful commentary on gender roles, family bonds, and social norms.

BeLoved In House: I Do (taiwanese) - 12 half-length episodes—we do not talk about episode 13. Short and sweet, ridiculously trope-filled gay romance about a young executive who takes over as the art director of a small jewelry studio. He immediately makes an enemy of the head artist by implementing a very stupid rule: employees are forbidden from having romantic relationships. Oh, and they were roommates. If you find the secondary romance bland, forgettable, or uncomfy, no worries! They are almost entirely irrelevant to the plot and you can fast-forward through all of their scenes! Definitely is intended for a straight cis female audience but also has a very sincere message that love is love.

#i’m picky as hell #BLIH has some real STUPID shit but the main romance was worth it #long post #this brought to you by my eternal struggle to find good asian media

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therenlover · 4 years ago

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Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk (A Young Revolutionary!Zemo x Non-Binary Reader Oneshot)

(a/n: so, in honor of barricade day, have this young revolutionary!Zemo fic, which is basically just canon Enjoltaire dynamics but with a Zemo/reader twist on it, because that dynamic is literally my whole heart. Consider this a weird twisted Les Mis au if you want to, but you don’t need to know the book or musical to enjoy this, if it can be enjoyed...)

Synopsis: Helmut recalls the story of how he came to be the ruthless man he is and, more specifically, how he came into possession of his strange purple mask.

Tags: Canon Compliant, Angst, Young!Zemo, Non-Binary!Reader, Death, Enemies to Friends With Benefits to Lovers????, Implied Sexual Content, Friendship, Pining, Revolution, Speedrunning A Slow Burn

Rating: M (+16)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Implied Sexual Content, Gun Violence, Drinking, Minor Homophobia/Transphobia (it’s one sentence near the end and it’s very vague coming from Heinrich), Swearing, Survivor’s Guilt, Really Just Death Everywhere

Word Count: 10,200~

“What’s with the mask?”

The question was innocent enough.

Sam posed it while lounging on the expensive couch of Zemo’s Riga apartment, head tilted back and eyes closed in silent contemplation.

Bucky remained silent as Zemo glanced over from his place at the counter. Outside, the sun was long gone, giving way to a stunning moonrise over the city that poured through the stained glass windows and lit up the night with its glow. It was quiet, much quieter than things usually were between the trio. Still, things being quiet didn’t mean they weren’t tense.

Clenching his teeth, he took in a long breath through his nose. “I am unsure what you mean by that, Sam,”

“The mask,” Sam pushed, “you know, the one you wore during the fight in Madripoor. What’s the deal with that?”

“Ah yes. That mask,” As if on cue, Zemo took a long swig from his glass. It burned all the way down. He didn’t speak again, though, instead choosing to let his gaze fall on the elaborate tilework above his countertops, tracing the patterns with his eyes. Anything to divert himself from the thoughts that rushed back into his mind at the thought of the knit piece of cloth that sat firmly in his inner coat pocket.

Unfortunately for him, Sam wasn’t satisfied with letting the topic fizzle out. “Come on man,” he griped, rubbing a hand over his face, “we got you out of prison, so you owe us one. In fact, you owe us a lot. So, spill. What the hell is the deal with it? Were you Sokovian batman or something?”

That urged a dry laugh from the baron’s lips as he set his crystal glass on the counter with a little more force than was necessary. “Are you always so interested in your captives’ personal lives?”

“Usually,” Bucky chimed in dryly.

“I suppose I’m outnumbered,” Zemo sighed. The bile rising in his throat was easy enough to force down as he turned himself out on his stool to face the room. It wasn’t the right time for true weakness, not yet, but he couldn’t deny that painting himself in a desirable light and offering the pair honesty might give him the upper hand. So, he folded.

Slowly he retrieved the purple mask from his coat and turned it over in his hands. It still fit after all the years it had sat gathering dust in his storage unit which was a blessing in its own right. It still served its original purpose too. That mask had seen horrors beyond imagination, had been washed clean of blood more times than could be counted. Did it hold the memories of the things it had seen within its fabrics as Zemo did in his mind? Or was it as naive as he had been at the time of its creation? He let out a bitter laugh. That was a question they would have asked him.

As he exchanged his literal mask for one entirely emotional, Zemo leaned back on his stool and managed a smile. “How educated are you on Sokovian politics?”

Sam shut his eyes again, letting his head lol back once more. “I went to public school, so I don’t think I even knew Sokovia existed until it didn’t,”

“I know enough,” Bucky added. From his place leaning against the way, ever vigilant and ready to jump into an imagined battle, he turned to face Zemo and crossed his arms. “Hydra had fingers in the government there, more so than other places. There was a big power struggle in the ’90s when the king died, right? Because people wanted democracy, and they didn’t want the little shithead prince to take over,”

“Yes,” Zemo nodded, “My cousin Emil. I’m glad you’re familiar,”

A spluttered laugh escaped Sam’s lips as he shot up. “I know I shouldn’t be surprised by this stuff anymore, but damn,”

“He and I weren’t close,” Zemo waved his hand dismissively, and yet there was a strange sadness in his eyes. It wasn’t for his cousin, though. Not in the least. “But James was correct, there were riots in the streets when the king died. They were shut down quickly by the National Guard, though, who had more than a little help from Hydra’s favorite supersoldiers once they realized just how much power the citizens held. What street were you assigned to, James?”

Bucky sucked in his cheeks, eyes falling to the floor, but before Sam could butt in and defend him he had muttered an answer. “I cleared the barricade at 18th Avenue, the second largest. Those kids fought valiantly,”

Zemo hummed lowly. “And so they did,”

“Okay, what does any of this have to do with your stupid purple mask?” Sam exclaimed.

He was sitting up fully now, face turned to where Zemo had stood from his stool and begun to round the bar. His mask still sat in a small ball on the marble. It seemed to be a member of the conversation all its own, silent and sure, drawing all three men together as it weaved a story from the past into the present with its very presence.

“That mask served me well and hid my identity when I stood against the very men that were serving my family,” Zemo muttered, letting his fingers brush the fabric gently. The names of the lost sat heavy on his very soul even if they would never pass from his lips.

Hans, Andrei, Ivan, Vladimir, Anton, Lazlo, Nicholas, little Sebastian…

Y/N.

“I was young then, too young for my own good,” he said softly, “naive and hopeful and convinced that the world was able to change for the better if I simply willed it to be… so when I discovered the connection between my family and Hydra I packed up my things, emptied my bank account, and moved into a tiny apartment with another like-minded friend, Hans Perlitch,” a soft laugh escaped him, genuine and youthful and all too honest, “We preached to the hungry masses of a world free from the thumb of the elite and all the while we would return home to a heated apartment and a stocked pantry. Still, we were well-liked and gathered a bit of a following. That was when everything changed, the early fall of 1997…”

------------

“You know, for someone who claims to be as smart as you say you are, you’re quite a fool,”

The voice came from the back of the room, smoke still hanging thick in the air from the cigarettes shared by the masses of students that had packed the tiny repurposed stockroom of the bar while Helmut had given his speech for the week.

He didn’t give the interloper the dignity of his full attention as he gathered a few of his scattered notes from the table that served as his soapbox. Still, he was in a generally good mood. Almost double the usual students had shown up for the meeting and a few had even chimed in to ask questions, so he took a deep breath and resigned himself to the fact that rooting out one ignorant opposer now would mean less work in the long run. “I’ve never claimed to be smart, so I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to,”

A scoff came from the back of the room, but the person made no effort to come closer. “You can change your last name and present yourself as a member of the public all you want, but someday someone is gonna recognize that pretty face of yours, and your whole revolution is going to come crumbling to the ground,”

Now that was enough to make him pause.

“How did you-”

“How could I not?”

It was sardonic, biting and harsh in the worst of ways. Everything about the tone made Helmut’s blood boil beneath his skin. He was not one who enjoyed being threatened or outdone. Still, the play was out of his hands now, should this strange intruder choose to ruin him.

Biting his tongue, he finally turned to face them. “You have my attention, now what do you want?”

Across the room, the stranger remained unphased. They were relatively unremarkable, a bottle of cheap beer held firmly in their grip as they toasted to nothing and drank down the remaining dregs. With a smile and a chuckle, they propped their feet up on the small, round table before them. Something about that sight lit a fire in Helmut’s chest. He didn’t know who they were, or why he was there, but he was certain that he despised them already.

“I don’t want anything,” They replied, and with a certain grandness reserved for a gamin mocking the bourgeoisie, they flourished with their hands, letting their booted feet drop to the ground as they stood and bowed. “I’m just saying that if you’re trying to convince people that you’re not the missing baron while you’re pretending to be all impoverished and rallying us commoners, you might want to change more than your last name and your fashion sense,”

Helmut gritted his teeth. “So what? Did you come here just to rub my face in it, or are you going to help me make a change?”

That elicited a small snort from the stranger, but they did take the opportunity to traipse up to meet him at his table, leaning on the edge as they gazed up at him with a strange look in their eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. Their face was soft upon closer examination, alive and bright with a merriment that only came from intoxication. It made Helmut sneer involuntarily.

Licking their lips, they murmured, “Make a change? Is that what you think you’re doing?” and as they let a giggle escape their parted lips Helmut lost it.

He gasped them firmly by the front of their baggy sweater and dragged them in close. “At least I’m trying! What are you doing about it? Extorting the only person who might be able to actually make a change in this shithole of a country? That’s so much more helpful!”

Their faces were inches apart as Helmut spat his words like venom and yet the stranger never stopped smiling. It was almost dopey, the grin that made its way across their lips. Helmut couldn’t stand it.

“You know, baron,” they purred, setting down their empty bottle on the table beside them, “I like you. I might just stick around here for a little while, see what else about your little plan I can pick apart,”

Never in his life had Helmut been less thrilled for someone to join his cause.

“Why are you here anyway,” he groaned, releasing their shirt, “don’t you have something better to do with your Friday night than bother me?” and, as an extra jab, he added, “besides drinking yourself to death, of course,”

The jab didn’t land, though.

Taking it all in stride, the stranger simply grinned as if they too knew how badly they stank of cheap alcohol and was thrilled that someone had noticed. “Anton invited me. He said I should get out more, make some friends. It’s just a coincidence that I happened to recognize you while writing down an itemized list of all the things you got wrong while you grandstanded,” There was a pride in their words, a giddy energy burbling just beneath the surface of their skin, and suddenly it all made sense.

Anton was newer to their group, a poet and a free thinker, something hard to find in the slums of Novi Grad. Still, he lightened the impromptu meetings up with his smile and would often spend the hour scrawling away fervently in his notebook as he immortalized each and every word that was said “for posterity”. Helmut was sure that only someone as accepting as Anton would ever choose to spend their time with someone quite as insufferable as the person before him. Suddenly, and uncomfortably, he became aware that he didn’t even know their name.

Swallowing down a nasty barb, Helmut sighed and offered up his hand, which the stranger took after a moment of pause. “And you are?”

“Y/N,” They replied.

“Well, Y/N,” he spat their name from his mouth like a cherry pit, “I suppose I’ll have to get used to having a man like you-”

“Don’t call me that,”

Helmut cocked his head to the side. “Pardon?”

“Don’t call me a man,” Y/N replied, “and before you ask I don’t want to be called a woman either. I’m just… I’m just Y/N, at least for now I am, it’s not like I’d give a rich brat like you my legal name while we’re mixed up in all this illegal, halfway-treasonous nonsense you insist on spouting. Maybe next week I’ll be something completely different and new. Until I tell you otherwise, though, I’m just Y/N, your highness,”

“Do I dare dream that that means you might learn to respect my ideas?” Helmut sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face and choosing to ignore the sarcastic address in the hopes of letting such things fizzle and die without encouragement. Unfortunately, the goofy grin he got in return told him that was wishful thinking.

Suddenly, the door opened and Helmut jumped away from his newest tentative ally (if you could call them that) to find Hans standing in the doorway. At his side was Andrei, the third in command of their little posse and final member of the leading triumvirate. They seemed shocked at his lateness and he was quick to try to gather himself up lest they see him as undone as he had found himself while facing the smallest taste of Y/N’s antagonistic nature.

What had he even been doing when they interrupted him? It took him a moment to even gather himself together enough to remember. Scanning the room, his eyes fell on the papers

Oh yes, he had been gathering up his notes…

He was quick to finish the task as Y/N sauntered away towards the door, preparing to push past the two men who stood beyond it.

“You’re Anton’s friend, right?” Hans asked, back stiff. When Y/N nodded he did little more than give a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat. He had always been good with making things impersonal as he crunched the numbers and calculated probabilities. That was why Helmut liked him so much.

Andrei, on the other hand, provided a needed warmth to their leadership in his outreach.

He smiled warmly at Y/N and clapped a hand on their shoulder. “I hope we’ll be seeing more of you around,”

Y/N was quick to offer one of their signature grins before winking back at Helmut in a way that made his stomach turn. “Oh, you’ll be seeing plenty of me from now on,”

“We’re glad to have you,” Andrei replied as they passed.

Before they fully left, though, they turned one last time to shoot Helmut a final smile. “Till next Friday, fearless leader,”

Then, Y/N was gone, lost in the crowd of revelers beyond the small, smokey storeroom and, more importantly, beyond where Helmut’s eyes could follow. Somehow, despite everything, he missed having them there. He quickly chalked the feeling up to wanting to keep a close eye on people with the ability to thwart his best-laid plans and left it at that. Besides, he had no room in his heart for anything besides the betterment of Sokovia.

Attachments meant the possibility of other priorities, and other priorities got people killed. He couldn’t have that happening on his watch.

Thankfully, Hans snapped him out of his melancholy quickly. “Do you have everything sorted?”

Helmut gave a short nod before tapping the pile of papers against the table and setting out towards the door, abandoning his thoughts and feelings about his interaction with Y/N at the table as he exited the room and gathered himself once more into the man his friends needed him to be.

He could only hope that as long as he ignored Y/N’s jabs, they would soon grow tired and be gone within the month once they realized he was anything but afraid of their little games.

------------

Much to Helmut’s abject disappointment, Y/N did not, in fact, stop showing up.

They did quite the opposite.

Instead of leaving him well enough alone, they showed up to Helmut’s meetings every single Wednesday and Friday for months, always piss drunk and happy to jeer at him from the corner, shouting their unwanted opinions and throwing off every meeting with their nonsense.

It was as if they did it just to get on his nerves, and get on his nerves they did.

As the seasons changed, from spring, to winter, to fall, and, finally, to the very beginnings of summer, so did the types of jabs Y/N decided to throw.

In the beginning it was all business, comments on the idiocy of his plans for a protest based on common police routes or mocking jokes about his unending optimism when it came to fighting the national guard on a large scale, but as things began to get more and more serious on the path towards a full-fledged revolt, they seemed to aim more and more of their vitriol towards Helmut personally.

Sometimes it was a comment on his face or voice. “Ease up pretty boy,” they’d jeer, “keep talking like that and a guardsman might just do more than knock out a few of your perfect teeth,” Other times, which Helmut found infinitely worse, they’d throw a jab at his ability to lead them to victory. “The only thing that waits for us at the end of this is a painful death, especially if you’re not joking about those fucking super soldiers they supposedly have on ice,”

The worst part was that half the time, Y/N was right.

Helmut hated to admit it but it was true. More than once he had to go back and edit his plans to take into account a valid point thrown in by Y/N that he had never even considered. Hell, if it had been anyone else picking him to nothing he would have been grateful, but it wasn’t a well-meaning contributor trying to make the world a better place, it was a drunk who seemed to have one solitary life goal: making his life as miserable as possible. Perhaps that’s why they had devolved to frantic angry fucks behind crates of wine and massive cans of chocolate spread after the worst of their arguments…

Not that Helmut cared for them.

No, he didn’t do attachments. Neither did Y/N. They hated each other, after all.

It was just a way to release their tensions at the end of stressful meetings and nothing more. They were dealing with matters of life and death after all. It was only normal to seek comfort in the warmth of a companion, if he could even call Y/N a companion.

Whether he liked it or not, though, they were they to stay, even if they rarely made themself useful to the cause.

By early June, the drunkard had become close friends with all of the remaining students that still gathered at Helmut’s location for meetings instead of ending up at the offshoots that began to form once the group got too big to pile into the storeroom. Helmut loathed thinking about it, but Y/N was probably invited to more birthdays and Saturday night get-togethers than he ever was. There was something about their smile that drew people in. It made them feel wanted, welcome. Helmut hated that he never got those smiles from Y/N, only ever the mocking, blithe kind that they handed out freely to friends and enemies alike.

He didn’t have time to think about that, though. Not with so much fast approaching as the first pears began to hang from branches down in the royal orchards, soft and ripe and ready to be harvested. Their growth marked King Hugo’s daily weakening. His death could come any day, and when it did, Helmut knew he would need to strike quickly if he truly hoped to overturn the system before the coronation of his cousin. That meant every meeting, now more frequently held throughout the week, was filled to the brim with preparations and planning.

Well, preparations and planning and a healthy dose of Y/N and Helmut yelling at each other about nonsense across the room until Anton or Laszlo stepped in to pull Y/N down into their chair once more so the meeting could resume and they could all go home before things got too late and they were questioned in the street on why they were possibly out and about at such an hour.

Things were no different on that Friday meeting on June 4th.

“Is there anyone here who isn’t already passing out pamphlets in the dorms at NVU tonight?” Helmut asked the room, scanning for a hand that didn’t belong to his least favorite member of the group. Unfortunately, none came up. “Come one now, at least one of you has to be free,”

Y/N groaned. “It’s like you don’t even see my hand waving up here, oh great one,” There they went again with the ridiculous terms of address that made Helmut’s blood sizzle in his veins. He remained composed, though. At least, as composed as he could be given the situation.

“I’m ignoring you because I remember the last time I asked your drunk ass to pass out pamphlets. What round of dominos were you on by the time I showed up to check on you, five or six?”

The scalding remark was enough to get Y/N to sheepishly lower their hand, eyes downcast. It was getting easier and easier for Helmut to manage to shut them up the more frantic meetings got, and he couldn’t say he was displeased by that fact no matter why it was the way that it was. A quiet Y/N meant less chance for mistakes which meant fewer future casualties. Fewer casualties were good, it was what he strived for.

Thankfully for Helmut, a new hand came up.

It belonged to Vladimir, the oldest of the group by a year rounding out at an even 26 years old. He was dependable, definitely the kind who could be trusted to run an errand as important as the one Helmut needed to have done. The thought that Vladimir would be the one to pick up the shipment of smuggled guns was a relief. He made as much evident while explaining their next moves.

Throughout the remainder of the meeting, though, Helmut couldn’t help but feel watched. It didn’t last long, half an hour at most. Still, there was the creeping itch on the back of his neck that told him there were eyes on him that he wasn’t aware of. Only when the group was dismissed and the feeling didn’t go away did he realize exactly who was staring at him so intently.

“I hope you know I really did intend to hand out those pamphlets,” Y/N said once they were the last one remaining, the rest of the group having trickled out to get food and drinks before heading home for the night. It wasn’t unusual for Helmut and Y/N to be the last two remaining at the end of a meeting. That didn’t mean he was happy about it though.

So, instead of offering up an acknowledgment, he busied himself with plotting out a few potential spots to barricade the roads and hunker down when things got messy in highlighter on the large, laminated map of Novi Grad that had found its home on the big front table.

Y/N didn’t let up, though. They never did. “I know you don’t believe me, why would you, but I did. I just wanted to loosen them up before I started talking about overthrowing the damn government, which is a terrible plan, by the way. Have I told you that lately?”

“Only every time you see me,” Helmut sighed.

Somehow, that made Y/N smile, soft and sarcastic and all too honest. Helmut didn’t know how they managed it. Secretly, he envied their neverending veracity. He’d never say that though. No, not while they crossed the floor and offered up a large bottle of whiskey.

“A drink, dear leader?”

“Absolutely not” He griped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How many times do I need to remind you I don’t drink?”

“Too many,”

“For once, I agree with you,”

A laugh passed through Y/N’s plush lips and, regrettably, Helmut couldn’t help but look up at them and relish in the sight. Their hair was a bit longer than they usually grew it out, a particularly unruly piece tucked behind their ear. Helmut hated that he noticed little details like that, despised the way he had come to know the soft dip of their cupid’s bow and the warmth of their palm. It was still Y/N, after all, for better or worse. He couldn’t help but allow himself those small recognitions though. It made him feel human, or something close to it.

Still, all good things must come to an end, and they did when Y/N decided to speak again. “You know, the longer I show up for these stupid meetings, the more I think you’re actually gonna try to go up against those bastards,”

Helmut should have known the barb was coming, but perhaps his better nature, if it truly existed, prevented that. Nevertheless, he sighed into his hands as he dropped his highlighter. “If I didn’t intend to actually try to change things, why would I have spent the last year of my life living in a shitty apartment and putting up with you?”

“You’d be surprised the things people do and never finish. Not everyone is as driven as you are,” Y/N huffed. They were quick to seat themself on the table once Helmut wasn’t actively working over it, smearing the highlighter away on their corduroy pants. “Nobody would blame you if you did tap out, you know. There are plenty of ways to make a change that don’t involve trying to take down the entire local Sokovian military force until they decide to give you what you want,”

“The changes we could make without a revolt wouldn’t really be changes, they’d just be the illusion of changes. You know that as well as I do,” Helmut replied with a groan.

Two of the fingers from Y/N’s free hand, the one that wasn’t gripping their bottle like a lifeline, pointed towards the closed door behind them. “Is living under our current system and knowing they have fingers in a few less-than-savory organizations really worse than leading all of your friends to their deaths?”

That struck a nerve in Helmut’s chest.

“And who says that has to be true?”

“Come on, oh benevolent and giving baron,” Y/N’s voice was light yet pointed, like a million minuscule particles of glass flying through the air, “Do you really think we’re all gonna make it out of a fight with the big guys? And even if all of us do, can you say the same for the poor kids fighting where we aren’t?”

“I never said there would be no casualties-”

“What about Sebastian? The kid is barely 12 and I know you’re going to say that if he tries to show up, you’re gonna send him home, but I think you underestimate how many people will want even someone as young as him dead if they catch him in the street. Are you really going to let him risk his life for this? A half-assed plan for you to get revenge on your asshole relatives for making your childhood shitty?”

“You know that’s not what this is about,”

“Do I?” Y/N asked, and for just a second, no, a millisecond, Helmut wasn’t sure anymore. It was only a brief moment though, nothing more. The fact that they could make him doubt himself do deeply though… it was a problem. Calling it that was an understatement, but there was no other way to put it that truly worked.

Helmut growled lowly and nodded, pushing the doubt from his mind. He was right. He had to be right. What would he be if he was wrong? A spoiled rich boy who was leading his friends to their dooms for nothing?

No.

He had to be right, so he was. It was as simple as that.

“Is there anything else you need to critique, or can you leave me to work now?” Helmut asked. His patience had long since worn thin. That didn’t matter much to Y/N, though. They liked to wear him down thin, see just how far they could push without breaking his resolve. It was a game they were both intimately acquainted with.

They played their hand expertly. “In fact,” Y/N smiled while they spoke, another mocking little grin that made Helmut’s stomach turn in the best and worst of ways, “there is one last thing I needed to ask about,”

“I shudder to think what it might be,”

“How are you going to hide your face?”

The question caught Helmut off-guard as he leaned back on his heels, letting his forearms brace against the edge of the table, his face scrunching up in thought. “What?”

Y/N gestured absently towards his face before bringing their bottle to their lips. “I’m betting that your family will expect you to be out there whenever we actually stage our attack. If I’m right, that means the soldiers will be looking for you as their top priority, and if they find you, they’ll kill everybody around you just to get a chance to drag you back to mommy and daddy. Even if they don’t kill us on sight we’ll be charged for harboring you without turning you in to the proper authorities. So, how are you going to hide your face?”

Once again, Helmut found himself thinking that, despite their drunken stupor, Y/N might just be right, and he hated it. He hated that he hadn’t thought of it first, hated that it was a valid point, hated that he had no satisfying way to answer the question they had posed. He hated it all.

“I’ll just throw on a bandana,” He managed to grumble, and that was that.

Or, that should have been that, but Y/N scoffed at the idea, setting down their bottle and leaning in close to Helmut’s face. After a moment of contemplation, they brought their hand up to his face and let their thumb come to rest on one of his largest beauty marks, the mole that rested high on the left side of his nose. “I’m afraid that a bandana isn’t going to cover up your absolutely blinding radiance, fearless leader,” There was a softness to their voice, a gentility Helmut was unused to. It made his chest hurt. He hated that too.

“Are you going to offer a solution or are you just going to sit there telling me I’m stupid,” His words were a low groan.

Much to his surprise, though, Y/N reached into their back pocket only to pass him a crumpled purple ball. It was obviously fabric, though the outside seemed to be coated in some sort of weatherproofing, and upon closer inspection, once unraveled, two distinct eyeholes became visible.

“Is this-”

“A mask?” Y/N finished his sentence for him, “Yeah. I figured you wouldn’t think about it, so I whipped something up with some old polyester-based yarn and then I coated it so it wouldn’t be a problem if it got wet. It should still be breathable, though,”

For the first time since he’d known them, Helmut looked up at Y/N and thought that they were incredibly valuable. He still hated them, of course he did. Y/N was Y/N and he was himself and they hated each other because they were, at their basest, entirely incompatible.

At his silence, Y/N looked away, almost nervous. “I hope it’s alright,”

“It’s more than alright,” Helmut said as kindly as he could possibly manage, “I hate to say this, but owe you one,”

“Could I collect on that debt now?” Minutely, Y/N leaned closer, eyes falling to Helmut’s lips.

He swallowed thickly. “You’re drunk, Y/N,”

“I know I am. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Why would that be wonderful?”

“Because that means I won’t remember this,” And, with that, they closed the gap between the two of them and captured Helmut’s lips in his own.

Kissing Y/N wasn’t a new thing. They had kissed plenty of times during their frenzied hookups; soft kisses and hard kisses and long kisses and short kisses. Still, Helmut would never get used to the thrill of it. That was yet another thing he hated about Y/N. He could never quite get used to them. Every single interaction always felt as fresh and raw as their first.

With a fervor only he could muster, Helmut kissed back and pushed at Y/N’s hips, pressing them harder into the table below, and just as quickly as he had gained a physical mask, he had lost his emotional one.

------------

In the end, that was the last time Helmut had slept with Y/N.

They had fallen together, two sweaty half-dressed bodies laid out over the laminated map of Novi Grad, and then Y/N had gathered themself up and left with little more than one last kiss pressed to Helmut’s temple. By the time he himself had gotten home to Hans, the news of King Hugo’s death was almost an hour old.

After a few phone calls to lay the final plans and keep every sect of their band of revolutionaries on the same schedules, things rolled into motion like a finely tuned machine.

On the morning of June 5th, the barricades rose and Helmut wore his mask proudly as his people fought for freedom in the streets he had walked since childhood. Y/N was beside him.

By the early hours of June 6th, they were the only barricade that remained.

Helmut should have known that once things got too challenging that the super soldiers would be released, he should have anticipated that they’d be waiting for the backlash once king Hugo passed, and yet he hadn’t. He had blindly walked into the disaster with his eyes wide open. There was no one to blame but himself.

Little Sebastian, just one month shy of 13 years old, was dead, shot at long distance when he had attempted to grab a fallen box of bullets that had toppled over the peak of the jumble of hoarded furniture and scrap metal. Anton was dead too, taken at gunpoint while he stood guard at a side street and executed with his eyes bound and a sonnet on his lips. Even Ivan, stoic and strong Ivan who bound his knuckles in boxer’s tape and sparred with Helmut when he needed to clear his head, had been caught in the initial fire and bled out over the course of the day, dying with a smile on his face as he leaned on a discarded chair.

I never said there’d be no casualties.

His own words rang in his ears, taunted him with every bullet he shot and every breath he dragged into his aching lungs. How had he ever been so naive to believe that even one life could be expendable?

The real lowest point came at almost midnight when Helmut picked up a call from a student on another barricade only to met with screaming. “Winter is coming!” They had wailed, “Winter is coming!” and then they had died, right there over speakerphone. Helmut had the good sense to hang up once it got to the worst of it, the strangled gurgled growing to be too much for the group.

As things truly settled, in those hours so early that the world still considered them night, Helmut still stood vigilant. That’s when Y/N finally approached.

They wore no smile, not like usual. Instead, their face was stoic as they came to stand beside Helmut and waited silently for a moment. He took the chance to beat them to the punch.

“You don’t have to tell me you were right. I know you were,” I hate you for it.

Y/N offered a gentle, humorless laugh. “I wouldn’t rub it in at a time like this, but yeah, I was,” I know you do. I hate myself for it too.

Slowly, Helmut brought a hand to his face, scrubbing the exhaustion away from his eyes. How had it all come to this?

“How much time do you think we have,” Y/N was speaking before he had a chance to say anything more, saving him from having to elaborate on his admission. He was grateful. Grateful to not be alone, grateful to be spared more shame, grateful to see Y/N’s gentle smile one more time. He’d never show it though. No, he was to be the fearless leader till the end.

So, he sucked in a deep breath and stared out into the starry sky. “A few hours at most. I’m surprised they haven’t made another advance after the last big push in the evening when we lost…” he swallowed thickly, “when we lost Anton,”

Licking their lips and pushing back their hair, Y/N sighed. “For what it’s worth, for a minute there I really believed you could do it,”

It was a bigger compliment than it seemed and they both knew it, but neither acknowledged it. Instead, Helmut gestured absently towards the half-full bottle of wine in Y/N’s hand. “You mind if I have a drink of that?”

A grin spread across their lips, but it was as far from mocking as was possible as they passed the bottle over.

“I never thought I’d see the day,”

Lifting the bottom of his mask to take a swig, Helmut groaned at the deep, bitter burn of it. “Don’t get used to it,” He replaced the fabric quickly before passing the bottle back.

“I’ll try not to,”

“Happy 20th, by the way,” Y/N added, “this is a hell of a way to celebrate, but it’s very you,”

Helmut froze as the realization sunk in that it was, in fact, the 6th of June, even if it had only been that way for a couple hours.

There had been a party planned. It was just an intimate thing, cake and a few card games in the afternoon with his closest friends, but that was long behind them now, forgotten in favor of the larger cause. To Y/N, though, there was never a larger cause than Helmut himself. He was realizing that slowly. In a bitter moment of realization, he laughed.

“What?”

“You weren’t invited,”

They quirked up an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“To the birthday party. I didn’t invite you,”

“Well, I’m here now, and this is a pretty good party if I do say so myself. You and me and the revolution all jam-packed together in the middle of a street. Wouldn’t it be cool if the new democracy was born on the same day you were?”

He smiled softly. “It was meant to be,”

“I got you something, you know, even though I knew I wasn’t invited to the party,” Y/N added breathlessly. “It was stupid, just some dumb sweater with a whole bunch of random ass quotes from Machiavelli all over the back, but Anton and I saw it when we visited the better side of town to hang up those fliers for the march a few weeks ago and we knew you had to have it. It’s sitting all wrapped up on my front table,”

“It’s a shame I won’t get to open it today,”

They nodded distantly. “Yeah, a real shame…”

Then, they were quiet again, staring up at the stars mere feet away from each other and yet miles apart, farther than they’d ever been.

Y/N cut through the soundless night first, but not before several silent minutes had passed, filled with only the distant chatter of their surviving friends and the gentle whistling of the breeze over the rooftops above. “When everything goes to shit… with the universe, I mean, not now. Everything’s already gone to shit now. But that notwithstanding, when the world goes kaput and the sun explodes, we’re all gonna be starstuff together, right? You and I and Sebastian and Andrei and Anton and… all of us. We’re gonna be nothing but matter and dust out there in space,”

“Is there a point to this or are you just having an existential crisis?” Helmut muttered, but there was no bite to it.

They just chuckled as their eyes scanned the sky.

“I was just thinking, if all of us are gonna be nothing more than matter and dust and star stuff, it only makes sense that someday, even if it’s a billion years from now, a little part of each of us will be together again as part of some supernova in the sky to be seen by somebody else, and, when that day comes, I think I’m gonna know, and everything is gonna be alright,”

He hummed thoughtfully, running a hand absently over the thick purple knit of his mask, relishing in the gummy softness of the coating on his bare fingertips in the cooling air. “That makes no sense,”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Still, it’s a pretty thought. Anton would have liked it,”

“Yeah, he would have…”

Helmut let his eyes fall from the sky to his companion. They looked so fragile, so broken, that he could barely stand himself, because, if he hadn’t made the stupid choices to lead them here, they never would have felt that way. They’d be curled up in bed somewhere, asleep and safe, far from the cold darkness of the night at his side. It made him sick.

How could he possibly put that to words? How could he apologize for denying every nudge, every chance to turn around? He couldn’t, and it made him as bitter as the wine that Y/N sipped from absently before turning to face him once again.

“Hey, Helmut,” they whispered, and his breath caught in his throat because how dare his voice sound so sweet on their lips? How dare they keep that joy, the joy of hearing his name whispered with reverence on the early morning breeze, real and caring and perfect, away from him for so long? “Do you think I could take a chair from the barricade?”

Just as soon as it had come, the joy was gone. “Why would you need a chair?”

Y/N shrugged. “I want to go sleep,”

“Why can’t you sleep out here?”

“I don’t want to be woken up,”

“We wouldn’t wake you until the fighting was starting back up again-”

“Oh, my darling fearless leader,” their voice was empty, tinny and cold, “I don’t ever want to be woken up,”

Their words pierced Helmut straight through the heart he didn’t know he had. It made him feel so much, so many emotions he had simply not allowed himself out of a misplaced sense of self-preservation. “But we’ll need every able body ready to fight when they send in the super soldiers if we even want a chance at making it out of this,”

The smile that crossed Y/N’s lips didn’t come from a place of joy, nor did it mock Helmut for his blind and dying faith. It was simply there because they did not know how to do anything else. “There’s no making it out of this. Not for me, at least. For you, though… you still have a chance,”

Denial and anger went hand in hand as Helmut sucked his teeth, grinding his molars and letting his hand ghost over his pistol hanging at his hip.

“So you’d really rather die like a coward than take a stand against the evils in the world?” he spat, harsh and cold as the air around them. “Pathetic,”

“Don’t do this now, Helmut, not after we were finally getting somewhere. I don’t want to die with things like that,”

“I’m not the one who’s giving up,” he snapped.

He just needed… something. A reaction. A reason to keep fighting when the war was already lost. Anything. Why couldn’t Y/N light the same fire in him that they’d kindled for months? The fire that had driven him to spend sleepless nights poring over maps and plans and speeches and guns. If he just pushed a little harder, just hit the right button, they’d light it again, he just knew it.

“Please,” the word fell fragile from Y/N’s lips. Not a beg, just a soft plea.

It fell on deaf ears.

“You know what? You can take your chair!” Helmut was shouting then, loud enough that the remaining students on the barricade could hear every word. “Take your chair and leave us to fight while you die in your sleep. If we make it through the day I’ll put the bullet between your eyes myself. Now get out of here! I don’t want to see you again,” There was a cruelty to it, an edge that he thought might just push them off the edge. Still, it wasn’t cruel without reason. Helmut thought that maybe, if he was lucky enough, Y/N would simply leave.

They had no stakes in the results of the revolt, no serious lasting ties that would get them hunted down in the weeks to come if things came to a gruesome end. If he bid them to leave, to disappear from his sight, there was a chance, however small, that they would disappear into the shadows with a chance to live.

Against all odds, though, Y/N smiled one of those empty smiles again and drank down the very last of their wine.

“As your baronship commands,” they whispered, before departing to gather up a chair and disappearing into the restaurant where they had met so many times before.

Then, they were gone, and Helmut was free to sink to the ground as his heart broke and mended and broke again.

------------

As expected, the super soldiers arrived only a couple of hours past Y/N’s departure.

Their arrival was silent, only marked by the slow thud of retreating national guardsmen in the distance. They weren’t needed there anymore, and the less they saw the better.

Helmut watched his friends fall one by one in the panic, the barricade falling to ruin as the soldiers- if they could even be considered that, soldier seemed a far too human term for the monstrous creatures before him- pulled it apart with their bare hands. From there it was just a game of who was caught first in the insanity that ensued.

Nicholas; caught a bullet through the neck.

Vladimir; thrown against a solid stone wall at a speed near impossible.

Lazlo; impaled on a bit of broken wood as the wood exploded.

Andrei; shot 3 times point-blank in the chest as he held the door closed to buy Hans and Helmut a little more time with a love confession for his closest companion falling from his mouth.

Hans…

Helmut didn’t know how Hans died.

He had never asked. All he knew that the shots had come as he wailed Andrei’s name, and then there was a deathly silence in the golden light of the morning sun as Helmut stood alone at the back of the storeroom, taking in the 4 walls that had held the best year of his life.

What remained now?

A failed dream? A pile of bodies? A single survivor waiting for his death?

Helmut didn’t know. He couldn’t fathom it.

The two soldiers sent to finish the job were nameless and nondescript as they slipped through the door, armed with long, silent rifles and hidden by masks not too dissimilar from Helmut’s own. They did not speak, not a word. Instead, they simply raised their guns and took aim at Helmut as he closed his eyes and thought of-

“Wait!”

The word rang out heavy and made the two executioners snap to the side.

“I’m with him! I’m with the revolution! Down with King Emil! Down with the monarchy!”

There, hidden among the crates and shelves of canned goods and glass bottles, was Y/N.

They looked objectively awful, eyes rimmed red and hair mussed up and coated with oil. Still, it was the most beautiful sight Helmut had ever seen.

It was only right that they go together.

Slowly, Y/N made their way across the room to take their place at Helmut’s side. “I know you said you never wanted to see me again, but I assume you’ll make an exception for the circumstances,”

“I never meant it,” he whispered back, and Y/N smiled, “You have to know, I never meant it,”

“Even if you did, I never would have listened-”

Suddenly, one of the soldiers spoke, taking aim straight for Helmut down the barrel of their gun.

“Quiet,”

Y/N only paused for a moment before pressing their hand into his. “Kiss me, Helmut?”

Who was he to deny them?

Pulling off his mask, he pressed his lips to theirs and clasped their hand like it was the last thing he would ever do. When he pulled away, they were smiling one of their old, mocking, joyous smiles.

“Oh, fearless leader… I win,”

The words were a whisper of air against his lips. Before he could fathom the true meaning of them the pair was peppered in a spray of gunfire as Helmut closed his eyes to the world for what should have been the final time.

When he opened them, Y/N was struck dead at his feet.

------------

It was their final winning move, he later realized, the checkmate to a game of chess he never believed would end.

In the end, Y/N had been as correct as they always were.

All the same, he hated them for it.

Some nights, in the darkness of his room back at the summer estate where his father has imprisoned him until further notice, he wondered if Y/N had kissed him because they wanted to or if they had done it to get him to remove his mask long enough that the soldiers would recognize him and spare him. It wouldn’t surprise him. Y/N did have a tendency to be right about things like that.

Ghosts haunted him often.

Not full specters, he would wish for something so merciful. Instead, he saw flashes in the periphery of his vision. Outside his window, he’d hear a child’s laugher and be so sure it was Sebastian until he looked out to find that it was simply a group of the staff’s children playing ball. Or, when the assigned guardsman brought him his dinner, he would glance down the hall and be so sure that a man at the other end was Lazlo, preparing to face a board of proctors as he delivered a thesis he would never write. It never was, though. It never would be.

Worst of all, when he laid awake in his bed as the clock struck twelve, he would feel them beside him.

They had never slept together in the literal sense. Whatever they had shared (love, Helmut would come to realize after many, many years with Heike, painfully hollow without the same kind of flame. He had loved them and simply never known how to show it) was purely physical and contained within that bloody, bloody storeroom that he was sure would be torn down someday soon as they glossed over the casualties and stamped out the evidence. Still, he could feel Y/N beside him in the darkness despite the fact that they had never been there.

Their head on his chest, their body pressed flush to his side, their hot breath fanning over the fabric of his nightshirt, creating a patch of damp warmth in its wake…

It was maddening, an eternal punishment he was doomed to endure for his stupidity. Nevertheless, if he let his brain wander to a better place, a different lifetime, it was almost comforting to feel their ghost wrapped tightly to his side.

When he woke, though, the loss of the dream was more maddening than living through it.

Almost a month after the failed revolution, in the hot and heady days of early July when the wasps buzzed loud at the window and the skies were filled with thunderclouds most of the time, his father finally came to speak to him.

“I trust you spent your birthday how you wished to,” Heinrich said plainly. There was no question to it, just an empty sentiment.

Mockery wasn’t nearly as pleasant when delivered by his father and not his lover, Helmut thought distantly.

“On the contrary, I spent my birthday watching everyone I cared about die,” he snapped back.

Heinrich didn’t offer any sort of commiseration. He simply shrugged and continued on with what he was there to say, not that his son minded much. The less time he spent there the more time Helmut would have to himself, which was preferable to listening to his father’s droning.

“You’re lucky to be alive. The family is on thin ice thanks to that stunt you pulled, but with time we’re all sure that you’ll become an asset if you simply learn to use that fire for something more… productive,”

Who the ‘we’ was went unspoken. It didn’t need to be.

Helmut sighed and looked out the window at the rain falling on the garden. Nicholas would have loved the gardens at this home. He would have pressed every flower at least once in the little book he kept beside him filled with the pieces of the world that he collected as he passed through it. Where would he be kept and collected now that he was dead?

“I’ve called in a favor and enrolled you for military service. You’ll be tested to find your strengths, sent where you’re best suited, and trained from the ground up. Once we know you can be trusted, you might even lead your own squadron and make some friends more of your caliber,”

It took all Helmut’s strength to clench his teeth and hold back the rage he felt in his chest. “When do I leave?”

“As soon as you’re married,”

Married.

The word struck a bolt through the rage and dissolved it, giving way to pure shock. “What the hell do you mean?”

Crossing his arms, Heinrich took to pacing a 2-foot line back and forth in front of the door. “We’ve found a suitable match from a good standing Sokovian family, and they’re willing to look past your little misstep as long as their daughter becomes a baroness and is adequately involved in society. She’ll be here in three days time and you’ll have a week to get acquainted before the wedding,”

“I never said I was going to get married,” Helmut growled, “You can’t make me get married,”

His father stared down at him from above like he was a little boy again. “I can make you do whatever I want. Don’t think I didn’t hear about what happened with that freak they shot down at your side! No son of mine is ending up with someone like-”

In an instant, Helmut had rushed across the room and punched his father square in the jaw. As blood poured down the man’s face, a hiss escaped his son’s lips.

“Never talk about Y/N like that again,”

“So it had a name!”

That earned him another punch, but Heinrich escaped Helmut’s grip quickly, cupping a hand beneath his nose to catch the redness that poured from his face. As he retreated out the door, he turned to deliver his final verdict. “You have three days to get your act together, and maybe, just maybe, if you don’t fuck this up, I’ll let you know where they dumped all your little friends to rot,” And with that, he shut the door behind him and left Helmut to pick up the pieces of his soul.

------------

The tale Zemo wove was a sad one (sans most of the details about Y/N. That was a story whose finer details he would take to his grave) and as he came to a close, the purple fabric between his fingers was a tether to reality. The coating was a bit old, thinner in places than it should have been, but it had remained steady and strong for over 20 years and he didn’t know the first place to start repairing it.

Y/N would have known, they’d been the one to do it in the first place after all, but they were long gone, not even a ghost anymore. Just a name and a face forgotten to time as all the other impoverished students were, buried in an unmarked grave in a place he never learned. It was all that remained of them. The only thing that proved they were ever there at all.

“You know the rest of the story,” he added firmly. “I married Heike, climbed the ranks of the military, had my son… and they were simply lost, an unwritten page in the history of a country that no longer exists,”

Suddenly, though, a deep voice cut in through the heavy air between them.

“Ciczheni,”

“Pardon?” Zemo asked softly, pouring himself a final tumbler of whiskey and stuffing the mask back in his pocket.

“We buried them in Ciczheni,”

He nearly dropped the bottle in his hand.

Bucky was quick to continue, voice low and eyes clouded with memory in a way that only the two of them would ever truly understand. “It’s a tiny town along the border to the Czech Republic. There’s a big open field there, or at least there was, marked with a flat grave marking it as a burial site. I don’t remember the name on it, some random pseudonym, but they’re all there, all 57 dead and buried in the ground under that rock,”

Helmut gave a stiff nod. “I see,” Then, in one long gulp, he downed the whole two fingers of whiskey straight and relished in the way it burned down his throat. When the glass was empty and set down safely on the counter again he was quick to school his expression as he turned away. “I’m afraid all that excitement has exhausted me for the day. Goodnight, gentlemen,”

He was gone down the hallway into his bedroom before the pair had a chance to say another word.

Ciczheni.

As he undressed, he smiled softly, letting a few errant tears drip down his cheeks.

They had been born and raised in that tiny farming town. Sometimes, when he had let himself listen in on their conversations with some of the other members of their small, tight group, they would talk about how much they wanted to return someday, once they’d made enough money to live on for a while if they supported themself by growing a small garden and maybe keeping some chickens. The thought, even then, had always made him smile. Just Y/N and a cottage and a chicken or two.

Sometimes, if he was especially indulgent, he would imagine himself there with them. Sharing a home.

Making a family.

His biological family, the one he had created with marriage and his own flesh and blood, was something different entirely. He had loved them. God, how he’d loved them. Still, it was never the same. He was never at peace. He was never home. There would always be a bitterness there, as bitter as the dark summer wine he’d drunk the night he’d turned 20, a resentment that came with the obligation of creating a place in his heart for them when there never should have been.

For Y/N, though...

He sighed, wrapping himself in his robe and slipping on a pair of fleece pajama pants before crawling between the sheets and laying flat on his back, eyes to the ceiling.

Things wouldn’t have been happy all the time. Hell, they probably wouldn’t have been happy even most of the time. Still, they would have been where they belonged, seated firmly at his side for the rest of their long, wonderful lives.

Ciczheni, he repeated in his mind, then the memorial for Novi Grad. It was a minor detour, adding barely 2 hours more to the whole trip when he had plenty more to spare.

Ciczheni, then Novi Grad, and then, finally, peace.

Beside him, he could feel the phantom limbs wrap around his body, resting their weight firmly on his chest where the guilt and shame and terror built by the day, and for the first time in almost a decade they were not Heike’s. Perhaps, if all went according to plan, they wouldn’t be phantom much longer.

Or, if not, he would wait. He would wait a billion years to disintegrate into stardust and spread across the cosmos in search of them.

Either way, when they were together again, he’d know.

They both would.

--------

a/n: I’m not crying, you’re crying.

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