#i do the Exact same thing every single day with just enough variation that it's never boring | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly.

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp.

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do.

The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry?

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record.

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends.

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants.

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

~~~

The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off, waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd.

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles series #harry styles drabble #harry styles one shot #im sure im going to regret starting this as a series and not trying to make it one long piece #but honestly??#im working on another fic right now so i just want the beginnings of this to be out there #i hope u enjoy

862 notes · View notes

inkformyblood · 4 years

Text

listen close, it’s enough

Commander Cody Week 2021 Day 03 Valour @commandercodyweek Pairing: Codywan Summary: Cody picks up his General’s lightsaber without thinking, returning it in the same moment. But it means so much more than that.

Obi-Wan’s face was pale beneath its coating of ash, but his grin was as sharp as a knife, triumphant and vicious. The clones were drawn to him like moths to a flame, their hands reaching out before they could stop themselves and trailing over the seared edges of his robes — faithfully retrieved by Click, whose face had yet to shift from an expression of mute awe.

They were pressed so tightly together in the central command room of the ship that the slightest motion rolled through the clones like a wave, closer than any natborn should have been comfortable with. Cody glanced from Click — carefully ignoring the scrap of brown fabric dangling from the edge of his vambrace — to Obi-Wan. The man’s grin hadn’t lessened, merely shifted into something Cody didn’t quite have the name for.

It twisted through his ribs as Obi-Wan caught his eye, a blue as deep as the sea that ripped Cody’s breath from his chest and stretched out a hand towards him. Cody’s hand was steady as he reached across, stepping forward through the faint staccato beats of his brother’s hands against his armour, like a separate heartbeat.

“Well, Commander,” Obi-Wan laughed, reaching out to steady Cody as he stepped into the small circle of clear space next to the Jedi. His other hand rested just beneath Cody’s elbow, the touch featherlight and barely felt through his armour, but Cody knew it was there, warmth burning in his chest. “Do you have a report for me?”

Cody ducked his head to hide the grin bubbling up in his chest, relief flooding through him. They were still finding their footing, as Obi-Wan put it, in this fledgeling war, and the anxiety that wound through Cody’s veins in the quiet that followed every battle was like nothing that the trainers could have prepared him for.

“Yessir,” Cody replied, shifting back into attention and, just like that, the atmosphere in the room shifted. It would have been imperceptible to any casual observer, but Cody could see the slight thinning of Obi-Wan’s grin as it shrunk in on itself, tucked away behind careful professionalism, as the troopers slowly stumbled out of the room.

They were still pressed together, a stumbling beast with many legs. Cody could make out the slight divisions in their movements as the pilots returned to their chairs, legs stretched out to rest on one another’s, or the painful gaps where a brother was under Helix’s care, a single solitary figure before they were tucked away into another group.

“How are we looking, gentlemen?”

Aspect tipped his head back rather than turn and dislodge Tykyrk’s legs from his lap, and — half-hidden between the console and the pile of discarded plastoid armour — Cody could barely make out the huddled form of Mux in the shadows. He ignored that, focusing instead on the paint on Aspect’s glove, the colours bleeding together like a sunset, as the clone tapped his temple as if he was activating a comm before speaking.

“All good, sir. Minimal damage to the ship, so we should be able to return to Coruscant in under one normal cycle.”

“Excellent, thank you. Keep us posted if that changes.”

Cody ignored the twist of unspeakable emotion in his chest at Obi-Wan’s easy use of us, and nodded to the pilots when their gazes, inevitably, drifted over to him for confirmation.

“Kandosii,” Cody murmured over the comm. His voice was barely louder than a whisper, mostly lost in the hiss of static, but from a thousand voices, he heard the reply, a triumphant hiss of ‘Oya!’

“Shall we, Commander?”

It was easy to fall into step next to Kenobi. Ignoring the urge to reach out, to twine their fingers together or loop an arm around his hip — he knew the press of Kenobi’s weight following the mess of battle, tucked into a bolt hole, and that the man was bulkier than the robes made him seem — was infinitely more difficult.

“I believe I still have some of the blend I got from Kashyyyk.” Obi-Wan’s grin had returned, a paler imitation of the expression from earlier, but one Cody was more accustomed to seeing. Cody nodded, filing the information away in the growing list in his head, already planning the trades he would need to make in the thriving black market between battalions to get his Jedi more variations.

Obi-Wan Kenobi’s quarters were slightly larger than Cody’s room and sparse except for the ever-growing pile of datapads and paperwork that matched Cody’s own and the small tea set, carefully tucked away into an alcove next to the desk. The other man turned away, busying himself with the sealed packet, the contents rustling as the water began to bubble, letting Cody place his helmet on the free space Obi-Wan carefully maintained on the small desk and sit on the only chair.

“Before I forget, Commander—” Cody straightened, fresh tension twisting down his spine at the strange note in Obi-Wan’s voice. “Thank you for retrieving my lightsaber.”

The blush that invaded his cheeks was immediate and intense, visible even on his darker cheeks in the distorted reflection of the metal table. “I’m sorry, sir, I—”

“Commander. Cody. It’s fine.” Obi-Wan’s hand twitched as if he wanted to reach out but caught himself, a flicker of nerves crossing over his face. “I’m grateful for your help.”

Cody had been trying to not think about it, ignoring the consistent messages flickering across his comm from his vode who should have better things to do than tease him, a strange blend of support and reassurance in their words.

“It’s said that a Jedi’s weapon is their life,” Obi-Wan chuckled, tracing the edge of one finger along the handle of his lightsaber. Cody had been trained to be adaptable, to pick up skills quickly and use them, so it only took a second of holding the lightsaber as he ran on the battlefield earlier to get its measure, igniting it for a second to hit a droid before pressing it back into his General’s hand. “It’s interesting to think about, as I noticed something similar with your armour?”

The words stuck in Cody’s throat for a moment, one hand rising to brush against the verebrace — the colour slightly mismatched against the other pieces of his armour, a pattern painted on the underside in a shaky childlike hand, a relic from before Rex had learned the technique.

“Yessir, I guess it is.”

Cody supposed that was fitting, in a way, after a few more battles spent with his General. If a Jedi’s weapon was their life, then it made sense that General Kenobi, with his bleeding too-full heart, lost it so often as he threw himself into harm's way again and again and again.

But it was okay. After all, that was what he had Cody for.

⁂

“Really, Anakin?” Obi-Wan’s laugh echoed back to Cody and Rex as they moved through the cavernous corridors of the Jedi Temple. Their footsteps were muted, the sound previously mingling together until they were indistinguishable until the sound of Obi-Wan’s laughter made him pause, basking in it.

Rex quirked his head to one side as he studied Cody, a gesture that had become indicative of the 501st Legion over the months. “You’ve got it bad, vode.”

“Shut up.”

Rex cackled, but his mocking salute was still precise and exact.

“Ah, Commander! Captain!”

“Generals!” The pair returned the greeting, snapping into attention for a moment before relaxing at a nod.

“Anakin here was just filling me in on some of your adventures, Captain,” Obi-Wan laughed as Anakin ducked his head, his cheeks flushed like he was a freshly decanted shiny again. “I—”

Obi-Wan broke off, a look of wonder and confusion passing over his face like a cloud blown by the wind. Rex — smart man that he was and Cody could have kissed him for it — moved in an instant, stepping forward and steering Anakin away before the other man could even protest in a clearly well-practised move.

Heat settled in Cody’s cheeks, his mouth drying as Obi-Wan stepped closer to him, barely any space left between them. This close, Cody could see the faint freckles that lingered across Obi-Wan’s cheeks like an unknown constellation and smell the smokiness from the tea, rather than the battlefield, that clung to him.

Obi-Wan’s hand trembled as he reached for the new lightsaber clip on Cody’s belt, custom-made and still warm from the installation, and it was that slight tremor that caused the burn inside Cody’s chest to increase, a realisation he had been ignoring for so long.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan whispered, more to himself than to Cody as he tugged on the clip, Cody letting the faint motion move him, swaying forward. Obi-Wan’s eyes were blown wide and dark, some emotion Cody didn’t dare put a name to brewing in them. “Oh.”

“Is this okay?” Cody murmured, unwilling to break the moment rolling over them.

“More than okay.” Obi-Wan leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Cody’s in Keldabe. “You are a blessing I do not deserve.”

“You deserve to be looked after,” Cody shot back, torn between letting his eyes slip shut in reverent bliss and wanting to imprint this image of Obi-Wan onto his very soul. “I know you don’t believe me yet, but it’s true.”

Obi-Wan moved to take hold of Cody’s hands, breaking apart just enough to raise them to his lips and kissing the raised scar that twisted across his knuckles — a memento of one of the many times Cody had bled for his Jedi. “Thank you.”

#codyweek2021 #codywan #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #star wars #my writing

147 notes · View notes

managedmischiefs · 3 years

Text

sweatpants//spencer reid

genre: fluff

warnings: nothing really. sad spencer for about two seconds.

word count: 2.7k

i have plenty more one shots on my wattpad so let me know if any of you want to see more of this type of writing :) make sure to reblog and comment :))

i fell in love with spencer reid the moment i met him. i fell in love with absolutely everything about him. his smile lit up the little bookstore as his glasses drifted further and further down his nose, and his hair hung over his forehead in messy, unbrushed curls. from the first time we locked eyes after he got a book down from the top shelf for me, i envisioned our whole future together.

we saw each other casually after our first meeting despite how badly i wanted more. we quickly realized that we frequented the little bookstore at the same time on saturdays and we just began to "accidentally" run into each other over and over at the same exact day and time. of course, i made sure to be there every saturday for the next three months just for the chance of seeing him.

i finally got the balls to ask him out after the fifth month of these meetups. he seems surprised and he blushed, then tugged on his tie to loosen it around his neck. he accepted quickly and we went bowling the next week. we were both horrible and eventually asked to put the bumpers up because the amount of gutter balls we were throwing were astronomical. but that "first" date was the first time i noticed something very important about spencer reid.

he wears a variation of the same outfit every single day, no matter what he's doing.

sweater vests, button ups, slacks, ties, and converse. sometimes a cardigan. these items get mixed and matched everyday and sometimes don't match, but the chaos of his outfit colors just suits him. and it suits his penchant for wearing mismatched socks. but i continued to realize more and more about his wardrobe as we spent more time together.

if we went out: slacks, button up, tie, converse.

if we had dinner at his apartment: slacks, button up, sweater vest, tie, converse.

if we cuddle on the couch: pajamas.

there's no in-between with him and it took me a while to decide if i loved this or thought it was odd. i landed somewhere in the middle. he would sometimes start to squirm in the middle of dinner and go to change into pajamas to be more comfortable.

i never commented on this because i knew he liked the way he dressed and i didn't want him to think i hated it. he's already an insecure person, despite me loving him with my whole heart and soul, and i'd feel so horrible if i added onto that. so i would sit through the squirming and the tie-tugging and the quick unlacing of shoes after a long day of converse wearing. i grinned and gave him lots of kisses because i love him regardless of his fashion choices. or lack there of.

but spencer continues to grow and thankfully, i grow with him. i start a new job and spencer continues to thrive at the bau. i move into his apartment and he decides that this is the perfect time for a change. a new haircut. super short on the sides and long on the top. i nearly keeled when i saw how utterly handsome he was with his new haircut. i jumped his bones immediately.

but the sweater vests and same brown cardigan didn't quite hit the spot anymore. i would find spencer standing in front of the mirror before work, silently wondering if the black or brown cardigan would look better with his gray sweater vest. still, it was endearing but eventually it becomes too much.

i pass a department store everyday on my way home from work and it started to pique my interest. one day when i got off work early and knew spencer wouldn't be home, i stopped off. the store was huge and had a humongous selection of styles and brands to choose from. i knew i had to bring spencer.

when i told him i wanted to take him shopping, he tilted his head in confusion like an adorable puppy. "what do you need? new sweaters? it is almost winter and i know you got rid of most of your winter clothes when the summer came. did you—"

"no, honey," i laughed, silencing his confused, off-topic rant. "i'm taking you shopping. for you."

another head tilt. "for me? i don't need anything."

"i know you don't need anything," i clarified, running my hands through his freshly cut hair, "but i want to treat you. and besides, i think you've outgrown some of your wardrobe and it's time to get some new items."

so that leaves us now, walking hand in hand into the department store. he's holding me tighter than usual as i lead him to the men's section, but i don't complain. i know he gets nervous in public places and i have no problem with a bit of coddling.

"so, i was thinking," i say as i flip through a rack of undershirts, "you could get some new dress pants. maybe a pair of jeans. maybe some blazers or just suit jackets. that way your style can grow but you can also wear your trusty button ups and ties underneath."

spencer pouts. "i like it better when we shop for you."

i stifle a laugh as i find an appealing gray blazer and search for spencer's size. "and why's that, bub?"

"because then you get to pick out cute clothes and i can watch you try them on."

"well, this time, i'll get to watch you try them on," i wink and hand the blazer over to him. "hold that. please and thank you."

spencer huffs and drops my hand so he can hold the hanger of the blazer. i continue walking through the racks and in my peripherals, i can see spencer glancing around the store and at the racks surrounding us. he follows behind me like a lost puppy, the amount of items in his hands growing as i pass every rack.

"how would you feel about," i pick out a set of matching maroon pants and a maroon blazer, "this color?" i told it up to spencer's chest. he looks down at the garment and scrunches up his nose. "no? that's okay. i think navy's suit you better anyway. no pun intended."

"babe?" he wonders softly as i move over to a rack of ties. "why are you doing this?"

"doing what?" i pick up a tie that is blue with pink flamingoes on it and drape it over his shoulder.

"taking me shopping. wanting to redo my wardrobe or something."

"well," a new tie on his shoulder- a yellow base with blue whales, "you have had the same wardrobe since i met you, and that was many years ago. you've grown up, spencer. maybe some new clothes could reflect that."

i watch a pout come to his face and his shoulders deflate. "you don't like the way i dress?"

i pout right back at him, trying to not seem so mocking in my expression. "i love the way you dress. but i think it might be time to replace that same brown sweater vest you've had since college. that's what i'm talking about. we don't have to do this if you don't want. we can go home."

spencer thinks for a second. he adjusts his hold on the handful of blazers and trousers in his arms and takes another glance at them. "i'll give these a try."

the pride swells in my chest and nearly bursts out. it's no secret that spencer hates change. he would rather his life stays exactly the same all the time. meals, furniture arrangement, train schedule, his wardrobe. clearly, he would rather wear the same clothes for the rest of his life than branch out a bit. so him agreeing to do just that nearly makes me cry right in the middle of the department store.

we push on and spencer continues to trail behind me and hold the clothes i pick. once his knees are practically buckling under the weight of the chosen clothes, i agree to let him start part two. the fitting room.

he disappears into a room and i sit across from the door in a fluffy armchair that probably has more germs on it than a public bathroom. okay, maybe that's just dramatic. but it has enough germs that i'm sure spencer would refuse to sit here, or maybe even get grossed out that i'm sitting on it.

"uh," i hear my boyfriends voice from behind the door, "i think i did it."

i hold in my giggle. "you think?"

"i mean, i put together an outfit. don't know if it's any good. it's definitely not as good as the things you put together."

"just let me see."

the door pops open and my jaw nearly hits the floor. my spencer is standing there in navy slacks, a navy blazer, a vest, button up, and a tie. he looks exactly like i expected him too. my same loving, quiet, genius boyfriend but much older and mature. he looks phenomenal.

but spencer scrunches up his nose and turns on his toes to look in the full length mirror. "i feel like all of this is too busy. there's too much happening."

"no, baby, not at all," i come up behind him and slide my hands across his back and then around his waist. "it's such a good look on you. it's spencer reid but as an adult."

he furrows his eyebrows and looks at me through the mirror. "are you implying i dressed like a child before?"

"no, no, not at all," i nudge his waist and he spins back to me. "it's a perfect outfit. you put it together perfectly. the colors, the different pieces."

spencer's face lights up as he watches me adjust the lapel of his jacket. "really?"

"yes!" i smooth down the shoulders and then tug on the cuff links. "it's perfectly your style. you don't think so?"

"mm," he looks back down at his own body and shakes out his arms a little. "i guess it is. it's just...different."

"it is different but it's a good different. you're still the same old genius who could go on for hours about mushrooms or doctor who or whatever. so you," i pat his shoulder and go up on my toes to kiss his cheek, "get into a new outfit and show me again, okay?"

spencer agrees and closes the fitting room door. we stay at the store for nearly two hours, picking out and trying on potential outfits. spencer even starts picking items on his own, but he comes to me in the cutest way to ask if i like the things he's picked out. i always do. and even if it's not my favorite piece, he obviously likes it so i tell him i love it.

we spend hundreds and split the bill. i insisted i pay because i was the one who brought him here, but he insisted he pay because the clothes are for him. we found a happy medium.

i don't know what i thought was going to happen after we basically replaced his wardrobe. apparently, i didn't think about what the next work day would be like. because i wake up before spencer and go to make breakfast and only listen to him shower and get dressed.

"good morning!" spencer chirps, practically skipping into the kitchen.

"morning!" i say back, putting pancakes on a plate for him. "here's your—" and i absolutely freeze in my spot at the sight of him in a dark tan jacket and slacks, a purple button up, and a matching gray tie. his hair is perfectly swooped across his forehead and he's grinning, practically glowing in his new outfit. "holy shit."

"you like it?" he holds up his arms a bit as if to gesture to his appearance.

i just stand and stare at him for another minute, clutching the plate in my hand so tightly that i fear i might break it. but spencer chuckles, taking it from me and placing it in front of the chair he always has breakfast in.

"i might not let you out of the house looking this good," i finally manage to say. "you'll come home with a new girl on your arm and forget all about me."

spencer pouts. "i'd never do that to you."

i grab onto his cheeks and lay a huge kiss on his lips. "i know you wouldn't. you look amazing, spence. even better than yesterday."

spencer comes home that night and beams about the compliments he got from his coworkers today and thanks me for encouraging him to expand his wardrobe. i don't accept his thanks because i'm just happy to see him feeling more confident in himself than ever.

however, my job is not done yet.

as much as he loves his new clothes, i give him a few weeks to adjust to his new normal. i let him get used to needing a few extra minutes in the morning to arrange an outfit and to the washing process before i spring something new on him. but once i can tell he's completely comfortable with his new wardrobe, i stop at the department store after work again.

"spence?" i call into the apartment as i kick my shoes off, clutching the paper bag in my hand.

"hi!" he calls back, emerging from the study with a book in his hand. "you're late."

i hold up the bag for proof. "i stopped at the store again." spencer follows me into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed in anticipation. "well, first, i saw a couple more ties that i liked," i take those out of the bag and throw them over his shoulder. "but i got these!"

i pull out three perfectly folded pairs of sweatpants and four plain colored tee shirts. spencer unravels each item and then looks up with his eyebrows furrowed. "i don't get it."

"okay," i giggle, placing my hands on his shoulders, "when i go to work, i wear my skirts and blouses and heels, right?"

like the puppy he is, he tilts his head to the side in confusion. "right."

"and when i got to sleep, i wear pajamas. but between the blouse and the pajamas, i wear sweats. you, my love," i boop his nose and instantly, an adorable pink hue paints his cheeks, "don't own sweats. you go from suits to pajamas. and again, i'm not saying that i don't love the way you dress. i'm just looking out for your comfort. if you hate them, i'll return them. simple as that."

he runs his hands over the tee shirts and runs it between his fingers. "they are really soft."

"i got the ones that are 100% cotton because i know you like how it feels."

"i'll try it," he concedes, smiling up at me. "thank you. you're too good to me."

"you deserve the world, angel face."

the next day, he gets called away for a case and i don't see him for almost two weeks. we call and text as much as possible, but we both get so busy that it's nearly impossible. so i stick to sending him good morning and goodnight texts and praying that he comes home in one piece.

after nearly two and a half weeks without him, i come home and see his car in the parking garage where it always is. i squeal, running all the way to the apartment and bursting through the door.

spencer is lounging on the couch, thankfully in one piece, and reading a book, dressed in gray sweatpants and a white tee shirt. he looks up and grins when i enter, standing up and pulling me into his arms.

"i can't believe you're sitting here," i mumble into his neck, "and looking so good when i'm not around."

spencer laughs into my shoulder, kissing my small bit of exposed skin. "well, you're here now so you can enjoy it."

"you look so fucking hot," i blurt out, grabbing a handful of his cotton shirt and tugging him towards the bedroom. "let me show you just how hot i think you are."

"god, i love this new wardrobe."

#spencer reid #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #dr reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #mgg

41 notes · View notes

frostedfaves · 4 years

Text

Haunt (2)

Masterlist

Pairing: civilian!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: Getting to know you brings a few ‘firsts’ for Wanda.

Warnings: brief alcohol mention, tiny bit of angst

A/N: click on the link at the end of the masterlist to add yourself to the taglist! and tell me what you think!

Previous part

“Honey, I’m home,” Pietro called loudly as he locked the front door behind himself, smiling as Wanda appeared from the kitchen. “There you are, rybka. Smells good in there.”

“As it always does,” Wanda playfully bragged as she pulled her brother into a hug, sniffing his shirt as he pulled away. “Why do you smell so good?”

“Because I had a date earlier. Don’t give me that look.”

“What? I didn’t give you any look,” she mumbled as she attempted to quickly bring a sense of nonchalance to her expression. “I just worry.”

“You don’t have to--”

“Pietro, your last girlfriend was a nightmare. I have a right to be worried.”

“Well, you can relax this time,” he assured her as he followed her into the kitchen to wash his hands. “Usually things don’t go so well with girls that have posters of me in their rooms, but I have a good feeling. She travels for work almost as much as I do, but she lives really close to here. I can visit you both on the same day if I need to.”

“Wait…” Wanda paused to think as Pietro grabbed two plates from the cabinet. “Does she have a roommate?”

“Yeah, her name is Y/N, I think. You know her?”

“I do now. We met about an hour ago.” A smile formed on her lips as she began plating the food she made, but it faded as quickly as it appeared. “Why are you giving me a look right now?”

“Nothing, just been awhile since I’ve seen my baby sister with a crush.”

“You’re only twelve minutes older than me,” she argued with a scowl and Pietro laughed.

“I see you’re not denying that crush, though.”

“You can enjoy someone’s presence without being attracted to them.”

“Maybe, but you definitely have a crush.” He caught her hand with a grin as it flew toward his chest. “Come on, rybka. Just admit it.”

“Fine, I think she’s gorgeous. Happy?”

“I will be when you start dating,” he teased as she pulled her hand away.

“There won’t be a date. I mean she’s coming here tomorrow to hang out, but I don’t think she sees me like that.”

“Then she sucks,” he affirmed, groaning when her elbow bumped his side harshly. “She’s not even your girlfriend yet and you’re already super overprotective.”

He ran back into the kitchen to grab the wine and glasses before she could hit him again, giving her a bit of time to fantasize about a world where you were her girlfriend. She’d never tell Pietro just how great that sounded to her.

Wanda gasped as the doorbell went off, nearly knocking over the 3-tier cooling rack full of cookies on her race to the front door. She paused in the hallway to fix any hairs that flew out of place in her rush and took a deep breath before opening the door with a smile. You were standing on her porch wearing a different hoodie from yesterday and jeans instead of sweatpants, but every bit of the face she’d been thinking of in the past 16 hours was the same, and she couldn’t help but think that nothing could’ve prepared her for being this close to you again.

“Are you going to let me in or just stare?” you teased with a slightly shaky laugh, and Wanda wasn’t sure if she was blushing because she was caught or because she was already so enchanted with every little action of yours.

“Sorry, sorry.” She stepped aside as you walked in and locked the door behind you. “I’m not usually this weird, I promise.”

“I’m sure you are, and that’s okay because I like it.”

Wanda was sure (if the tension surrounding her grinning mouth was any indication) that her face would split open at any moment. You hadn’t even been here more than a full minute and she felt a warmth growing inside her chest that hadn’t made an appearance in quite some time. She wondered if it was too soon to admit that to you, but Alexei tiptoed into the room before she could decide.

“Hey, it’s your cute dog!” You were on your knees in seconds greeting the corgi that happily trotted over to you.

“Yes, this is Alexei, which basically means ‘defender’.”

“I feel like you call him that ironically, but I think I can see this tiny baby taking out some bad guys,” you quipped as you glanced at her from the floor, turning back to Alexei as you scratched lightly along his jaw. “What do you think?”

Wanda joined you in giving her furry son some love for another minute or so before he grew tired of the attention and walked off, leaving the two of you alone again. A few seconds of awkward silence passed before she offered you a tour of her home. She led you through the living room into the dining room, showing you where the bathroom was and briefly gesturing toward her bedroom, trying her hardest not to make such a big deal of doing so. Once you made it back around to the kitchen, she took you through the back door to her yard.

“And this is my garden!”

“I’m surprised you don’t grow your own vegetables, too,” you told her as you checked out the variation of flowers growing in a line, quickly adding “You seemed to know so much about it yesterday.”

“There’s this market I go to sometimes, and the elderly woman that sells vegetables there is always sharing tips with me. I could take you one day, if you’d like,” Wanda offered as she cast a nervous look your way, relaxing a bit when you smiled and nodded.

“I would like that a lot.”

You made your way back inside and Wanda gave you the freedom to pick anything from her movie collection under the television while she set up a tray with cookies and bowls of popcorn and chips. She watched you slide a disc into the DVD player from the corner of her eye as she placed the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“What’d you pick?”

“Tangled,” you answered simply as you grabbed the remote and took a seat. “It’s wholesome.”

You pressed play as Wanda returned with two glasses and a pitcher of water, and she sat at what she hoped was a respectable distance. The part of her that wanted to pretend that she hadn’t seen this movie thousands of times was quickly overpowered by the part that wanted to sing along, quietly at first during “When Will My Life Begin” and a little louder and more enthusiastic with “I’ve Got A Dream”.

“Am I that bad?” she joked when she noticed you watching her and you shook your head quickly.

“No, you’re not bad at all! You just have such a soothing voice. It’s kind of hard not to lose myself in it.”

“Oh...thank you.”

You faced the television again and Wanda took that as a cue to turn back to the movie too, but her focus was still on you. The last time she’d watched Tangled was with her ex-girlfriend, who complained every time she uttered a single note, but you almost seemed to encourage it with your attentive gaze. She found herself shaking her head a bit in an attempt to clear those thoughts, not wanting to compare you to someone else when she barely knew you.

“I’m sorry,” you quickly apologized as you paused the movie, causing Wanda to look at you as you faced her once more. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“No! No, I’m not uncomfortable, just surprised is all. You’re the first person to show appreciation of me singing during a movie...I mean, Pietro likes my singing, but he’s known me since birth, so the novelty’s kind of worn off.”

“Well, you sound incredible. The kids at your school are so lucky to--”

“Can I kiss you?” Her eyes widened as she scooted over a bit on the couch to give you more space. “I’m so sorry I said that! I’ve just been staring at your lips for the past minute and I swear I was listening, but I couldn’t stop thinking--”

“I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

The sight of your reassuring expression was all the encouragement Wanda needed to pull herself close enough that your thighs were touching, and her hand went for your jaw as she leaned in, internally cheering as you did the same. Your lips met in a gentle fashion, but Wanda couldn’t help her greed as she pressed herself into you more. She felt the tip of your tongue and opened her mouth without any thought, quickly losing herself in your touch as her hand slid toward the base of your neck while the other grabbed a fistful of your hoodie.

You yanked yourself out of her hold as she was about to slide her hand under the fabric covering your back, and Wanda jumped back in shock, torn between keeping her distance and placing a hand on your thigh to calm you when you began gasping for air a bit.

“Is everything okay? Did I go too far?”

“No, you didn’t. That was all me,” you assured her breathlessly. “I, um, just thought of something and kind of freaked myself out. Terrible timing, I know. I also know that was pretty weird so I can leave if you want.”

“I was just scared that I’d done something wrong.” Wanda placed her hands carefully over yours with a soft smile. “I think we’ve had our fair share of weirdness to the point of it not being a deal breaker anymore.”

“Okay.” You sighed and shifted your hands to grab yours. “I’m just worried that we’ll start something here that you won’t want to finish, and I know that can happen with anyone in any kind of situation, but I…Can you promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Promise me that you’ll walk away the moment my baggage becomes too heavy. I don’t want you to try sticking it out for my sake and end up hating me.”

“I wouldn’t stay just for your sake--”

“I asked you to promise me something and you responded ‘anything’ with zero hesitation, and you’ve known me for only a day,” you quickly reminded her. “I have a right to be worried.”

Your words took her back to last night, which took her even further back to the reason she said the exact same thing to Pietro. She finds it incredibly easy to discover those red flags most people seem to hold, but always struggles to leave and ends up hating herself for it more than those that deserve it. So despite the lack of warning signs with you, she decides to give in.

“I promise.”

Tags: @littlegasps @peggycarter-steverogers @imnotasuperhero @natasha-danvers @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @trikruismybitch @cristin-rjd @slut-for-nat @honeyvenable @creepingwolfberry @stickystudentlightmug @choni-trimberly @thedragonzland @dylxn-lee @cordeliaswhore

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x fem! reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch #avengers #the avengers #avengers x reader #avengers x you #avengers x fem!reader #avengers imagine #marvel #marvel imagine #marvel x reader

135 notes · View notes

aka-ashi-keiji · 4 years

Text

“i can’t hear you”

Bakugou Katsuki x best friend reader

soft angst

tw: screaming, emotional meltdown.

short fic about bakugou and you’re his childhood best friend, and you help him through dealing with his hearing loss. enjoy lovies.

*******************************************************

You woke up to the sound of your mother knocking on your door and yelling, “y/n wake up, you have training today with katsuki. i love that boy but i am not in the mood to deal with his explosive attitude over you being late .” You lived right next door to katsuki all your life and since your moms were best friends, you guys were best friends since you learned how to walk. Every saturday you guys would train from 8 AM to noon in his garage since it was basically a mini gym, and then after you both would head over to your house. You checked the time on your phone on the bedside table and it read 7:50. “SHIT MOM WHY DIDN’T YOU WAKE ME UP SOONER” you yelled as you jumped out of bed and quickly found a black tank top and grey sweatpants to train in. You could hear your mom chuckling as she walked away from your door. You grabbed your headphones, phone, water bottle, and Nike’s before yelling a goodbye and dashing over to Katsuki’s front yard.

You knocked on his door four times so that his family knew it was you. You were halfway through slipping your shoes on when Mitsuki answered. She yawned and pulled you into a side hug. “Good morning y/n, you hungry?” She asked as she closed the door behind you guys and started towards the kitchen. “No thanks Mitsuki, I don’t like to train on a full stomach. My mom is making a huge lunch though, you guys are welcome to join us.” You said cheerfully, but kept your voice low since it was very early and you could tell Katsuki’s mom was still half asleep. She nodded and then whipped her head to face you wearing a look on her face as if she had just remembered something very important. “Kat has been very on edge lately and not very responsive this week.” She paused before starting again and turned her gaze to the floor, almost as if she didn’t want to talk. “I think it might have to do with his hearing. He won’t admit it, but I think his quirk is finally starting to affect him. Good thing we put him in those sign language classes as a precaution.” she laughed dryly and then turned back to look at you. “Just, take it easy him with the teasing today okay? and maybe try speaking a little louder. I’ll go see if he’s ready” and with that she gathered herself up the stairs and disappeared.

You thought silently as you waited, and all of a sudden it made sense. Lately at school bakugou has been yelling more than usual, and telling everyone to speak louder. Maybe he was yelling more to be able to hear himself? You didn’t know. Bakugou has been learning sign language since he was 7 years old as a precaution for this and has been regularly signing while he talks since he was 10. So, bakugou using his sign language all the time wasn’t uncommon, but maybe Mitsuki was right. You made a mental note not to say anything until you actually noticed a big change in your guys’ training. You waited patiently for about another 10 minutes before Katsuki finally came downstairs.

“Hey idiot, nice outfit.” Katsuki greeted you in his groggy morning voice, his hands signing his words lazily. You looked down at the tank top and sweatpants you were wearing and looked back to him, you both were wearing the same exact thing. “Morning pom pom” you greeted back as you gathered your things and started to head towards the garage. You turned around to see bakugou staring into nothing, so you called out. “Hey kat, you coming?” No response. You repeated yourself, but this time loud enough you were sure you woke his dad. He whipped his head towards you and nodded before following along. As you were walking down the hall, you turned to him and asked, “You okay?” while signing your words. Katsuki looked down at your hands and his cheeks started to dust with the lightest shade of pink. He huffed and his red eyes sparked as he just growled out a ‘yeah’ and walked ahead of you into the garage, starting to set up for your session. You yourself had picked up sign language at a young age because your dad was deaf because his quirk was being able to shoot sonic booms from his hands. you pressed the button to open the garage door and let some light in. You then walked over to the speakers and plugged your phone in as you hit play on your playlist specifically for training days. Bakugou stopped setting up the bench press station and yelled, “Can you turn it up? “ as he signed quickly, but then went back to putting the weights together. You turned back to the speaker only to be surprised since the volume was already almost at max capacity. You shook your head and turned the volume all the way up. This session should be interesting.

It was around 9:30 AM at this point and you and Kat had finished weights and went on a 2 mile run. You were currently sitting on the floor stretching your quads as the loud techno music boomed around you. You glanced over at katsuki who was stretching on the other side of the garage and he seemed to be in a whole other universe. You called out to him, but he didn’t do so much as flinch. You picked yourself up off the floor and slowly walked towards him. You called a few more times and still got nothing from him, so you decided to turn off the music. As soon as you did Katsuki’s head shot up and his eyes darted towards you. “What the hell was that for dipshit? We’re gonna start sparring soon, we need it.” He said/yelled at you while you sauntered over to him and took a seat about a foot away from his now steaming body. You wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your arm before talking to katsuki, well you didn’t exactly talk with your voice, you were mostly signing. “Katsuki are you sure you’re okay? You’re not responding when I call out for you.” You waited for his response as his eyes stayed on your hands that were once moving. This time he answered, but for some reason he didn’t sign. “If I tell you, you can’t tell a single soul you hear me dumbass? Not even my parents. “ You nodded your head and gently reach over to squeeze his hand four times, your guys’ way of saying I promise. He then began to talk, and signed very aggressively as he did so, and what he said was enough to shatter you into a million pieces.

“I’ve been struggling in a way lately,” he started, “I tried to cover it up by just yelling all the time hoping people would just think it was my normal behavior. But, really it was so i could he hear myself.” Katsuki let out a long breath and you could see his hands slightly shaking. “It started out last week as just a slight ringing, but it got louder every damn day. But, this week the ringing got quieter, and eventually everything around me started to sound like I was underwater. “ He looked up at you and your breath hitched, tears rolled down katsuki’s face as he held eye contact. He shook out his hands and took another shakey breath before he began, “I- I can barely hear you y/n! And its so frusturating.” the volume of his voice was rising, and you could see the pain he was feeling through his eyes and the tears that were now dripping down to his shirt. “I can’t hear your fucking voice damnit! It’s the only one that doesn’t drive me up fucking walls. it terrifies me!” He was screaming at this point as his hands worked through the air to express his words. The tears came at a much quicker pace once he had stopped to breathe, and those tear turned into sobs as he curled in on himself. He tucked his knees to his chest and ducked his head into his arms as they wrapped around his legs. His shoulders and back shook as he cried, and for a moment you didn’t know what to do. You haven’t seen Katsuki cry since you both were 8 years old and he was playing with his quirk and accidently blasted your arm. He started crying as soon as he heard you wail in pain, and the lecture from his mother didn’t help in the slightest. You subconsciously reached up to rest your hand on the scar as you tried to think of what you could say to him.

Katsuki leveled his head and looked up at you, and slowly reached his hand out, still crying quietly. For a second you didn’t know what he meant, but it soon clicked in your head and you took his hand in yours. you looked at him with teary eyes and signed, “How can i help?” He untucked his legs from his chest and moved closer to you. Then, before you could even register what was happening, Katsuki had his arms around your waist with his head on your shoulder. You froze, it had been quite some time since either of you had needed a hug like this. once your shock had subsided, you brought your hands to rest on his upper back and rubbed soothingly. He began to cry again, which then led to sobs just like they had before. You began to talk, whispering variations of ‘I’m here’ and ‘You don’t have to be scared’, only to remember that he probably can’t hear you. Seeing katsuki as vulnerable as this broke your heart, and single tear fell from your face. Katsuki could feel your jaw muscles moving against the side of his face, so he knew you were talking, but he couldn’t hear you. “I- i- i- I can’t hear! I can’t hear you! Y/n I can’t hear you, fix it please, please I hate this so much!” He screamed into your shoulder which luckily muffled it enough to not draw any attention from the neighbors. He gripped onto your waist tighter as he breathed long and hard breaths. “I’m so scared. I’m terrified of losing you.” He whispered. This had confused you so you gently placed your hands on his shoulders and put a bit of distance between you guys so he could see you signing. “What do you mean you’re gonna lose me? I’m not going anywhere.” You said and waited for his response. He brought his trembling hands up to start signing and began, “I’m scared that if i can’t hear you, I won’t hear you calling me for help when you’re in danger. What kind of hero am I if i can’t even save my best friend?” You took one of his hands in yours and began to sign with your other. “You’re gonna be okay, We’re both gonna get you through this. I know you, and you don’t take shit from no one. And I know damn well you’re not gonna let a little hearing loss get in the way of beating deku.” He laughed slightly at the last statement, and seeing his small smile was like the world coming off of your shoulders. “We’ll take you to the doctor, they’ll help you.” He shook his head at that and his angry glowering returned. “It’s not anything to be embarrassed about. And I’m sure your parents would do anything to help you become the hero you want to be.” You finished your monologue and squeezed his hand four times, promising him you’re not going anywhere. He smiled down at his hand and then brought his other one up to sign, “I love you shithead” and you signed back, “Yeah I know, I love you too Kat”.

He began to stand up and Katsuki pulled you up with him. He immediately pulled you into the tightest bear hug possible. No one knew, but Katsuki was the biggest hugger, and it was your favorite thing about him. You released your arms from his waist and he released his hold around your shoulders. You took the sides on his face in your hands, and pointed to your lips as a signal to read your words. He nodded his head, and in a volume Katsuki couldn’t hear, you said, “I can hear you, I can hear you.”. He nodded and smiled the most genuine smile you’d seen out of him in years. “You ready?” he signed, and you answered “for what?”. He smirked and was quiet for a few seconds before shoving you to the side a little and running off towards your house. “Race you!” he yelled, “First one there, is your mom’s favorite you loser.” Kat called again. You smiled and shook your head as you sprinted off after him, remembering this is the Katsuki that will be the #1 hero someday.

***************************************🌸

180 notes · View notes

micha-writes · 3 years

Text

Day 6: AroAce @spnprideweek (AO3 Link) Full ficlet under the cut :)

Attraction vs. Aesthetics

“He’s pretty hot”

Cas turned his head only slightly to the left, far enough to see a woman standing right next to him. He didn’t know her, had never seen her before. Not that he would have expected to know her, no. Honestly, running into a familiar face while on an undercover hunt probably wasn’t the best thing to happen, and therefore they were always happy to be faced with only people they had never met before. What was irritating to Cas, though, was that this unknown woman felt connected enough to him to start a conversation with that comment and nothing else.

“Huh?” he made. Nothing more than that. He was still looking at her, an eyebrow raised, surprised and admittedly more than a bit irritated by that conversation starter.

“Your friend,” the woman now said, and her head nodded into the direction where Dean was standing, a couple of feet over, talking to some other people in fancy clothes. “I saw you coming in together earlier. He’s quite the looker”

“Oh,” Cas gave a mumbled answer that the woman probably couldn’t even hear, with all the chatter going on around them.

The hall was busy, as they had expected it to be. Lots of rich people in expensive clothes, sipping expensive champagne out of expensive glasses, chatting and laughing, all together pretending to be there for the charity event, but secretly they all knew it was just another opportunity to show off. In the middle of all that, Dean and Cas, chatting to these exact people, Sam somewhere around the round, out of sigh but probably doing the same, and hopefully, a werewolf in disguise somewhere among the guests.

Cas wasn’t exactly paying attention to any of that, though. His eyes had followed the woman’s nod through the room, over the crowd of rich people, and had now landed on Dean.

Dean, who was standing there in a borrowed suit, because none of the fake-FBI ones he owned had seemed fancy enough, right next to a little fake-fountain, having a fake-smile on while maintaining a fake-friendly conversation in which neither partner seemed to really pay attention to what the other one was saying.

He was looking good, that much was true. Cas could definitely agree there with this strange woman. He was looking good in that suit, but Cas found it didn’t make much difference to what he normally wore. Actually, if he was honest, he probably preferred the old jeans with the washed-out parts where the knees were, along with an ordinary shirt and one of those flannels Dean insisted on wearing at every possible and impossible occasion. Cas’s preference wasn’t even about the looks. It was just, that outfit was Dean. It was what he felt comfortable in, what he chose to use to express himself. This suit, on the other hand … Dean tried hard, and he was probably fooling most of the strangers at this weird party, but Cas knew, he could see how stiff he felt in that suit.

And he was looking good, he was always looking good, in Cas’s opinion. Dean was always looking good, at every instance, every second of every day – and night, for that matter. No matter if it was all dressed up and ready, or fresh out of bed with no coffee yet, in his pyjama pants and with ruffled hair and a sleepy face, even after a hunt, with blood and slime all over him, even though Cas had to admit that was kind of disgusting. But an okay amount of disgusting, because it was Dean, after all.

Dean was looking good indeed, as he always was, yes. Looking good. But hot?

He’s pretty hot, the woman had said, and that word …

It was ridiculous, almost. Kind of like a bad joke. An Angel, an actual Angel of the Lord, capable of speaking, of understanding every single language that was and had ever been anywhere on earth, and yet, there were those few words that meant nothing to him. Hot, Attractive, words like those, no matter in which language, no matter where on earth, in hell or on heaven they were spoken, they meant nothing to him.

Maybe one could say that they weren’t even words for him, because per definition, a word has to have some kind of meaning – and words like those just didn’t.

As much as he had seen in his uncountable years of existence, as many things he had learned, words he had spoken, those were the only ones he couldn’t make sense of. He of course knew there was some kind of meaning to them, a meaning that he could piece together from the context he had witnessed others using them in, but that meaning was, as a result, an observed one, not an understood one.

It wasn’t understood, and it could never be, because Castiel simply didn’t understand.

He didn’t understand the thing that was lying beyond, the feeling those words described – because he simply didn’t feel them. He never had, and for quite the amount of time he had thought maybe he would one day, maybe he would get it, maybe he would feel it and then understand, but he didn’t.

It wasn’t like Angels generally wouldn’t be capable of feeling such things, of experiencing attraction – they were, Cas knew that. It was just, that he personally wasn’t. And he had thought – or maybe, hoped – to understand it one day, to see what the fuzz was about, what everyone seemed to be so fascinated by. What that thing about humans and their attraction and sex was that seemed so appealing it had caused several Angels to fall. But he didn’t.

The falling part, he could understand. He saw the appeal in humanity, he definitely did. It would be pretty ironic to claim that he didn’t, considering he had betrayed Heaven, betrayed everything he had ever stood for, just for one human.

And that human, that one silly little human that seemed so unimportant at the first glance, that one single little American man, the one that meant so much to him that words couldn’t possibly describe it – that one had made him understand a lot, almost everything.

But the thing was, almost everything. He understood why others before him had turned their backs to heaven, had betrayed the Great Plan, had betrayed God himself. He understood, because Humanity – or that one single human, in his case – was definitely worth it.

He understood so many human emotions all of a sudden, and he cared. For the first time ever, after millennia of existence, Cas had started to care instead of blindly following orders.

He understood what it meant to care, as he watched Dean care so incredibly much.

And he understood what it meant to love. He understood as he watched Dean do so many selfless things out of love, and he understood even better as he found himself falling in love.

He was falling in love, he knew that. Maybe he had fallen in love, maybe he was still falling. Cas wasn’t entirely sure if this was more a state or an ongoing process, but in the core, he knew that it was love.

So much love, for the world, for humanity, and especially for Dean – love, definitely, undoubtedly love, but no attraction.

Cas’s wouldn’t dare to say that he now understood love, because he didn’t. probably nobody had ever truly understood love. But he was content in saying that the word now had meaning to him. If someone was talking about love, he could definitely imagine something, make out a meaning below the word – no matter in which language.

And that was thanks to Dean, so you would assume that the sight of Dean would have awoken another kind of feeling in Cas, would’ve made him understand attraction. But well, it didn’t.

Cas had expected it to happen, he had been rather sure that as soon as he understood he was experiencing love like that, he would start to understand that other thing as well, sooner or later. But he didn’t.

And by now, after years and years around Dean, by his side, caring about him, loving him, Cas had come to the conclusion that he probably never would.

And that it was okay that way.

Because he felt good that way. He truly did feel entirely good that way, having accepted that this was just the way he felt, the way he was, that this was just him. And there admittedly were many things about himself that Cas didn’t like, some not at all, some he hated with a burning passion, and some he simply wanted to forget about, but this wasn’t one of them.

He was happy with how it was. He still didn’t understand, the words still didn’t carry any meaning for him, but that was okay.

He was aware of Dean’s good looks, of course he was – how could he not have been. But never, not a single time, had he thought of him as hot or attractive. It was rather, beautiful.

Dean was like a fine painting, Cas liked to think. He was so aesthetically pretty to look at, he was like the masterpiece of a hard-working artist, every freckle on his face the result of the well-thought-through tap of a brush, the shape of his face carefully drawn on canvas, every single hair added with a careful movement of hand, and his eyes, his mesmerizing green eyes, the result of long hours of work, with every little variation of colour being carefully thought of and added, colours mixed with the tip of a fine brush, making those eyes as deep and beautiful as they were.

It was almost ironic, if you thought about it. Years back, Cas had thought of humans as an artwork as well. An artwork by his father’s hand, his most perfect creations. Today, he wasn’t thinking that way anymore, he wasn’t praising God for anything anymore, not after everything he had put them through.

But Dean, Dean in particular, he still considered a piece of art. A masterpiece of art, made by the most talented artist in the world.

Cas’s eyes were still on Dean, following him moving around over there in the other half of the room, talking to people with that smile on his face. The face was beautiful, and every time Cas looked at it, he couldn’t believe just how beautiful it was. Every time he looked at it, he was thinking that a masterpiece like that should be put in a museum.

But then, on the other hand, Cas really didn’t want to share the masterpiece. So, he always reminded himself, no museum. Leave him here, with you, in the bunker, and admire this masterpiece at its finest: When he’s just rolled out of bed, in his silly pyjamas with cartoon prints all over, sipping on his coffee, sleep still in his eyes, hair ruffled, but his freckles standing out.

As he was looking over, eyeing Dean from across the room, he still didn’t understand those words the woman next to him had said.

They still carried no meaning for him, he couldn’t make any sense of them or relate to the feeling they implied – But that didn’t matter.

It wasn’t important, not to him, nothing of this was. He was happy as it was, as he was. Oblivious to the meaning of such words, but happy. As happy as it could get, really, as a fallen and rebellious former soldier of Heaven.

Cas didn’t understand the meaning beyond those words, and he never would. But he also had had time learn, and he had acquired a general picture of someone who got attributed the label attractive. And what he had especially learned was that Dean seemed to be considered extremely attractive by quite a number of people.

So, Cas decided, as every so often, to do what he had learned to do, to pretend to understand, to just agree to this definition society of attractiveness that society seemed to agree on.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at Dean. “Yeah, I guess he is”

#spnprideweek #castiel #dean winchester #destiel #ace!cas #ace!castiel #asexuality #cas is ace and he loves dean so much omg #he's in love your honor #destiel ficlet #deancas ficlet #my writing #mic writes

42 notes · View notes

linkspooky · 4 years

Text

Toga Himiko’s Normal Life

Himiko looks like the most straight forward case of what pop culutre considers to be a classical sociopath / psychopath in My Hero Acadmia. Shigaraki, Dabi, Hawks were all groomed to become the way they were, but Himiko possessed a natural inclination towards blood and violence from the start. She seesm to be a natural born cold blooded killer, however in this meta I’ll argue that while Toga seems like the flip-side of a normal, good person like Uraraka, she’s actually just a normal girl herself.

1. Character Origins

Volume sixteen of My Hero Academia had an official illustration included as an extra that shows the characters Twice and Himiko drawn together in an illusion to a famous Joker and Harley Quinn illustration.

Now, I’m not going so far as to claim Himiko was based off of Harley Quinn, but one the league of villains and characters like Twice (and ReDestro) have made similiar references to the Joker before that especially with the quote “All it takes is one bad day”. There’s also enough similarities betweeen the two characters, they’re both the only female members of a crime syndicate that is mostly men, and dominated by men. Their backstories mirror each other, they were both relatively sane, normal, girls, until suddenly they cracked one day and became a total inversion of their previous presonality. There are enough similarities that I could use Harley as an example to explain a few of the important ideas present in Toga’s character.

They are also both female characters who are written with love as the central concept of their characters. Harley’s origin as originally depicted in the comic and episode for the Batman the Animated Series “Mad Love” goes as follows: Harleen Quinzell was a psychiatrist working at Arkham. Eventualy she came to sympathize with one of her patients which triggered a transformation in her from well meaning doctor, to love-sick sycophant of the joker who broke him out of prison.

A lot of Batman Villains have origins like this. The most comparable one is Harvey Dent. Proescutors, Doctors, we are told the people who hold these jobs are good and righteous people. Even Harley herself started out as someone who just sympathized with a patient too much. However, somehow they become flipped into the exact opposite versions of themselves. They go mad for lack of a better words. Harvey Dent who was once a symbol of justice, becomes nothing more than a murderer, and Harley Quinn goes from healer to the sidekick of a mad clown willing to destroy everything in the name of love.

The question, asked in both Himiko and Harley’s stories is how can good people flip like this?

Most people have a black and white view of these issues: good people are only capable of good actions, and bad people are capable of bad actions. It’s hard to swallow the fact that any normal person has the capacity to cause so much harm inside of them.

We see similiar remarks in the background of Himiko’s story. Himiko comes from a good upper class family, she went to what was most likely a good school, she was always smiling and surrounded by friends. Everyone who comments on her sudden transformation reacts in a similiar way. “She was aways so cheerful and well-behaved, I still find it hard to believe.” She was always such a good girl, and good people don’t do those things.

Normal people, good people, don’t have the capacity to do bad. That’s what makes the transformations so shocking. Therapists/Doctors are supposed to heal, Prosecutors are supposed to be just. And now we return to our old friend Jung.

The story of Harleen Quinzell and Harley Quinn. The story of Himiko Toga the happy middle school girl and Himiko Toga the serial killer is a tale told over and over again, it’s just usually told with male protagonists instead of female ones. It’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886) is a late-Victorian variation on ideas first raised in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818). Stevenson’s monster, however, is not artificially created from stitched-together body parts, but rather emerges fully formed from the dark side of the human personality. In the story Dr Jekyll, an admired member of the professional Victorian middle-classes, conducts a series of scientific experiments which unleash from his own psyche the ‘bestial’ and ‘ape-like’ Mr Hyde (ch. 10). Gothic fiction had examined the idea of the sinister alter ego or double before on many occasions but Stevenson’s genius with Jekyll and Hyde was to show the dual nature not only of one man but also of society in general.

“Man is not one, but truly two.”

Robert Louis Stevenson

Both cases are tales are transformation, of the monster coming from within. Himiko transforms from middle school girl into serial killer. Harleen Quinzell transforms into Harley Quinn. Dr. Jekyll becomes Mr. Hyde. We witness a transformation into a monster that seems the antithesis of everything that person was boefre, but was inside of them all along this works because of the jungian idea of the shadow.

The shadow is the unconscious side of personality. The shadow is what exists but what we do not acknowledge. If our behavior during everyday life, choosing to smile, choosing to talk to people, choosing to use our manners is a mask then the shadow is the face beyond the mask. The conscious personality conceals, the shadow reveals. It’s the difference betewen who we are and who we choose to be. The shadow isn’t necessarily negative however. The shadow is just the repressed side of our personalities, it’s what we try to hide.

The shadow plays a role in Harleen’s transformation. While it’s present in Mad Love as well, a recent miniseries ‘Harleen’ really dives into the Jungian symbolism. There’s even several similarities in common with Himiko’s story, for example there’s a scene where Harleen is shown watching the bat man beat up joker and notice how everyone is cheering despite the fact that it’s violent.

Himiko’s interest in a boy is sparked by watching him get into a fight while everybody else is cheering for him.

The cover page depicts the change between Quinn and Quinnzel as a crumbling mask, which is the exact same imagery used for Himiko.

When she enters Arkham she chooses to depict Harley Quinn’s silhouette in Harleen’s shadow. Once again implying that the transformation is not so sudden and jarring as it seems, that Harley Quinn has always been there and is a part of her psychology the same way Mr. Hyde is inside Dr. Jekyll.

The comic even points it out. Harleen, and also by extension Harvey Dent are people who claim to be “good, righteous people’ and yet both of them end up transforming into murderers. Two-face’s name is literally two-face.

There’s also one particularly Jungian sequence in the middle of the conflict. She dreams (dreams are unconscious and therefore the realm of the shadow in Jung’s theories) about the city of gotham as a place inhabited with citizens who are monsters wearing the faces of human beings.

The idea is consistent throughout that Harleen is not really a ‘good person’ she’s merely repressed. She has had this capacity to be violent inside of her, this selfishness, all of these dark desires carried with her all along but rather than deal with them in any healthy way she repressed them until repressing them is no longer an option. Harvey Dent’s face gets half burned off, Harley’s skinn gets bleached by chemicals, the monsterous features inside of them are now worn on their faces and they have to wear their ugliness on the outside rather than the inside. They are now expressing every single thing they have repressed. However, the suggestion in both stories is that these are not special cases, that Gotham is such a repressed society that everyone is repressing the things they don’t like about themselves in that way. Harley fell in mad love sure, but love was just the reason, just the trigger, the truth is those feelings always lurked inside of her and she had no healthy way of dealing with them before that point.

That is the shadow, it’s everything you repress but it never disappears. If you ignore it, it takes on a life of its own. In some cases, like Harley’s you basically become your own shadow. Harley is the flipped upside down version of Harleen Quinzel, now her inner demons are what are expressed on the surface (desperation to be loved, violence, etc.) while her ‘normal’ self is hidden under a mask of insanity. That’s in fact how she ends the comic, Harley qalking around while Harley is trapped on the other side of the mirror because they have basically traded places. Now Mr. Hyde is walking around, while Dr. Jekyll is hidden personality. But it’s important to remember it’s not something like a split personality, Harleen Quinzell and Harley Quinn were always two sides of the same person. Even when she starts expressing her ‘bad’ traits, the good traits don’t go away. They’re just hidden underneath the surface the way the repressed bad traits used to be. Because you’re not good or bad, you’re not one side or the other. You’re both at the same time. Man is not one, but truly two.

So the complexity in Himiko comes from understanding that she’s BOTH a normal girl, and also a blood crazy yandere psycho.

2. A Normal Girl - Uraraka Ochaco

Uraraka is a pretty standard shonen heroine. She’s a cheerful girl. She’s a supportive friend. She’s the embodiment of what you’d call a good, kind, person and doesn’t seem to be any more complex than that. She lacks say the drive to be a hero that Midoriya does, the superiority complex that Bakugo has, the emotional issues that Todoroki has. She seems to always be agreeable and in a cheerful mood.

If you look just a little bit closer though she always seems to be walking on eggshells when she’s around others. She doesn’t want to join Deku and the others to try to save Bakugo from the heroes because, it might hurt Bakugo’s feelings.

When she loses in the hero tournament, she apologizes to her parents crying not because she feels bad that she lost, but she feels like she failed them. Like it was her job to win and bring money home. However, when Deku comes to check on her in the room she’s already completely hidden her tears.

Going into her backstory we learn that Uraraka is walking on eggshells around everybody due to her own parents, that she’s spent her life trying to be as small of a burden on them as possible because she could see the tired looks on their faces. She’s a child who felt guilty that her parents had to take care of her.

So, for Uraraka her entire life is devoted to making herself seem as small and inconsequential as possible. Other people’s needs will always trump hers. Other people will always have more noble motivations for becoming a hero than she has. Other people’s emotions will always be louder and take priority over hers. Uraraka sees her own emotions and needs as mere trifles that get in the way, and so she always shuts them down. We see Uraraka as a version of Himiko, a high school girl who always appears to be cheerful and well-behaved but is merely repressed.

Uraraka repeats the same unhealthy behavior as Himiko once did. Which is why Uraraka’s first meeting with Himiko goes with Himiko getting such a cold read on her.

It’s helpful to view Himiko as the flipped version of Uraraka. Uraraka hides everything that’s pleasant about her on the inside, and on the outside appears like a perfectly selfless girl. Himiko is someone who hides her good qualities and instead wears the mask of a bloodthirsty psycho on the outside. While Uraraka lives by denying her selfish desires, Himiko always chases after them and is true to them.

Traits that are repressed in Uraraka, are expressed in Himiko. Especially traits that society sees as bad in girls, like selfishness, being emotional, etc..

The way Himiko acts is especially jarring because she seems convinced she’s a normal person. She’s in her own little world, making friends, getting along with other people, it’s just her friendship just happens to involve stabbing.

Himiko appears to be a girl psychotically obsessed with blood and nothing else. A girl who only cares about killing other people and chopping them up to bits. When she expresses the feelings deep inside of herself, literally no one can make heads or tails of what she’s saying, she doesn’t sound like a girl just a bloodthirsty monster.

While Uraraka seems like she has nothing in common with what is essentially a weird serial killer, we learn that the exact behavior that Uraraka’s creation is what led to Himiko’s current state of mind.

The difference between them is not that Uraraka is a person of higher moral character, or a better person, but rather of circumstances between the two of them. It’s not the choices they made but rather things they were born into and couldn’t control. Uraraka has parents that accept her even when she fails and encourage her.

Toga had parents that abused their daughter, and then abandoned her.

Uraraka chose to repress herself, while Toga was forced to become repressed by her parents. While we don’t know for sure if it was physical abuse it’s at least emotional abuse, and it had to be to an extreme extent to make Himiko snap that hard. The same unhealthy behavior but push to extremes gets extreme results.

3. Normal Girl - Himiko Toga

Himiko did not become the way she is because she was lacking empathy or born with uncontrollable urges for bloodlust, but because of the environment around her that always forced her to repress herself. From the knowledge that her parents would never love her for who she really was. Himiko wasn’t born that way she was a response of what was done to her.

People who don’t really know Himiko always judge her this way, that she’s incapable of understanding other people, that she has no empathy for others. She’s almost literally labelled and dismissed as a one dimmensional yandere trope by the people surrounding her.

However, Himiko is in fact always doing the opposite. She’s constantly trying to empathize with others. Her maddened way of talking to both Tsuyu and Uraraka in her character introduction is exactly that, her trying to feel that kind of connection.

Himiko’s fascination for Uraraka is a desire for empathy and understanding. One that you could say even surpasses some characters on the hero’s side, because she’s willing to try to understand the world’s of people who are nothing like her. Himiko’s next most significant action in the manga is to take Camie’s place and go after the kids. While she does fight against them she’s not overly violent, just curious. Deku even reaffirms some of Himiko’s primary traits.

Himiko is always talking a lot and trying to explain her way of thinking to other people, because she wants them to understand her. However, because she’s bad at communicating this tends to come off as babble and a lot of people completely dismiss what she says and don’t attempt to listen.

She expresses two things one a desire to know Deku on a deeper level, immediately asking him very personal, and sometimes very downright invasive question and two she also notices the closeness that Deku and Uraraka have for one another.

Once again this is a repeating theme for the league. Himiko repeats the same desire that Twice has, to become a person who is trusted in the same way.

Once again it’s important to remember that Himiko is just the flipped version of a normal girl. If most people hide their bloodlust and show their good sides, Himiko hides her desire to be trusted and to empathize with other people underneath her bloodthirsty urges she shows on the surface. She positions herself as a femme fatalle, but she’s actually just a girl who’s trying to understand why other people are different then her, and why Deku and Uraraka can have a relationship mutually founded on trust when she can’t.

Himiko’s past was so repressed she never formed real relationships with people. Not only that she assumes that nobody will want the real her, because the moment she flipped and the real her was exposed everybody in her life abandoned her and she had to run away.

After her brush with Deku and Uraraka we see Himiko start to be trusted by her comrades and a marked transformation takes place in her.

We see shades of the old Himiko. A selfish girl who only exists to fulfill her whims. However, we’re shown Himiko is capable of empathizing because not only do Shigaraki’s words get through to her.

Himiko is also for the first time able to reach the emotions of another person. Remember when Himiko tries to explain how she’s feeling, she babbles, and babbles and nobody listens. However that changes and for the first time, not only does Himiko pick up exactly on what’s troubling Twice, she also comforts him the way he needs to be comforted. She tells him that yes it might be his fault that Magne died, but she sees that he’s doing his best to make up for it and she gently encourages him.

Remember how important this is for Twice. The world has never forgiven Jin for his mistakes. He hit the wrong guy on accident, while obeying the law, and lost both his job and his home. He started stealing to make ends meet, and as a result he lost his mind. When he makes a mistake it always blows up in his face but this time, Himiko notices that she’s panicking and comforts him telling him it’s okay he’s made this mistake and he can still work hard to fix it.

Not only that but she notices what the problem was with Jin, she was able to notice the symptoms of his psychotic breakdown and rather than dismiss it as just Twice being crazy was able to help him in real tangible ways by wrapping her hanky around him and covering him up like he asked. Uraraka has a very surface level kindness, she’s kind but only by walking around on eggshells with everyone. Himiko is able to see through people, but uses that to comfort people on a deeper level.

The “Himiko just can’t control herself because of her quirk” narrative is something that Himiko rejects herself. Because that’s not what Himiko wants. Himiko doesn’t want to be special or different from other people.

Himiko sees herself as normal, and what she desires to be understand and be understood by other people. She doesn’t like Curious’ narrative for her because it made her out to be a freak or someone special when Himiko is trying her best to get others to understand her as a normal girl. Himiko can’t repress herself anymore, she can’t become normal the way her parents taught her too so not permanently broken, and forced to always express herself she’s trying some other way.

What she wants isn’t to hurt other people, not really though. Those thoughts just turn violence, because Himiko is herself a person who’s endured a lot of violence. Himiko is basically a child that’s been on her own living on the streets and surviving for years, with all the dangers that entails, and also people who can shoot lasers and punch things really hard chasing after her.

The more she’s isolated and on the run, the more violence she endures, the more violent and unhinged her thoughts become. The more she’s exposed to people who accept her for who she is, the more she’s trusted by those people, the more empathic and sensitive Himiko becomes instead. Himiko’s desire isn’t violence, when she’s pushed to her utter limit she says what she wants is to become a girl like Uraraka who is just loved and trusted by others for who she is.

And I genuinely believe at the core of Himiko’s character this empathic girl exists. Himiko becoming violent and unrepressed doesn’t mean her empathy disappears. The complexity from Himiko is that she’s both the knife wielding psycho and the normal girl who just wants to have friends at the same time. If behind every normal person there’s a monster lurking is true then the opposite is true as well, behind every monster there’s a normal person.

This is an idea expressed by Twice again. One of the villains that Hawks dismissed as a bad person, was capable of showing him compassion and gentleness even when he screwed up. Toga was capable of empathy for Twice besides the use he had for others. Toga herself is shown to be capable of more empathy than Hawks, who is one of the most selfless characters in the series, and who is convinced his actions are always done in order to save others.

However we see their treatment of Twice is so drastically different. Hawks treats Twice in a selfish way refusing to listen to what Twice wants, and only ever used Twice as a tool to exploit. Twice himself thinks that now that he’s no longer useful, Himiko won’t be kind to him anymore however we see the opposite.

Twice admits to Toga that he’s the reason that everyone is in danger right now and he completely failed, and he’s not going to come save them. He admits that he’s useless and Twice himself said Toga wouldn’t be kind to him anymore. However in that moment, Himiko ignores the fact that her life is literally in danger and everything is going to hell around her to comfort Twice one final time and tell him the words he needs to hear.

It’s literally the single most empathic moment of the manga, and it’s in direct contrast to Hawks’ behavior. A hero as devoted to saving other people as Hawks, who genuinely likes Twice as a friend doesn’t show him any empathy at all and even stabs him as the back. A psycho like Toga puts her own feelings aside and notices Twice’s feelings, and gives him comfort and thanks him in his final moment because to her Twice has value as a person beyond what his use is. That Himiko is capable of this kindness, but equally capable of her monstrous actions earlier in the series is what makes her human. Her kindness doesn’t make her any less mosntrous, and her monstrous qualities don’t make her kindness go away she’s both at once, rather than either or. That’s where the complexity comes in.

Toga is a very human character precisely because we see her at her most monstrous, and we see that girl slowly relearn how to express the kindness that’s always been inside of her in healthier non-stabby way. A normal girl who learned how to be a monster to protect herself. A monster who is slowly relearning to be a normal girl.

#himiko toga #jin bubaigawara #league of villains #league of villains meta #league of villains friendship #mha meta #my hero academia #my hero academia meta #my hero academia villains

629 notes · View notes

quicksilversquared · 4 years

Text

Defeat by Data

After getting great success with his efforts to figure out what was going on with Lila, Max has turned his attention to a bigger project: using data collection and analysis to track down Hawkmoth's location. Unfortunately for Max, it's proving to be more difficult than expected.

Unfortunately for Hawkmoth, that's not enough to deter Max.

links in the reblog

The models were ready, the equations tested and confirmed, the map of Paris downloaded and imported and the geo-locator coordinates checked and double-checked. The data sheets had been polished to perfection, each column crisply labeled and with data checks set up to let Max know if anything wasn't entered in the correct format, and linked to the program that he had developed.

All that was missing was enough data to provide a statistically significant result.

Max sighed as he entered his latest row of data, his eyes scanning upwards on the data sheet in hopes that somehow, magically, more information had appeared overnight.

His hopes were, of course, in vain. The data was as sparse as it had been before.

"I am sure that you will eventually gather enough useable information to track Hawkmoth down," Markov told him encouragingly. "Perhaps it is not working as quickly as you had hoped, but that may have been a bit optimistic."

"I think I got my expectations thrown off by how easy it was to find data about Lila," Max said with a sigh, making sure the line was saved before closing the document. Staring at it for too long would just make him frustrated, and he didn't do any decent work when he got too frustrated. "Hawkmoth is proving much more elusive."

Elusive, and the unknown variables that Max had to deal with were much harder to account for.

On paper, the concept of Max's Hawkmoth-finding model was simple: all he had to do was observe when people around him got mad, make note of where they were and what time it was, and then make another note when they got akumatized. In theory, he should be able to take the amount of time that it took for the butterfly to arrive and the GPS coordinates and then plug them in to find Hawkmoth's lair. He could account for the unknown speed at which the corrupted butterflies flew by using a fairly simple equation, which would then transform the data into lines projected onto a map of Paris, each line corresponding to the time taken for the butterfly to arrive. Max would then- in theory- be able to manipulate the lines and make them change in length by the same factor. Once all of the lines met- within a pre-determined margin of error- then that was where Ladybug and Chat Noir should be looking for the source of the akumas.

On paper, it made sense. It sounded easy. In theory, it was straightforward and pretty much guaranteed to produce results. But in reality?

First of all, there was no way to account for the variable amount of time that it might take for Hawkmoth to send out an akuma once an upset was detected. If his response rate varied, that could affect the akuma. Realistically, there was no way to confirm if all of the corrupted butterflies actually flew at the same rate. On top of that, collecting any sort of useable data was really hard, harder than Max had anticipated. There was no telling how angry (or upset, or frustrated, or otherwise emotional) a person had to be in order for Hawkmoth to pick it up. Then it was pretty rare to actually see someone get akumatized- the majority of people got akumatized when they were alone or with a single friend, after all, not in a group setting- and an akuma showing up in public immediately after being akumatized wasn't exactly a given. Sometimes it was pretty obvious that the akuma had shown up immediately, so Max had been counting them anyway- if he didn't, he wouldn't have any data- but most of the time it was pretty questionable and therefore not useable, quality data.

It was really frustrating, to the point that Max had tried making several other models in hopes that something would work out better. But where akumatizations took place didn't give him any leads, either. Much to Max's disappointment, the shape that the plotted points gave him wasn't circular (which would imply a maximum distance that Hawkmoth could reach, and therefore a center point where Hawkmoth's lair was located). Instead, it curved and bulged, the number of akumatizations more dependent on population and neighborhood traffic than anything else. There was, of course, an edge to the akumatizations that had fewer akumatizations per capita, but it didn't tell Max anything that he hadn't known before.

Max was very much stuck, and it was frustrating.

"I would try to get the word out to increase the number of people collecting data, but I worry that that could backfire," Max told Markov, pushing away from his computer. If he stayed close to it for much longer, he would probably be tempted to fiddle with the codes in an effort to somehow increase the value of the data he had collected or something. "If word gets out about what I'm trying to do, then there's a chance that Hawkmoth will find out about it and change up what he's doing. He could move locations on a regular basis, or change up how long he takes to respond to each instance of anger. This is our most likely path to success, so I don't want to risk messing it up."

Markov considered that. "Yes, speeding up our data collection is not worth risking gaining Hawkmoth's attention. I would say that trying to recruit others via a public platform such as the Ladyblog would be a major blunder. Would asking your friends carry a small enough risk to be worth it?"

Max considered that before shaking his head. "I worry that they would talk to other people and word could spread that way. It would be all too easy for someone to overhear what I'm trying to do but not catch why it needs to stay so secret. Or- well, I've heard of Alya doing things immediately after being told not to because she thought that she knew better. She might think that I'm being paranoid about Hawkmoth finding out about the project and post on the Ladyblog anyway." He knew Alya meant well, but... well, she tended not to always think before jumping, particularly in relation to superhero things.

(Max was 86% sure that Alya's little video about the strange symbols on possible Miraculous holders on paintings and sculptures at the Louvre had helped Hawkmoth make the connection between the strange sculpture there and the Miraculous. The chances of that not being the case and Hawkmoth simply happening upon the- what had the newscasts called it? Feast?- the same day that it was unveiled were... well, low.)

"Any of them might tell other friends in an effort to help and end up losing the message of how important it is to keep this project secret," Max added after a small pause. He didn't want to entirely single Alya out, after all, even if she did have the biggest platform and relatively low impulse control when it came to the superheroes. "I suppose I might be able to make up a different reason for wanting that particular data and be able to recruit a couple more people, but would it make a difference? After all, we all go to the same class in the same school. The likelihood that they would see something that I would not is relatively low."

Markov considered that. "I suppose."

"I guess that I'll just have to keep doing what I'm doing and hope that I eventually get enough data," Max said with a sigh, sending one more glance at his computer before getting up. "I don't want to give up. Eventually, it has to work."

Another week passed and brought with it exactly one more useable data point and a rather unwelcome realization.

Max needed more data, sure. But he needed more varied data. The large majority of the points in his very small data set came from akumatizations at the school. That caused way too much opportunity for error. Really, he needed a lot of data points from a wide variety of locations to try to ensure that he was getting data from all sides of Hawkmoth's lair. That would decrease his margin of error enough to- in theory- pinpoint Hawkmoth's location exactly.

He could keep collecting data points at school all he wanted, but they would only keep getting less and less valuable because they would just tell him the exact same thing that the first points had. Sure, they weren't completely useless, since then Max could look at the variation in response time, but they weren't nearly as useful as points from completely new locations would be.

It. Was. Frustrating.

Max scowled at the air, pen tapping the pad of paper that he had pulled out to help him brainstorm a new plan of attack. The TV was playing in the background, a bit of background noise to help Max think, but he still wasn't coming up with any new ideas.

He couldn't just skip school and wander around the city in hopes of finding people who were getting mad. That would be impractical.

Once summer arrived, perhaps Max could try to stake out spots that tended to see a lot of people akumatized, specially selected to give him as much information as possible- or, to put it more clearly, spots that weren't close to the school. There were a number of parks in the area, or places where tourists and locals alike got fed up with congestion and lines and overly-aggressive pigeons-

"Aha!" Max exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "Mr. Pigeon!"

Markov blinked at him. "Pardon me?"

"Mr. Pigeon- or, rather, Mr. Ramier. He's got to be one of the most akumatized people in Paris!" Max was on his feet- when had he gotten up?- and pacing now. "He gets chased out of public areas and akumatized pretty much every week. Most of the parks aren't that close to school, either. They're pretty scattered- but then that means that the chances of me happening upon him on any given day while hanging out at a certain location is rather low."

"You may be able to recruit some of your friends for that," Markov suggested. "Then you could split up and all stake out a park. If you make up some other project..."

Max considered that, coming up with a couple possible before discarding them as far too suspicious. Lila had proven that many of his classmates would accept even somewhat (or highly) questionable stories without much question, but Max didn't want to depend on that too much. If word got out somehow- he still wanted to avoid letting Alya know, because the less Hawkmoth knew about what research people were doing on his akumas, the better- it could reach someone who would be more likely to take a closer look at the story and perhaps question it.

Better to come up with a solid, logical story now than go with some flimsy cover and have it questioned later. The question was what he could possibly say that wouldn't raise Hawkmoth's suspicions.

Max thought it over for the rest of the day, coming up with ideas and then calculating the probability that each one would hold up under inspection and the probability that, should what Max was doing reach Hawkmoth, it would result in the supervillain changing up what he was doing. In the end, one excuse stood clearly in the lead.

All he needed to claim was that he was doing a public safety project and so he wanted to figure out the average window of time between when someone got mad and when an akuma arrived, which would then inform people how long they would have to calm down the angry person before it was too late.

(Or it would inform people about how long they had to get a head start before a possible akuma attack started. Max suspected that, if he was actually doing a project like that, most people would choose to use the information to save their own skin rather than trying to help prevent attacks.)

It was believable. It would make people want to help. Max still had to come up with an excuse as to why he didn't want a ton of people to know about the project while it was in-progress, but his main story was at least ready to go.

"I have looked up a record of Mr. Pigeon's appearances and categorized them," Markov announced as Max finished typing up his first draft of the Mr. Pigeon akumatization survey protocol. "And I have come up with a pattern that may help us reduce the amount of time that we spend watching for him. I have emailed the spreadsheet output to you for analysis."

Max nodded, clicking to his email and opening the sheet. On it was an analysis of when Mr. Ramier usually got akumatized on different days of the week, based off of a scan of all of the news coverage of Mr. Pigeon. There were some pretty clear patterns- the sheer volume of Mr. Pigeon's appearances allowed for some properly statistically significant results- and that would help inform where Max and whoever he recruited to help would spend their time. There was also an output chart breaking down the frequency with which Mr. Ramier was akumatized in different locations. Not all of the attacks had that information, but Mr. Pigeon showed up so often that people often took pictures instead of running.

Was it a public safety hazard? Yes, of course. It 100% went against the akuma attack safety suggestions that Ladybug and Chat Noir had released. But no matter how bad of an idea it was, Max couldn't deny that it had provided some very useful data.

"I will add the times and places that are most worth our time to my protocol," Max told Markov, already in the middle of inserting a table in the most relevant spot in their protocol so that it would be easily accessible. If he couldn't get enough people to post one at each place, then the chart would let him know how to most efficiently allocate his resources. "Based on this, we will not even have to wait until summer to start our collection. We could do this over weekends and after school."

If things went smoothly- if they didn't miss more than an attack or two- they would probably get enough data from Mr. Pigeon to be able to move on to the next (and currently undefined) part of the data collection plan. After all, they only needed so many samples at each of Mr. Ramier's favorite locations for Max's analysis.

If things went smoothly. Max had learned before that akumas tended to mess up even the most well-laid plans. They were hardly regularly scheduled (even if Mr. Pigeon did show some pretty distinct patterns) and Hawkmoth could very well decide to switch things up at any time. But provided that nothing changed drastically during their study period, their plan should work.

Now it was time to decide who out of Max's classmates and other friends would be most likely to respect his concerns and not go spreading word of the project to anyone else. Alya was out, of course, and by extension so was Nino. Max estimated the chances of Nino letting something slip- either intentionally or not- to his girlfriend were probably around 92%, which was obviously far less than ideal. He would ask Marinette, who was both far better than Nino at keeping secrets and clearly a fan of the concept less is more when it came to superhero information being shared on the Ladyblog, but...well. She was clearly a very busy person and Max didn't want to add even more to her plate. Adrien was similar, what with his heavily-loaded schedule and outings that were strictly restricted by his father.

Rose and Juleka would both no doubt be more than enthusiastic to help if he asked, but they were both friends with Alya. The probabilities of them telling Alya were in the 80s, which was not an acceptable risk.

They had good intentions, but Max knew that they might not remember to consider the drawbacks of the entire city of Paris knowing about the project.

Alix was a bit of a wildcard, if Max was being honest. The probability of her telling someone else could easily vary between 30% and 70%. It was better not to risk it, at least until he could do a bit of probing around and do a better risk assessment. It would be easy enough to do at school on Monday.

Mylène- and by extension, Ivan- were pretty low-risk. Max had talked with them enough to know that they understood the risks of- well, of pretty much any Miraculous-related information getting released to the public. If Max caught them on their own and explained his concerns thoroughly, the risk of them telling any others was negligible.

Chloe was automatically a no. So was Sabrina. Both were so spiteful and unpredictable- Chloe more than Sabrina- that it would be too dangerous to even try to include them. If Chloe tried to make another demand for the Bee Miraculous and got rebuffed by Ladybug again, she might deliberately tell people about Max's project- or at least the cover for the project that she was told- to try to sabotage the effort.

That only left Kim and Nathaniel in their class as possibilities. If Max told Kim not to tell anyone and why, he trusted his friend to respect that and listen. Nathaniel was likely to be similar, though- as with Alix- Max wanted to do some probing and do a more through risk assessment before including Nathaniel in his project.

It was truly unfortunate that Max couldn't just make a small army of Markovs and depend on them instead of all-too-complicated human helpers, but it would be far too expensive and Max simply didn't have enough time in his day to give them all the kind of attention and interactions that a robot on Markov's level required.

So human helpers it was. Unfortunately.

The recruitment process wasn't as bad as Max had worried it would be. Everyone that he talked to understood why word getting out about his ongoing research could backfire, and badly. They wanted to help, and they were willing to sacrifice their afternoons and weekends to help Max gather the data that he so desperately needed. Nathaniel and Kim even recruited two more people, bringing Marc and Odine into their group along with a couple of Max's tech club buddies and allowing them to pair up to stake out the various parks and other locations. Everyone was briefed before they headed out as a refresher and handed a copy of Max's final protocol, polished to perfection. There was going to be a little bit of deviation from the plan, since some people's parents wanted them home early, but it wasn't too big of an issue.

"I figured that you must have something up your sleeve these past few weeks," Kim told Max as they settled in at their location. They had a good vantage point of the entire park, and would be regularly patrolling the area to make sure that Mr. Ramier didn't settle down in some hidden corner. "You've been buried in your science projects notebook all the time and scribbling stuff down, like, 24/7."

"It's been a work in progress for a while," Max admitted. "A very long while. Data collection hasn't been going very well, though, so that's why I decided to recruit more people and start following Mr. Ramier. I need more data points if my model is going to be of any use."

Kim nodded. "Right! Because you need a bunch of data to make it, uh, statistic?"

"Statistically significant, yes." Max adjusted his glasses on his nose. "Without enough samples, the data may show a trend but it would be unwise to draw conclusions based on insufficient data. A few outliers or even just one could be too much of an influence on the data set."

"Right, right, of course." Kim considered that. "But why don't you just, like, remove the outliers?"

"Because I don't know that that's what they are until I have enough data," Max explained patiently. "I can't just go around removing points right now because they don't give me the answer I wanted."

"Ooh, okay."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Max pulled out his homework and started working on some of the problems for Chemistry, glancing up regularly to see if Mr. Ramier had arrived. His phone was with Markov in his bag, where his little robot friend would be able to see right away if any messages were coming in. Ideally, Mr. Ramier would show up and get akumatized sooner rather than later on Day One, which would allow them to get their data and then head home right away. There would then be a period of three days before they would have to start checking again, because Mr. Ramier always seemed to lay low for several days after an akumatization before trying again.

It was a bit sad, really- Paris just had to allow him to feed the pigeons in a specific location instead of just banning him (temporarily) from whatever park he was in and then they wouldn't have to deal with his frequent akumatization- but it was really, really useful for Max's study.

"Won't the time that it takes for someone to get akumatize be different in different parts of the city?" Kim asked after several minutes. "Or are you just looking at averages in the center of Paris?"

Sometimes Max forgot how observant Kim could be if he wanted to be. "In theory, yes. Time between anger reaching a certain threshold and akumatizations are likely to vary across the city. That's why I'll be including location data along with the time data."

Kim nodded. "Cool." He tipped his head to the side, considering. "Could you use akumas that showed up on TV? Like, someone who got mad onscreen and then got akumatized and came back and attacked everyone?"

Max blinked at his friend, then straightened like he had been kicked. Of course! How many contests had TV stations across the city held since Hawkmoth showed up? And how often had those contests ended in an akumatization? Pretty much all the time, the akuma doubled back and made a beeline straight for the studio. Sure, there might be a window of thirty to ninety seconds when the akumatization could have happened, but it was usually easy enough to narrow that timeframe down to a more reasonable timeframe of ten to twenty seconds..

Really, Max should have thought of that himself. Televised akumas were a very logical place to look.

"I'll have to dig through the footage this weekend," Max decided. He would do it sooner, but his afternoons would likely be taken up with tracking Mr. Ramier and also getting his schoolwork done. "I'll also have to think of some way to add in a little variation with those during analysis, since we don't know exactly when they were akumatized."

"Maybe the security cameras would- wait, no, never mind, that defeats the entire purpose of using the TV footage or whatever," Kim interrupted himself. He grinned sheepishly at Max. "Sorry, my mom's been watching too many of those detective crime shows recently and they always seem to love security camera footage."

"Well, it is a useful source of information in a number of cases," Max offered. He scanned out over the park, then narrowed his eyes when he spotted a very familiar pigeon-grey suit across the way. It looked like luck was on their side after all. "Though I suspect that detective shows may inflate how helpful cameras are in real life."

Kim considered that. "Yeah, I guess. They don't really show a lot of stuff how it actually happens, really. My mom has a friend who hates those shows and I overheard her once pointing out all of the inaccurate stuff in one episode." He shrugged, then perked up and pointed. "Look, there's a policeman! Ready to start the timer?"

Max nodded, pulling out his stopwatch as he watched the policeman approach Mr. Ramier. "Ready to go."

Max was practically humming as he entered the day's data in his program. His protocol had worked perfectly on their first run, and of course it was fantastic that Mr. Ramier had shown up so soon. He and Kim had been able to get their data and then retreat to safety in the building that Max had previously scouted out, allowing them to stay completely clear of the (very short) fight and even get a chunk of their homework out of the way before the all-clear signal was given and they could head home. Their group text thread had let the other members of their team know right away when Mr. Ramier was spotted, allowing them to leave their posts for the day instead of being left hanging. And to top it all off, Kim had made a very good point about using akumatizations on TV, so in theory Max would have even more data to add to his collection.

All in all, it had been a very good first day.

"Once I finish my homework for today, I want to start making a spreadsheet of contests that TV stations in the city have had since Hawkmoth's appearance," Max told Markov. He pulled out his daily planner to scan down the list of assignments that he had to complete for the night. Thankfully he had already completed a number of things during the school day in anticipation to their stake-out potentially taking the entire afternoon, so finishing wouldn't take too long. It wasn't as though there was anything particularly difficult to do. "It may not be urgent, since the footage won't be going anywhere and it's not going to be enough for me to draw any definitive conclusions still, but I'm curious about what they will add to the dataset."

He was also curious about how many of the TV akumatizations he would be able to use. They would have to be ranked or otherwise marked in some way to indicate which of the akumas had a smaller- and therefore more valuable- possible akumatization window, but some might not be usable at all. How many would fall into each category... well, that remained to be seen.

"I can start doing a search shortly," Markov told him. "At the moment, I have another search in-progress."

Max blinked, startled, and then spotted the cable hooked up between Markov and his computer. Clearly his robot had been doing research already while Max was at dinner with his family. He almost asked about what Markov was searching, but then he decided against it. He had learned before that if Markov wanted to share what he was up to, he would once his analysis was complete. "That would be great, thank you."

They lapsed into silence, Max working on his homework and Markov working on whatever his project was. There was a periodic quiet beep as Markov found and filed something of particular interest and the scratch-scratch of Max's pencil busy against the paper, both of them consumed with their work. Max had to force himself to focus on his work instead of running through possible treatments for the TV akuma data points to try to improve the data.

(It was very possible that there wasn't any good way to improve the data and his best bet would be to simply rate each data point by quality, but Max wanted to ensure that if there was any way to improve the data that he would be harvesting, he would think of it.)

Across the room, Markov let out a pleased little chirp before diving into research again. This time when Max glanced over, his computer screen was rapidly flashing through web pages that he recognized as belonging to different TV stations across the city. Clearly Markov had completed whatever research that he had been working on before and had moved on to Max's project.

Hopefully he would find a good number of contests and associated akumas.

Ten minutes later, Max finished up his homework and turned his attention to Markov. The computer screen was still flashing furiously, though it seemed- based on the progress bar flashing across the part of Markov's screen where his "eyes" usually were- that they were in wrap-up phase, doing a final check for anything that might have been missed earlier.

Really, Max wasn't sure what he would do without Markov. It was so nice to be able to get help with his various (non-school) projects. Whenever he hit a snag with coding or ran into trouble with deciding what model or statistical test or equation to use, Markov was already on the job and looking up resources for Max to reference. And while Max wasn't allowed to let Markov help him on school projects- he had had to sign an agreement saying that he wouldn't have his robot do his research for him- Markov was allowed to help Max study by quizzing him and it was very helpful.

"Done!" Markov announced with a triumphant beep. "I have produced a spreadsheet of all of the contests held by TV stations in the city since Hawkmoth's first appearance and links to all of the videos. Some of them have accompanying articles that mention an akuma showing up during the contest, but not all of them mention it."

"I'll start with those, then. Thank you." Max scooted his chair over to his computer, eyes scanning the spreadsheet that filled the screen. There were a fair number of contests to filter through, which was...well, it was odd. One would think that common sense would dictate that people should stop creating opportunities that were absolute breeding grounds for high, akuma-attracting emotions, but- as with the case of Mr. Ramier- clearly that was not the case.

If it weren't for the fact that Max was actively using those opportunities in his favor, he would bring up the odd contradiction directly to the mayor. Chloe would no doubt protest- she still seemed to be under the impression that she would get the Bee again eventually- but Max could point out the economic impacts that the frequent akuma attacks were having on the city. Taking actions to potentially reduce the number of attacks could be the first step in redeeming Paris's reputation in the eyes of the rest of the country and all of the potential tourists that were currently avoiding the city.

Of course, taking Hawkmoth and Mayura down permanently would have a far larger impact, so Max would simply let things run as they were for the time being. Once he had gotten all of the data that he needed from his sources he would approach the mayor, but there was really no telling how long that would be.

"Before you dive too far into the TV contest research, I have come up with another idea to increase the breadth of our investigation," Markov announced, and Max perked up. Another idea? It seemed like they were on a roll now. "How open are you to illegal activity?"

Max sent his robot an absolutely aghast look. That wasn't what he had been expecting! "Um, not at all open!"

Markov tilted his head to the side, considering Max. "Even victimless illegal activity?"

"Uh." Morally, Max still wanted to say no, but he had to admit that part of him was curious. "What, exactly, are you considering?"

"Earlier, your friend Kim mentioned using security camera footage to figure out when exactly contest contestants got akumatized," Markov told Kim. "There were, of course, logistical issues with the suggestions, primarily the fact that security camera footage is not immediately available to the public."

"We would have to ask for it, which would mean telling more people about my project," Max added. "And there's no way to confirm that all of them would keep the secret, or that none of them are connected to Hawkmoth in any way."

"Precisely. So we need to bypass the human factor and hack into the security camera footage of places where akumas appeared. If we can see both when they got upset and when they got akumatized, the time stamps on the footage should tell us how long it took for the akuma to arrive. After that, we can find the coordinates for each of the locations." Markov turned fully to face Max. "I have been looking into the feasibility of the hacking and come to the conclusion that it would not be terribly difficult. Some locations may allow for remote hacking, while others would require me to enter the building. Given that temperatures are rising, it is likely that I would be able to find an open window to go in through and from there, locate the security desk area."

Max considered that. Markov was right: it would be a victimless crime. The buildings in questions shouldn't even be aware that there had been any sort of breech. It would allow their project to be sped up, which in turn would allow for Hawkmoth to be found and defeated sooner. It was incredibly likely that the owners of the assorted businesses that they would be hacking into would have agreed to releasing their footage anyway, it was just that- for security reasons- that they would be bypassing the actual asking part.

"So, what do you think?" Markov prompted. "Should we take advantage of security footage to speed up the process?"

"You know what?" Max asked slowly, hoping that he wasn't going to regret this. He wanted to help take Hawkmoth down, and if this was what it took, then so be it. "I think that we should."

"I hope that you're happy with yourself," Max told Kim the next day at school. He hadn't slept very well, dreams of Markov getting caught and being traced back to Max and both of them getting sent to jail haunting him. "You've gotten Markov doing crime now."

Kim perked up, grinning widely. "Really? Cool!"

"Wha- no, it is not cool!"

Max was pretty sure that he had never been so busy before in his life. His afternoons and weekends were full of stakeouts, watching both Mr. Ramier and the general public. His evenings- and the days when Mr. Ramier had just been akumatized and was unlikely to try to feed the pigeons again so soon- were full of video analysis, going through footage from both security cameras and TV shows. Every time he got a data point, it was entered in his model's spreadsheet. The number of rows increased every day, with points coming from all over the city. Markov was kept just as busy, looking up dates for akuma attacks and hacking into security systems both remotely and on-site to get more footage for Max to review.

Max had been so busy, in fact, that he hadn't really had the chance to see how the new influx of data was affecting his model's output. It would be important to eventually, of course, to see where they needed more points to get the most accurate results, but Max wanted to finish processing the absolute mountain of material that he had gotten before he got distracted by the analysis.

"I'll help," Kim volunteered unexpectedly one afternoon as he and Max headed away from the park that they had been staking out. Mr. Ramier had been spotted at Ivan and Mylène's location, so there was no point in anyone else staying out longer. "It's just watching videos to see if the person shows up and then marking down times and location, right? I have my tablet with me, I could knock out a few streams before my parents expect me home."

Max only had to consider the offer for a second. Kim was the only one of his friends that he had been willing to tell about Markov's less-than-legal method of getting the security camera footage in the first place, and therefore the only one who wouldn't question him about it. "That would be great! Once I'm all caught up, I'll have a better idea of where in the city I need to get more data from to fill out my sample."

"Maybe you'll be done," Kim suggested. "I mean, we've gotten a bunch of stuff from Mr. Ramier. How many akumatizations do you need to get your conclusions, anyway?"

"A larger sample size tends to produce better data," Max replied vaguely, wondering when, exactly, he should come clean to Kim about the actual goals of his project. He had always planned on coming clean eventually to everyone who had helped him, though originally he had figured that it would be best to wait until after Ladybug and Chat Noir had the information in their hands and were ready to take down Hawkmoth. It was possible that an exception could be made for Kim, though, since he had been such a big help in the entire process.

"Yeah, I guess I remember Madam Mendeleev saying something like that before," Kim said cheerfully. "But you have to draw a line at some point, right? Otherwise you're just collecting data for forever."

Max considered his friend for a long moment, weighing pros and cons before coming to a decision. "Yeah, I do have a- a line, as you call it- in mind. We can talk about it when we get to my family's apartment, maybe? I don't want word to get out about what I'm doing ahead of time."

Kim frowned, clearly puzzled. "Wait, you don't want what your line is getting out? Or- wait, do you mean the project in general? But what's the point in gathering data if you aren't going to be putting out the results?"

"It will make sense when I explain it," Max assured him. They rounded the corner, and his family's apartment building appeared down the block. "There may have been some, ah, misdirection when it came to explaining my goals for the project."

"Ooh, misdirection! That sounds like- like spies and secrets and all that cool stuff!" Kim sped up, forcing Max into a jog to keep up. "I can't wait!"

Max could only sigh. Really, considering that he knew exactly how Kim was, he shouldn't have been surprised by that reaction.

With Kim's eager charge leading the way, it didn't take long for the two boys to get into Max's apartment, snag some snacks from the kitchen, and bundle themselves away into Max's room. Max immediately went to boot up his computer, trying to ignore the way that Kim was practically vibrating with excitement.

He probably should have called his cover story something other than a misdirection, even if that was what it was. The 'spy' term was just making Kim way too excited.

"So, the real story?" Kim prompted once Max had gotten his computer up and started transferring some files onto a USB drive so that Kim could look at them on his tablet. "Do I get to know now?"

"I did promise." Max checked one last time to make sure that the data was transferring over correctly, then spun to face Kim. "Remember, this does not leave this room. If Hawkmoth catches wind of what I'm trying to do, all of our work will be for nothing."

Kim nodded. "I promise not to say anything! Cross my heart and hope to die!"

"Thank you." Max took a moment to compose himself and decide where to start, then dove in. "Kim, do you remember how, when I first told you about the project, how you commented that the time frame between when people get upset and when they get akumatized would vary based on where people are in the city?"

"Yeah, since some people are gonna be closer to Hawkmoth's lair or whatever- wait!" Kim practically yelped, jabbing a finger towards Max. "Are you trying to use the times to track Hawkmoth down? Like, you'll make a map of all of the times and make, like, zones or whatever like they do for earthquakes? Or maybe it was some other natural disaster, I don't know. But, like, the center is bright red, and then the next zone out is orange, and then yellow or whatever, and it stands for how much damage was caused. Are you doing that, but with akumatization times? That's so cool!"

Max blinked as he tried to follow that. "That... would have been one approach, I suppose. I decided to go for a slightly more involved model. But yes, the end goal is to track down where Hawkmoth's lair is."

Kim was grinning. "So cool! Totally worth giving up some of my sprint practice time for! So how close are you?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. I have gained a great deal of data from the security cameras, but I've been too busy to look at the model output and see if there's any area that's particularly lacking. That's why your assistance will be so helpful- once I'm caught up and have some breathing room, I can look at my model and figure out what attacks will be most worth looking up." Max had been trying to get a good spread of akuma locations, but of course there was only so much control he could have over what data he collected. He had to work with the akumas that showed up, and of those, only the akumas that both got upset and got akumatized within the view of a camera were of any value to him. "That might be what slows me down, actually. If I need points from a specific area that perhaps does not get many akumatizations, I will have to wait for opportunities to appear."

"We could just find, like, a restaurant or something from that area and get Chloe to go there," Kim suggested. "She'll probably be able to create an akuma, no problem."

Max sighed. "We can't just sic Chloe on people to get akumas, Kim. That's not ethical."

"It would be for the, uh, betterment for the city, though! Upset a few people, get a few more akumas, and boom! No more Hawkmoth!"

"He does make a good point," Markov piped up. "The sooner we find Hawkmoth, the fewer overall akumas there will be and the sooner Paris's overall mental health can start recovering."

Max groaned. Maybe he needed to start working on improved human ethics software for Markov. First with the hacking, now with advocating for deliberate (or semi-deliberate) akumatizations! Markov was simply looking at the problem from a numbers perspective, instead of-

Instead of-

Well. Instead of an ethical perspective, perhaps? Except Max knew that there were studies on the effects that akumatization had on people, both the akumatized person and the people who were impacted by the attack. Creating a few strategically-placed akumas to bring an end to the attacks sooner would mean fewer people impacted, in theory, or at least less overall impact.

So would causing akumas actually be considered ethical in this case?

Hopefully things wouldn't come to that. It was a bit of an ethical conundrum and one that Max really didn't want to dive into too deeply right now.

"Well, it looks like the transfer is complete," Max said instead of debating the ethics of purposeful akumatization. "Shall we start? The sooner this is done, the sooner we can look at the model."

Kim practically snatched the USB from Max at once. "You bet! I'll be the fastest video analyzer you've ever seen!"

"Accuracy is more important than speed, if you could."

"The fastest and most accurate!"

"Mhmm."

Silence fell over the room as the two boys started to dig into their files, watching to see if the person who would later become an akuma would show up on camera at the needed times. Max made a face when his first set of files fell short- the man exited the building before becoming akumatized, which meant that he wasn't visible from any of their acquired camera files- and closed out of them, moving the files over to the folder marked for deletion. He wouldn't permanently delete them until his project was complete, just in case any of the data came out strangely and he had to refer to his files to double-check his work or in case they wanted to revisit any of the less helpful recordings and attempt to find more footage.

"Dude, is that Nathalie?" Kim exclaimed suddenly from where he was working. "Adrien's keeper Nathalie?"

Max glanced over, realizing what file Kim must have reached. "Yes, we have footage from the Gabriel design and production building. There was one day when there were three akumas in a row from that building alone. I asked Adrien about it-"

Kim was cackling. "That's so funny! That's Adrien's dad's company! You hacked Adrien's dad's company! Oh man, think about what ol' stick-in-the-mud himself would say if he ever found out!"

"Yes, I'm hoping to avoid that ever happening," Max told him. Then he frowned. "And I don't understand- how is it funny?"

"I don't know, dude, it just is!" Kim was grinning. "I mean, all of these other companies, we don't know who owns 'em. They're just some faceless corporation, you know? But I can't help but picture how red ol' man Agreste would get if he knew that a collège student had gotten into his security system!"

"I suppose." Truth be told, Max still didn't really understand the humor, but he wasn't going to keep trying. He had learned in the past that sometimes Kim found very strange things humorous. "Any luck with the videos so far?"

"Yeah! The first set had a good video of some guy stewing in his office and then getting akumatized there," Kim told him. "No analysis of the other footage from that incident necessary, right?"

Max nodded. Kim had gotten lucky. "Right. We just pull as much footage as possible. Some of it won't be useful."

"Sweet, so I can keep watching Nathalie harassing some poor intern!" Kim considered his screen. "Man, if they're gonna be cruel about people's work, you'd think that they would at least consider moving the company out of Paris so that they wouldn't have to worry about the staff getting akumatized because of the criticisms."

"I'm sure that Mr. Agreste feels that the hassle of relocating would outweigh the benefits," Max commented idly, opening another file. "There would be a lot of time lost associated with a relocation, and Ladybug and Chat Noir generally take care of akumas rather quickly. I've heard that a lot of businesses are banking on this whole issue going away within the next year or two." Was it a wise decision? Perhaps, perhaps not. Max didn't feel himself qualified enough to make that call.

They fell back into silence, working away on their videos. The next two hours passed with only a bit of scattered conversation to break up the quiet, and then Kim's mom tested him to come home.

"Hey, at least we got a good bit done, right?" Kim asked as he handed Max his notes on the videos he had watched and started packing up. "You should be pretty close to being caught up, right?"

Max nodded. He would have footage from the start of one and a half fights to finish watching once Kim departed. "Very close. Thank you for your help today."

Kim grinned. "No problem! Promise me that you'll let me know if anything cool comes up?"

Max barely paused before responding. "I'd have to tell you in person, outside of school. Preferably in either your home or mine, so that we can be sure that we aren't being overheard."

"Right, right, of course." Kim's phone buzzed, and he startled. "Okay, I gotta go. Good luck!"

With that, Kim was gone. Max turned back to his computer, intent on finishing the last of the footage before the end of the evening. It wasn't nearly as fun without Kim there, even though they hadn't really been talking that much, but Max forged on regardless.

Data collection wasn't always the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it had to be done.

"Finished!" Max announced half an hour later, closing his video player and clicking over to the spreadsheet for his model so that he could add the final row of data. "And now for the part I've been looking forward to- seeing the output!"

Markov flew over at once to hover by Max's shoulder. "Let's see it! Then I can start looking up attacks in areas where we need more data right away."

Max didn't hesitate to open the model. It took a minute for the data to load, and then little dots popped up in each of the places where akumatizations had happened. The corresponding time-lines took a moment longer to pop into place, all starting with their length linked to the base factor. As Max moved his mouse around, they pulled towards the cursor. A few adjustments of the factor value brought the lines closer to converging, and Max took the opportunity to look at the spread of points around his rough center. Much to his surprise- and relief, they wouldn't have to resort to having Chloe bully people- there weren't any overly bare areas. Some of his data points were definitely outliers- perhaps Hawkmoth had sent his akuma from somewhere other than his lair- but those could be hidden from the analysis easily enough, and so he did.

Maybe he would look at the outliers later, just out of interest's sake, but Max didn't need anything distracting him from the real analysis.

Laser-focused, Max fiddled and fussed, keeping an eye on the bar on the side of his screen that would tell him when his model had the best fit, aka when his cursor was right where the most of the lines converged (or at the very least, nearly converged). After a bit of fine-tuning and fiddling, Max finally had the center. He clicked to mark it and keep his place, then hid the lines layer of his model so that he could more clearly see the map underneath. As soon as he did, well...

Maybe Max didn't spend much (any) time up on the rooftops like Ladybug and Chat Noir, or flying in news helicopters over the city, but that didn't stop him from immediately recognizing the neighborhood around Hawkmoth's lair. There was his school, and the park that he had eaten lunch in with his friends only a few days ago. There was the fountain that Kim and Alix had had a water fight at only yesterday, splashing each other and any unfortunate passersbys until they were kicked out. There was the Dupain-Cheng Bakery, and the Grand Paris, and right in the center of it all, with a glowing red pin solidly marking the middle...

Well, that was the Agreste Mansion. Which meant- unless Max's model had gone very, very wrong somewhere or Hawkmoth was regularly breaking in past Mr. Agreste's not insignificant security measures- that Hawkmoth resided in the mansion.

Since Adrien was out of the house more often than he was in and was far too nice to be Hawkmoth anyway, he wasn't a suspect. Max could be nearly as sure that Hawkmoth wasn't any of the regular household staff, since being a supervillain would take up a fair bit of time and Mr. Agreste wasn't likely to tolerate something like that. Madam Sancoeur and the Gorilla had to be considered as well, of course, but considering that Hawkmoth was definitely a dude and Max had seen both Hawkmoth and Gorizilla at the same time (or close enough, anyway) on Heroes Day, both could be eliminated from suspicion.

That, of course, left Mr. Agreste.

"Well." Max pushed himself away from his computer, sure that his eyes were huge behind his glasses. "Am I ever glad that we didn't try asking building owners for their security footage. That would have been an absolute disaster."

The next step, of course, was to present his data to the appropriate audience. In Max's case, that meant putting together a PowerPoint that summarized his model's purpose, his data collection, the analysis, and finally, the results. Several times, Max found himself having to scale back his presentation after he put in a little too much detail.

Maybe the equations and coding that went into the development of his model were important and would be interesting to a statistician or programmer, but they weren't relevant to what Ladybug and Chat Noir needed to know. The target audience had to drive what information was presented. If they had questions, Max was more than willing to spend more time going over his model with them, but he knew that the superheroes' time was likely to be in short supply. The main reason for including any of his procedure was to convince them of the validity of his results, and Max had to remember that.

(He was still totally going to give an extended version of the presentation to his mom once Hawkmoth was arrested, though. She would appreciate all of the equations and coding that had gone into his work and they could geek out about it together.)

Finishing the presentation only took a couple days, rearranging and trimming down the slides so that they would be as straightforward as possible while still conveying everything that he needed them to. Max practiced his delivery, making sure that the transitions between slides weren't needlessly excessive and wouldn't slow him down.

And then it was time to actually tell Ladybug and Chat Noir.

If he were anyone else, Max probably would have struggled to get in contact with the superheroes. It wasn't safe to get in close to the battles, and both Ladybug and Chat Noir always took off so fast once the fight was over. Maybe in the early days of their akuma battles the superheroes would hang around, but with the possibility of Hawkmoth lurking and pouncing on them at the end of a fight, those days were over.

But Max had Markov, who could follow battles around without being as conspicuous and who could zip up to rooftop level without a problem. It still took a couple of tries for Markov to get close enough to get their attention before they zipped off, but it was far easier than Max trying to get in contact with them himself.

"I hope this is a good time," Ladybug said that evening as she hung half in Max's window. Behind her, Max could see Chat Noir lingering, keeping an eye out for- well, for Hawkmoth, probably. "Markov said that you had something to show us?"

Max nodded, taking a deep breath. He was feeling oddly nervous now, far more than he had ever felt for school presentations. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was familiar with Hawkmoth, or at least Hawkmoth's son. If Hawkmoth were a stranger, perhaps sharing the news would be easier. "I do. I have a short PowerPoint that I would like to share with you regarding a project that I've been working on. The project was an effort to track Hawkmoth down using a statistical model."

Ladybug and Chat Noir exchanged a look and then both slipped into Max's room, shutting the window tightly behind them. Ladybug took a moment to shut the curtains, too, ensuring that no one would spot them inside of Max's room.

"I've not heard of anyone using statistics to track down Hawkmoth before," Chat Noir said as Ladybug ensured that there weren't any gaps in the curtains. "It's certainly a different approach."

"We could use a different approach," Ladybug chimed in, finally leaving the curtains and joining them. "Everything else that we've tried has ended up with a dead end." She looked over at Max. "Do you want our help with data collection, or do you already have what you need?"

"I already have my results," Max told them, unable to help smiling at the superheroes' reactions. Their eyes had gone wide and Chat Noir's jaw had dropped. He nodded to the two chairs that he had set up in front of a section of wall where he would project his presentation. "If you want to sit..."

The superheroes sat. Max took another steadying breath, mentally apologized to Adrien- after all, his classmate's life was going to be changing a lot soon- and then flipped on his projector. The first slide of his presentation showed up on the wall, and Max started talking.

"Several months ago, I realized that logically, the time between emotion onset and akumatization should vary depending on distance from Hawkmoth's lair..."

Within the week, Mr. Agreste had been defeated and put in jail, immediately followed by his assistant. After some investigation, Adrien's mom had been found in some sort of magical coma and was apparently being nursed back to health with the help of Ladybug and Chat Noir. Adrien was temporarily staying in the guest room at the Dupain-Cheng house- why he had decided to go there and not to Nino's house was a mystery to Max, but he supposed that he didn't need to get every question answered- while his mom recovered. He didn't seem to hold any ill will towards Ladybug and Chat Noir for arresting his father, nor- thankfully- towards Max or their other classmates for the investigation that had led to the discovery of Mr. Agreste's secret identity.

Logically, of course, there was no reason to be upset with anyone other than Mr. Agreste himself, and perhaps Nathalie, but Max knew by now that human emotions did not always follow logic. He certainly had to admit that if he were in Adrien's place and his father had been arrested for being a supervillain, Max would more than likely be looking for someone else to blame, because his dad? A supervillain?

But Adrien hadn't reacted like that. In fact, he seemed happier now that his father and Nathalie were in jail. Max supposed that the difference probably largely boiled down to the differences between how Max's dad treated him and how Mr. Agreste had treated Adrien and the resulting differences in their relationships.

Adrien might have cared for his father, but there was no denying that they had a strained relationship at best. Mr. Agreste was overcontrolling and absent at the same time, never showing up for any of Adrien's activities or eating meals with his son but refusing to let Adrien go out for at least half of their outings as a group. Theirs was the exact sort of relationship that was on a fast track to have Adrien move out as soon as lycée ended and go no-contact with his father as soon as possible.

Or at least that was what Max was assuming, given the few interactions that he had seen between Adrien and Mr. Agreste in person and what he had heard (and overheard) from his classmates. He might be wrong, of course, but that was just what it had seemed like from that and from what Max had read online during his dives into online forums to attempt to educate himself better about human social interactions.

Either way, Max wanted to at least try to reach out to Adrien and make sure that the two of them would be okay. Presumably Adrien's closer friends had shelter and food covered, but if Adrien needed to miss class because of the trial or anything, Max could take notes to give him or offer tutoring to help him keep up.

Across Paris, people were thrilled to learn about Hawkmoth's defeat. Ladybug and Chat Noir had let on to the fact that they had had a civilian's help with tracking Hawkmoth down- that a civilian had done all of the work, actually- but, in accordance with Max's request, they hadn't mentioned names or given out details on what the civilian had done to track Hawkmoth down. He just didn't want the attention or the scrutiny about how he had gotten the data from the assorted businesses.

Sure, maybe having "located Hawkmoth via use of statistics and modeling analysis" would have been a good thing to have on his resume once he got to the age when he would be applying to university or to jobs, but there was enough time between now and then that he should be able to come up with a few other projects that would look good, ones where he didn't have to break the law to get the data he needed.

(That wouldn't look good on a resume- or, more likely, on a background check.)

Still, not being able to use his Hawkmoth-finding project wasn't going to bring Max's mood down. His project had been wildly successful after a discouragingly slow start, and the results... well, they had been incredibly far-reaching. The project had played a vital part in bringing an end to the attacks that had terrorized Paris for far too long, and now everyone in Paris had far less to worry about.

Max didn't need recognition. The satisfaction of a job well done... well, it made every minute of data collection analysis more than worth it.

#Miraculous Ladybug #my writing #max kante

74 notes · View notes

eurodynesass-moved · 4 years

Text

A Close Call

After starting off her day on a rather sweet note with Viktor, V goes out to do some jobs before getting an urgent call from Misty, telling her that Vik's been hurt.

Female V / Viktor Vector

This fic contains very minor, vague mentions of a couple of events/aspects of the game.

Ao3

— — — — —

They had become accustomed to the sound of metal banging against stone, of little objects falling off tables. It was easy not to mind it so much when all they could hear and focus on was their heavy breathing and soft moaning.

V held tightly onto broad shoulders, her eyes shut as she felt Vik's stubbled chin against her skin. He kissed the base of her throat, the side of her neck, her jaw, and she could feel his hot breath against her. It drove her mad.

Propped up on the table beside his couch, she was barely leaning against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist tightly as he slammed himself into her, over and over. His fingers pressed hard into her thighs, sure to leave some kind of mark when they were done.

"Oh-fuck-ing-hell," V exclaimed between his fast thrusts. Her jaw dropped and she buried her face into his shoulder. From the intensity of him moving inside her, she dragged her nails across his shoulders. That earned a deep groan from him just as he called her name out, his hips buckling hard toward his climax.

The table clanged, something fell over, the wall protested, and Vik continued to thrust in her—once, and again, letting the world know how good it felt before gradually slowing himself down.

V lifted his head by his hair and gave him a sloppy, breathless kiss. The two of them were trying to catch their breath, but were unable to get enough of each other, hands palming at every inch they could reach. As Viktor pulled himself out of her, he must have noticed that she did not find her release one last time before he did, so his hand dutifully went down to remedy that.

"It's okay," V whispered to him with a faint smile. "You don't- you don't have to—ooh," she paused. She closed her eyes, feeling those stupidly skilled fingers of his tease and play with her clit.

"I don't have to what, V?" he grinned.

"Mmm, don't mind me," V relaxed, sighing as he then inserted a couple of fingers into her. They certainly weren't his dick but he sure used them just as well. Moments later, her brows pinched to a tight crease, her body began to arch and her moans grew louder and higher in pitch—then to one, small, silent pause. Her legs pulled upward and pressed tight as her hips twitched beneath her. V's chest heaved in wide curves as she melted in Vik's grasp. "Fuuuuck, I could stay here all day," she moaned, finally opening her eyes to see him watching her with low lids. Fuck, he looked hot when he did that.

Viktor captured her mouth with his for a long, sweet kiss. Pulling away only slightly, V grinned. "You know, most doctors used to give their patients a lollipop after their appointment," she chuckled, a nudge about the fact that they could not keep their hands to themselves the moment her check-up was over.

"Is that a joke or a suggestion?" he raised a brow.

Before she could reply, there was a voice mumbling from behind the locked front door, and then a heavy knock. V snorted, trying to muffle her laugh after seeing the look on his face. Another knock sounded and he groaned in frustration, turning his head away from her to yell, "I'm coming!"

V tapped him on the shoulder once and raised a brow. "I think you already came."

Vik dipped his head, shaking it as he laughed at that. V couldn't suppress her own, taking his face in her hands to kiss him on the cheek. Just as she was about to stand and get dressed, he pulled her back by the waist and gave her one last kiss. He then smacked her on the ass and turned to fix his clothes.

V bit back a grin. "We still on for dinner later?" she asked as she pulled her pants up.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, sweetheart," he promised.

—

Just over an hour later, V had just dropped off a briefcase for a gig she had picked up the day before. She could not stop thinking about what would come later on. For two weeks, she and Viktor had been planning that dinner. A soothing night out in town, somewhere nice but not too fancy—and they both preferred it that way—with the promise of a lovely time after.

The thought brought a smile to her face as she mounted the bike, sending off a text to a fixer about the job being completed. Just before she was about to drive, she received a call from Misty. V sat up, answering the call, about to speak when she heard sniffling and crying on the other end.

"Misty?" she asked, now extremely alarmed.

"V, you-you have to come to the clinic," Misty cried. "It's Vik, he's... he's been shot."

Everything in the world stopped in place.

Viktor.

Shot.

"Is-is he—"

"He's still breathing, but please come quick," she begged.

V had already started the bike up and started moving. "I'm on my way."

She wasn't certain just how many times she had nearly gotten run over, or how she survived the sharpest turns, but V sped through the streets like she never had before. Getting just outside Misty's Esoterica, the bike shrieked to a stop on the sidewalk, startling the passersby. V leapt off and sprinted through the store, bursting into the clinic a moment later.

It was an absolute mess.

There was blood all over the floors, a couple of AirHypos discarded, medical equipment strewn about, bloodied gauze and bandages tossed aside. Viktor was laid flat on the very same bed that was used for her a while back. His shirt was unbuttoned, tank top cut open, and his chest was covered in blood. There were bundles of cloth that Misty had pressed into the wounds—two wounds to be exact.

Before V could give in to the immense emotions building up inside her, Misty had her run over to help. The bullets were still in him, stopping him from bleeding out, but she needed her help to get them out and fix him. V did not waste any time, getting her hair out of the way and listening to every single order that Misty gave her.

She had been around to help Vik once or twice, but it was nothing more than just bringing him what he needed. It was Misty that worked right across the alley, it was Misty that had seen him in action and helped him more times than she could count. She wasn't Viktor, but she knew what to do. It was more than V could say for herself. V did not dare to look Viktor in the face, to see his unconscious state, to see how the blood had drawn from it and how he might not even make it through.

She did not dare spend a single second cursing at the person that had done this. She could not think about that yet.

She could not think about losing him.

The dinner. That's what she thought about.

—

V had not realized how exhausting it was, working until time had lost meaning, trying to keep someone alive. She wondered if this was what he had to do, all those times she had come into his shop looking like death either from the chip or just some other terrible wound. She wondered if he, too, could not think about moving away and could not bear to turn away from her for more than a second. She wondered if he felt that way about every patient or just the ones he cared for.

They were all things she'd have to ask him herself when he'd wake up. If he'd wake up.

V shook her head, taking a deep, staggered breath and wiping a stray tear from her cheek. There had been a lot of those that she could not wipe away during the operation. Sitting there, in his own stool, right beside him, V continued to stare. She soon felt a hand on her shoulder, Misty's gentle touch, being told to go wash up. She promised V that she would look after him until she returned and so V listened. V was covered in Viktor's blood, her shirt, her hands, even her face.

Finding herself stumbling into a washroom at Misty's, she slowly glanced up at the mirror. An image flashed in her mind. The very same image, but a different bathroom. A different time. A different loved one's blood all over her. He, too, was shot, but she could not save him. More tears pooled in her eyes as she looked down at her hands, moving them under running water and wondering just how many more times she would have to be in this position.

—

Stepping into Viktor's clinic, she saw Misty paused mid-step, looking at her. "Hey, honey. You clean up okay?"

V nodded, then walked through the open gate, turning to her left immediately. Vik was still there, he was still unconscious, but he was still breathing, his heart still beating. Standing beside him now, her face was hardened into a cold expression, but she could not stop those goddamn tears.

"Who did this?" she asked through clenched teeth.

"It was... one of his clients, one of his appointments..." Misty replied. "Went right through the Esoterica."

"Do you know his name?" V prodded, eyes stuck on Viktor's bandaged chest.

"V, why do you—"

"His. Name."

Misty sighed. "I don't know, but... Vik has their files in his system."

V stepped away from Viktor's bed, walking over to his desk and turning on the monitor. A log-in screen. Fuck. She hoped she'd be able to crack it, but first she tried any password she could think of. Fighters' names, special dates, variations of his names, Misty's—

She blinked hard and hoped she'd be wrong when she typed in her name. Her real name.

The insides of his comp opened up to her, free for her perusal. Her head dipped low momentarily as she suppressed the emotions that burst within her chest. V then sniffled and looked back up at the screen, brows furrowed and eyes sharp with purpose. She scrolled through the list of clients that Viktor had dossiers and files on, having Misty identify the man that shot him. Once she did, she asked V what she was about to do, but V did not reply. She simply checked to make sure that her mantis blades were working right before urging Misty to lock down the clinic after she left.

—

Perhaps there was no point in washing up after all, if she was going to be returning to the clinic covered in blood again. This time, it was a mix of her's as well as others'. The client was some hotshot Tyger that had a few friends around when she finally tracked him down. Now, with her in the clinic having returned safely, he had absolutely nothing.

Misty offered to help clean her up and she did not refuse, but she was not going to leave the clinic again. Not for another while.

—

"So I finally handed it over to her and told her I never wanted a job from that sleazebag corpo ever again. Besides, he talked too much," V sighed, spinning around in the stool a little bit. She then finally came to a halt and scooted closer to the bed, gently lifting his hand with hers. "I miss you..." she whispered, thinking that she had enough in her to admit it and be okay.

She didn't.

V immediately began crying and she shook her head, looking down at her shoes. "I can't... I don't know what to do, Vik, just... tell me what to do. I can't lose you. Not you too, not you."

She finally built up the courage to look at him again, moving a little closer to bring a hand to his head. She gently stroked his hair, small comforting gestures without any real purpose. "Come back to me soon, okay?" she sniffled, bringing his hand up to her lips and just holding it there for a bit. At least in the days that he had been recovering, she noticed some color seemed to return to his face.

After he was stabilized, V had called on the other Rippers she knew, finally finding one that would come meet them and check in on him. It became a habit after it was clear that he would not be waking up right away. Since then, V had set herself up just around the corner, having been sleeping on the pull-out couch just to stay close by.

—

A few days later, V had been sitting on the ground beside Vik, leaning against his bed. She had been talking about her day, about a few things she remembered from a while back—anything she could think of just to fill the air, spend the time, when she felt something.

There was a brush against her shoulder, and when she looked down, she could see Vik's fingers weakly reaching for her. V got up onto her knees, taking his hand immediately as her eyes locked onto his face. Viktor let out a faint cough, brows furrowed and eyes struggling to open.

"Viktor?" she called to him. He made a small sound. She checked his vitals quickly, finding nothing to be out of the ordinary. V waited patiently as Vik finally blinked, eyes darting around until landing on her. "Look who's finally awake," V tried to smile, but her voice cracked and her heart ached.

"Fuck..." he spoke, his voice coming out dry and raspy.

"Try not to move," she warned. Flinging a quick thought into her comms, she sent Misty a message then focused on Viktor. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a million eddies," he joked, the corners of his lips twitching.

Misty soon came through the door, sharing a similar expression to V's. Eyes tearing up, full of relief, urgency to be sure everything's okay. So V left her to it. She remained by Vik's side and kept holding onto his hand, listening as Misty explained everything to him, his condition, his wounds, and the procedures the ladies had done to keep him healthy.

Partway through their conversation, Vik had turned his head to look at V, saying nothing but just watching her. Her eyes were fixed on his hand as she held it. She looked as though she were holding the most fragile thing and the look on her face was far too much to handle.

His focus finally came back when Misty placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed his forehead. "It's good to have you back, Vik. Just keep resting, we'll have you up and walking around in no time."

"Thanks, Misty," he smiled at her, and gave her a small nod as she walked away.

Misty reached for V as well, giving her shoulder a small squeeze on her way out. Once the door was shut, Vik nudged her hand with his own.

"Hey," he whispered to her. "Come closer."

V obliged, shuffling a little closer and raising herself up to see him properly. She still could not find it in herself to make eye contact with him, but the thought of him being awake, that he was going to be alright...

Fuck. She was crying again.

Viktor raised his hand to cradle her cheek, "Hey, come on now..." he cooed, a thumb brushing her tears away. "I'm gonna be just fine."

"You fucking bastard, you scared me," V scolded, her head hung low as her body shook with each sob. Her nimble hands wrapped around his forearm, holding onto him. "If something happened... If..."

"Stop that," he spoke calmly, "Look at me, I'm gonna be all better."

She finally did look up at him, seeing the face that she had come to love so dearly, finally awake. "You've just... you've never been on this side of it before, not in front of me..." she explained. "I was so scared I'd lose you too."

"Worst way for the tables to turn, huh?" he chuckled dryly.

V let out a chuckle that was akin to a sob, bringing a sleeved wrist up to wipe all the fluids from her face. "Fuck," she whispered to herself, realizing it was a lot. As she did so, Vik noticed a healing gash on her face that he had not seen the last time they were together.

"That's new," he observed.

Slowly getting up from the ground, V found the tiniest sliver of mattress she could sit on just so she could lean in properly. "Don't worry about it, it's almost gone anyway."

"That's gonna leave a scar," he sighed, a thumb tracing the pink line along her jaw. "Who do I have to pay a visit for doing that?"

"No one important," she promised. "It's taken care of."

Viktor looked her in the eyes for a moment, trying so hard to read her expression. Beyond the relief and beyond the sorrow, there was a hint of something, a coldness in her that he had not seen since the days she recovered from the landfill. It was pain and anger combined, a dangerous mix.

"Well," he brushed her long, precious waves behind one ear and took a breath, "I guess we're going to have to rain check on that dinner then, huh?"

She couldn't help but smile at that, "You just focus on getting better and we'll have a bunch of nights to make up for it, alright?"

"You got it, darlin'," he chuckled.

V leaned down to give him a small kiss, being almost too gentle with him. When they pulled away, she remained close and looked him in the eyes. "I love you, Viktor."

Oh, if she knew what those little words did to him every time. He gave her a warm smile, not missing a beat, "I love you too, V."

#cyberpunk 2077 #female v x viktor #viktor vector #v/viktor #viktor x v #v x viktor #smut #angst #smut and angst B)#fluff #can't forget about the fluff #viktor's biceps

52 notes · View notes

foxofninetales · 3 years

Note

Pass the happy!💖 When you get this, reply with 5 things that make you happy and send this to the last 10 people in your notifications!

(I hope you're having a fantastic day!!!)

YAY MORE HAPPY!

1) TEA! Te is not just a DRINK, it is a FRIEND that you can make magically appear by adding hot water to dried leaves and if that isn’t magic I don’t know what is. And then there are different KINDS of tea, which means you can pick the exact kind of friend to suit your mood! And I’ve recently unlocked a brain hack, which is that if I’m going on a particularly anticipated vacation I take a new kind of tea with me and drink it there, and whenever I drink it afterwards my brain gives me back a little moment of that experience. (Harney and Sons Celebration tea is me sitting in a four-poster bed in my second-floor room of the Market Square tavern in Colonial Williamsburg on a freezing February day, with sleet blowing against the windows, frantically trying to type fast enough to catch the words of Fox’s Geometry as they spilled wildly out of my brain. How is that not magic?)

2) Writing! Humans have spent thousands and thousands of years coming up for words for things, and if you arrange them in the right order someone else can read them and their brain will make the same pictures your brain made, and if you’re really really lucky your brain-pictures will make them feel An Emotion, and if you’re even luckier than that your words may change them, just a little, and if you ever want to dabble in a very small and private form of godhood I recommend you try it, too.

3) I have a pair of clay animals. I couldn’t tell you what kind of animals they are, because I don’t think their sculptor was sure, but one is a little like a hedgehog with scrambled eggs instead of spikes, and the other is a little like a mouse with a spiny tail, and they are glazed white and teal and cobalt blue. I found them in a thrift store years ago. They aren’t good sculptures - they’re very definitely amateur, probably something someone made in school - but the hedgehog looks so friendly and the mouse has a cheeky grin and they make me happy every time I look at them.

4) Hot soaking baths. I would probably live in a bubble bath if I could. And here’s the magic thing - out of all the times and places in history I could have been born in, I happen to be in the one where I can immerse myself up to my neck in hot water every single night if I want. Do you know what an infinitesimal fraction of all humanity that has ever existed can say that? Mindblowing.

5) Being alone. Not being lonely - that’s a different thing, and not even I can make that happy - but having just yourself for company. Those moments when you can truly divide the universe from yourself and not have to be any of the multifold variations of yourself that you have created for all the people in your life. You’re the person you will know the longest in this life, and if that person can be your best friend, that’s a wonderful thing.

#ask games

11 notes · View notes

crustacean-on-main · 4 years

Text

Libertarianism and Territoriality

A while ago, I got involved in a kerfluffle with esteemed tumblr user @shieldfoss in which I unwisely threatened to longpoast at him about politics. Turns out, there is demand for this post (hello @samueldays), so now I actually have to write it. Ugh.

content warning: the following poast is ramblomatic

So, to get the preliminaries out of the way -- tumblr is an extremely unsearchable website, and this isn’t meant to be a character assassination, so it’s both entirely possible and disturbingly probable that the things I will be arguing against correspond poorly or, in the worst case, not at all to things shieldfoss actually believes. Therefore, I will be arguing against a cloud of beliefs that I feel to be common enough among self-described libertarians and hope thereby to make perhaps a more general point.

At the heart of this discussion is the question of whether believing territoriality is immoral is incompatible with other ideals of libertarianism. We’re already running into the problem of extremely ill-defined terms, so we’ll have to clarify here. Territoriality is the easier one; we’ll specify that we mean a belief in the right of a group of people to eject or exclude others from territory that they hold in common or over which they have power. “Libertarianism” is the thornier one, so it might take longer to get at the essence here. For the discussion of borders, the common beliefs that are more or less relevant are a belief in the primacy of property rights, a belief in contractualism, being favorable to freedom of association and being deeply suspicious of government in general, but especially where government regulation could interfere with any of the former three. Now, let us look at a small-scale hypothetical example to illustrate the issue under discussion. Imagine a village in rural Pennsylzhopiya, populated largely by very devout members of some sect -- call them the Ruritanians -- who believe very fervently in Jesus Christ and Not Smoking Tobacco. One day they are surprised to learn that the United States has been taken over by the Libertarian Revolution and will henceforth be governed as a minarchy. Mindful of their new powers, they immediately pool all their property in a new entity called the Ruritanian Corporation of Pennsylzhopiya, that has a charter which prevents it from selling any of its property outright, and gives the religious community of Ruritanians deciding power in what it can do with its land. Meanwhile, in Philomena, the capital city of Pennsylzhopiya, imagine a neighborhood of people whose politics can be summed up as “progressive, but skeptical of big government”. Delighted at the news of the revolution, they do nothing in particular, because they already own their houses. They expect their lives to improve as a consequence of decreased regulation. Inspired by the political upheaval, some outsiders move to the Ruritanian community. They cannot buy Ruritanian land, but they can lease it at a low price provided they swear not to blaspheme Jesus Christ or Smoke Tobacco. Some of them fail to uphold this code; the Ruritanian council votes to end their leases and eject them from Ruritanian property. Others convert, using funds they have saved up to buy further land and add it to the common possession of the Ruritanian community. Ruritanians benefit from the light of the Libertarian Revolution. Meanwhile, in the libertarian neighborhood, a more unpleasant sort of radical fundamentalist Ruritanians has bought a house after the previous owner moved away. They have taken up picketing in public squares around the neighborhood, condemning public tobacco smoking. Since they by and large aren’t doing anything illegal, and the owner of the public squares, the city council, remains bound to the U.S. constitution, which was reaffirmed after the Libertarian Revolution, their neighbors are in a bit of a pickle. They did not take advantage of the new legal regime to create an entity exercising power in their name, if only because they don’t trust each other enough to give up private ownership of their homes, so they can’t do anything about the picketers. As time passes, more Ruritanian fundamentalists move to Philomena, eventually creating a sufficiently large nuisance for their liberal neighbors that most of them move away, creating a newly fundamentalist Ruritanian neighborhood that can in turn use its power to create new corporations to make sure the neighborhood stays Ruritanian. I assume most of my readers know where this is going, so let’s consider the final case: what if the Ruritanians didn’t form such a corporation but left their lands privately owned? They’d be vulnerable to the exact same tactic, since once property is legitimately acquired, there is no way to dislodge its owner. The real, non-libertarian United States contains many examples of this kind of hostile takeover of neighborhoods between groups, largely accomplished by application of force that was either within the bounds of the law or not cracked down on by whatever higher authority should have. The upshot of all this is that if you truly care about freedom of association with all it entails -- essentially, the right to choose your neighbors -- then you are left with the uncomfortable reality that if you have no sovereignty over the territory you occupy, you can’t choose shit; this is, of course, not a problem with a hypothetical libertarian society only, as history attests. Libertarians for their part tend to answer this criticism in one of several ways. The first is basically “well if you have a problem you can leave”, or the exit-only approach. This is in my opinion not workable on a large scale outside of the US, and probably not even there, but is at least philosophically consistent. The second is giving up this freedom as a value, at which point you just collapse into progressivism with a procedural fetish. The most interesting answer is a variation on “would your neighbors sell to people whose values are so different from theirs?”. I think that the answer tends to be: yes, they would. Unless there is a powerful compulsion on every single one of those neighbors not to sell to certain people, they have no incentive to forgo their personal material gain or convenience for the benefit of their neighbors, especially if, say, they were moving away anyway. You also cannot really create such a compulsion in a libertarian society unless it already exists, since you’d have to surrender your very real privileges, your absolute property rights, to the community in order to benefit from collective organisation this way, and that is extremely unlikely to happen unless you are already a fundamentalist Ruritanian. Conceivably an intentional community of some kind could pull it off, but that’s basically answer one in material terms. The tl;dr here is that in my experience a lot of libertarians claim to care about the benefits of social cohesion, or at the very least presuppose that you already have it, but don’t give a lot of thought to how it might be obtained or preserved once you have it. It’s true that a libertarian state could actually help buttress it if your group already has fanatical levels of asabiyyah, by expanding the things you’re allowed to do with yourself contractually, but for most people that doesn’t apply. Indeed, we see that even in our non-libertarian versions of capitalism, the combination of market forces and upward concentration of force is extremely corrosive to this sort of group cohesion. The final consequence of this is that a libertarian society (again, defined as above) would be extremely vulnerable to collapsing into what we have now, if not worse -- there is neither incentive nor means for anyone to defend against concentration of power into the moneyed few who control the largest international corporations. I’ve limited myself in the examples to discussion of small-scale examples, but it’s trivial to see what happens if you extend the same principles to national borders. If nations all had open borders, no tariffs and homogenized legal systems recognizing the primacy of property rights, you would get the worst kind of cyberpunk dystopia, where the biggest capital interests could essentially do whatever the fuck they wanted. I think many libertarians were attracted to the ideology by the depredations of large organizations like this, and probably believe in the romanticized freedom of the smallholder more than the freedom of international capital, which is why I originally called this position incoherent. The ideal of individual freedom is a foil, something to distract from the fact that if you remove all intermediaries, you’re left with the leviathan on top and individuals immediately subject to it.

#longform #this probably needs an edit pass

23 notes · View notes

skullrock · 4 years

Text

softly, slowly - Robin x Reader

pairing: Robin x Reader

request: request for Mayfield sister/Robin Buckley, dating in secret or meeting in college and first dates?

warnings: none!

words: 1k

a/n: this is my first Robin fic! I made it shorter so I could get a feel for her and her character, but please feel free to request her more! <3 enjoy!

===

Your younger sister Max had known Robin, and said she was a nice girl. But Max never told you she was pretty, or funny, or smart, or talented. Max never told you any of those things – you just had to find out for yourself.

When you first met Robin, you knew right away that she was someone your heart had ached for. It was like two halves coming together to make a whole. You’d never felt so complete before in your life, and for once, you thanked English lit class for something. Had it not been for that dumb requirement, you would have never met her, never been partnered with her, never learned what her favorite songs and foods were. You never would have been able to grab her hand when you watched The Shining together, or kiss under the fairy lights of your dorm room.

It was difficult to keep the affections under wraps, but you knew it was what you had to do. It was worth it though, to feel her soft lips on yours. To hear her dorky laugh and see her smile – that’s what mattered. You had never been happier than you were with her. That was enough to keep the whole sneaking around thing worthwhile.

The best part was going home for the holidays, because it meant you could spend Christmas and New Years with her in the same town. No tearful goodbyes; only a ten-minute drive to her house. You met her parents under the rouse that you were simply best friends – it wasn’t a lie, just a variation of the truth. You exchange presents – Robin buys you a box set of Jane Austin novels and you buy her the same exact thing, making you both laugh to tears at the coincidence. Robin carries around a bushel of mistletoe with her the entire month of December to pull out, insisting you have to kiss her, because there’s mistletoe right there.

The only time you didn’t have to be secret was when you were around Max and Robin’s friends, who accepted you both with welcome and open arms. They even let you in on the secret Santa, giving you your sister to make things easier on you. It was the best Christmas you’d ever had, because Robin was there with you, face glowing in the Christmas lights, eyes crinkled as she smiled widely. You thought she was beautiful.

You realized you loved Robin on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by friends as you all loudly counted down from 60. You stopped counting to pause and stare at her, and she looked back at you, eyes warm and happy. You kissed when the year turned, happy to have solidified the event with one another.

You told Robin you loved her while splayed out on your dorm room bed, stroking her hair and pressing kisses to the top of her head.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Robin shifts to look at you, brows furrowed. “What did you say?”

You swallow the apprehension and say it again, louder, clearer. “I love you.”

Robin frowns for a millisecond before a smile grows, making her eyes crinkle the way that you love. She strains her neck upwards and presses a gentle kiss to your lips, making your heart skyrocket. She lays back down and laces her fingers through yours, kissing the back of your hand lightly. “I love you, too.”

You’d run to the local diner at midnight with her after the Spring play, wishing you could hold her hand but instead playing footsies with her under the table. You’d ask her about something just to hear her talk about it, even if you didn’t get it at all. All you wanted to do was listen to her voice, day in and day out.

You help her fight her demons, too. A few months after the love confession, on the anniversary of Starcourt, she talks to you in rushed whispers about what happened to her under the mall. You’d known some of what Max had felt comfortable enough to tell you, but you never knew Robin was involved. You felt anger and sadness coil in your gut as she recanted her nightmares every single night in July, but you were there for her every time she woke up from them.

“I wish I could do more,” you whisper through the phone at 3 am. “I wish I could have protected you.”

“You’re protecting me now,” she says quietly, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “Isn’t that enough?”

You smile sadly. “Even from the spiders in your dorm room.”

Robin laughs. “God, even from the spiders in my dorm room.”

Your favorite nights were when you would have sleepovers. You would sing ABBA at the top of your lungs together, then devote old love songs to each other. You would tearfully sing ‘Time After Time’ to her, and she would shake her head and laugh, trying to hide her own tears. You’d bring a sleeping bag to keep up the impression, but you’d fall asleep with her in your arms, wrapped up tightly in your embrace.

“I love you,” she whispers lightly as she falls asleep.

“I love you, Rob,” you smile, and for the first time in your life, you feel at home in your own skin, lying beside the girl you love.

===

taglist (join here!) - @harrington-ofhawkins @comedy-witch @gothackedalready @wolfish-willow @sassisaluxury @willowrose99 @harringtown @m-blasterrr @whimsicalwoodlands @anerroroccurrrrred @marvels-gurl @the-almond-dinger @ssanjuniperoo @darth-el @sourapplebaby

#robin buckley #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley x you #robin buckley imagine #robin buckley oneshot #stranger things x reader #stranger things oneshot #stranger things imagine #I didn't know who to tag so I tagged everyone on my one shot list!!!#hope that is okay!!#also my GAY HEART I cant take it dude

182 notes · View notes

hellyeahheroes · 4 years

Text

Marvel’s Spider-Man: Miles Morales story and character review

So let’s state a disclaimer, I didn’t like the PS4 Miles character as it was blatantly clear that they never read a Miles story with the actual mistakes they made(Miles going to the wrong school, Rio being a science teacher, Jefferson loving vigilantes/supers, using MJ as an origin for Miles, the skin lightening of both Miles and Rio). It was insulting because they clearly researched and had a fidelity to Peter Parker as they had references from both of the 616 and Ultimate Universes but with Miles, they somehow missed the first thing about Miles: he doesn’t want to be Spider-Man. I didn’t like this version. Notice the past tense.

Miles Morales PS5 redeemed him. I am half-way as I’ve done all of the side quests and pretty much half of the main story. And I also seen the whole main story on YouTube. So yeah.

First off, the first thing I noticed about Miles was his fresh-cut. It was, to quote my brother, “a hot mess” in the first game. I was delighted to hear that the first thing the “black” consultant told the Insomniac developers. His edge was fucked up. Second thing was how social Miles was. Third thing is that they retconned Miles going to Midtown. Yes, in the first thing they did actually have kid in Brooklyn attend a public school in Queens. I am pretty sure in the remaster the changed it to Brooklyn Visions.

These changes along with the fidelity of the relationship between Miles and Ganke were what sold me on this version of the character. I get it. No one wants Peter to die and honestly, they probably should have just used Anya, but Miles is popular now and it’d be stupid to just not capitalize.

So let’s talk about a few characters starting with the actual main character of the game: The Tinkerer.

Let me tell you that at first I thought she was redundant. I am not going to spoil it, but it was obvious the moment she is introduced in the game and Miles mentioned her twice before she is formally introduced. It’s clear that she was the focus. I felt that she was redundant because there is a literal harem of morally dubious women who Miles has a close connection to that she takes aspects from. Tinkerer is an amalgamation of all of them. She is a girl leading a gang(Diamondback/Tomoe) who is a genius inventor(Ceres). She wants revenge against a company that is poisoning the city and killed her brother so she becomes a ruthless vigilante(Tiana). Her powers or devices are that she manipulates a metal to form any shape she wants(Tomoe). Her relationship of Miles is one that is really platonic with some romantic undertones(literally every single person that I mentioned) but it is torn apart because Miles lies and keeps secrets from her(Katie Bishop).

What sold me on her character is the work they did in her collectibles which I implore you to collect because they provide so much depth to her character and also, it doesn’t really bother to explain Miles’ character in this world but hers. This girl is hurt because her loved one was killed and she saw Miles as family or a second brother. They hung out together and as soon as Miles went to Visions, they drifted apart. I’ve always wondered about the kids Miles left in his whole transfer situation and Tinkerer was one of them. Her pathos and identity is very much tied to Miles. And I love her.

Look, at first, I was reluctant to want her in the main comic, but someone put in too much work to not include her in Miles’ main rogues gallery. I hope that Saladin sees it and implements a version of her in the MM: Spider-Man comic. She also reminds me of Gear from Static Shock except she is not a gay white man.

Ganke was spot on. This is the best adaptation of Ganke I’ve seen.

Yes even better than Homecoming.

Ganke is part of Miles’ Spider-Man. He is not just the fat Asian kid providing tech support. He is the motivation and is apart of it too unlike the thing they tried to do with MJ and Peter in the first game. This also shows the clear contrast of Peter and Miles. Peter never trusted anyone enough to be that involved in his being of Spider-Man. Miles knows that he can’t do it alone and relies on Ganke for information gathering and webs. Ganke is important and this game nailed it.

Aaron Davis is in this game and no one is surprised. This version of Aaron...is different. Okay in the comics, he is a foil to Miles in that while Miles is becoming more heroic, Aaron is becoming more villainous. It’s no coincidence that Spider-Man and the Prowler look similar but the gist is that if Miles didn’t get bit by the spider, Miles would have become Prowler 2.0. The game eschews this dynamic because it is hard to pull that off after the mangled Miles’ origin so they opted for the Prowler to foil Miles in a different way: keeping secrets from family and friends and being protective of family because fear of loss. Aaron, after losing his brother and never getting a chance to reconcile with him, is hurt and wants to protect Miles and subsequently Rio. Miles, throughout the game, is becoming increasingly worried about his mom running for city council and painting a target on his back. He shows his frustration and distances himself from his mother in his work as Spider-Man. Aaron does the same to Miles when he finds out that he Spider-Man. There comes a point where the two collide and Aaron goes further into the extreme which I won’t spoil. You get it.

This change, while different, isn’t terrible. It’s actually really well thought out. It accomplishes the same thing in that Aaron is not a good role model but he is a good person to Miles. It allows Miles to reflect on his own behavior towards his mother. So I’m with it.

Oh and before I forget, Danika being in this game sold me that they actually started actually researching Miles. They ignored the weird racial commentary that she became enamores and she became a foil to JJJ. A voice of youthful and helpful positivity vs Randian cynicism and skepticism. A social justice activist vs an arrogant self important commentator. And it was fun listening to her. Hopefully Saladin brings her back. I am currently on Underground base liberation missions where she teams up with Ganke and Miles in putting them down. Just started, but there was already some mild hint that Ganke is crushing on her(they are a couple in the comics). So yeah.

The cons because like Ganke, I love pros and cons list. Two things about this game annoys me. First, the move to Harlem and this forced narrative of Miles being Harlem’s Spider-Man made no sense because just look at the map. Harlem is part of Manhattan. There is nothing stopping Peter from visiting Harlem regularly. Brooklyn, however, would justify having their own Spider-Man. As, if you didn’t know, Brooklyn is emerging into becoming the next big city as the area is thriving. Also, gentrification. Point is there is a reason why Miles connection to Brooklyn is important. It is foil to Peter who is from Queens and wanted to move into Manhattan island because part of it was he saw it as a measure of success to get out of the old neighborhood and make it big. Miles loves Brooklyn and doesn’t want to move out. Trying to replicate his love for his city in Harlem just because it’s predominantly black and brown is lazy and honestly if they included Brooklyn in the game, it would have justified the price of this game. Which brings me to the second point.

This game is too short on content to be costing $50 dollars. Just to point out something, all of the DLC from the first game cost 10 bucks a pop and you had as much content in those three expansions as you do this game. Infamous First Light was the same exact thing in relation to Infamous Second Sons and it cost 30 bucks. Uncharted Lost Legacy cost 30 dollars. I could go on. Point is that it shouldn’t have costed nearly the price of a full game when in comparison to the previous iteration, it wasn’t. Now I’ve seen people say that hating because it’s short isn’t warranted or pull up this quoted fact that video games are too long. Anti-consumerist bullshit aside, the difference between the main storyline of the previous game and this one is not repetition. It’s the lack of variety in enemies and deesculating storylines. In the first game, there were a variety of enemies that had their own AI and attacks. And you adjusted accordingly to whom you were facing. There were classes of enemies within the variety. You had the rudimentary common criminal which had 4 classes and how to deal with them and from that point, each enemy afterwards were variations of those four classes and each provided a different challenge. The repetition wasn’t boring because it provided a new challenge. This game only gives you three types of enemies and while 2 are vastly different from anything in the previous game or it’s expansions, the need to limit the series to focus on narrative becomes unwarranted because you are still getting less for nearly the same price.

That’s all. Have a great day. It was a fun game. Really.

@ubernegro

#miles morales #spider-man ps5 #marvel’s spider man: miles morales

35 notes · View notes

thetorturerwrites · 4 years

Text

Lamb

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Summary: In the beginning, there was only Vader, the Sky Walker. He wandered the heavens, filling the void with the cosmos.

To combat his loneliness, Grandfather Sky Walker created two brothers, twins: one drawn to light and one drawn to dark.

Their bond created all life as we know it.

C/N: 18+ only; mythology AU; implied genocide; physical violence; self harm; bloody bloody blood

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Well, here I am again, and here we go again. Please take the content warnings seriously because I am not a nice girl; and herein, may lie not-nice-girl things.

This is my first foray into world building, and I welcome all feedback, critiques, and comments. :)

Special thanks to @kylorengarbagedump and @bexterbex for helping me develop this idea and get it ready for sharing.

***

In the beginning, there was only Vader, the Sky Walker. He wandered the heavens, filling the void with the cosmos.

To combat his loneliness, Grandfather Sky Walker created two brothers, twins: one drawn to light and one drawn to dark.

Their bond created all life as we know it.

You ran your fingers over the intricate gold leaf pattern on the book’s cover, remembering your lessons as a child. This Scripture, your grandmother’s most treasured possession, was the only part of your life you’d brought on this crusade. It was the only thing you couldn’t bear to abandon, even in the face of certain death.

You exhausted every avenue before taking on this last of your options. You demanded justice from the law only to be told you should keep your mouth shut. You went straight to the throne, but it shut to your caste, your people too low to deserve even an audience.

Selling every item of value, you had barely scraped up enough for the one-person craft, but it served its purpose. You were here. You landed the shuttle on one of Chandrila's famed rolling hills, overlooking The Demarcation. You exhaled, shallow and nervous, and looked out over the horizon. The pilgrimage to this place, this day, was long and harrowing, but the sacrament itself would be quick.

Your fingers quaked as you shucked everything identifiable about yourself: blue pants your mother bought for your birthday; green shirt that belonged to your brother, found in the rubble of what was your family home; jade hair clip handed down from mother to daughter for generations. None of it would serve you now, and it would only be in the way. Trading the vestiges of civilization for religion, you donned your grandmother’s ample amethyst robe, lacing the silk ties that held it together, and grabbed up the athame she’d bequeathed to you at your initiation.

She enveloped you, your grandmother, and you buried your nose into her sacred garment to inhale the lingering scent. They were your world, lovely and loving, ground to dust beneath the machine of a war none of you pledged to fight. The Resistance descended upon your planet like a plague, and they left a great nothing, a slate wiped forcefully clean in their wake.

It was for them you made this trek, that you abandoned all logic and reason for faith. They raised you to share their doctrine, but it never served a single purpose for you in life. Your grandmother and mother believed everything they’d ever taught you about the Twin Fathers. They wove the fabric of their lives, and yours, around it; and now, you clung to their prayers, your last hope in the face of something horrible and wholly dismissed by the universe.

There was no one to remember them, their faithfulness and devotion, but you.

Fathers, we pray. Bless this our food to the nourishment of our bodies that we may be strong in your service. Bless these our hands that we may share your great instruction with those in need. Bless our hearts that we may find the balance you have so righteously set for us.

Their prayers spilled over your dry lips, the only eulogy they would ever receive, and every holy word strengthened your resolve.

Clutching book and blade in one hand, you punched a series of numbers into the keypad nearest the bay door, extending the ramp. When it finished descending, you issued another command, the tiny keys lighting up with each pressed digit.

“Self-destruct sequence initiated.” The robotic voice vibrated the tiny craft’s walls. “Confirm.”

“Confirmation,” you cast one last look around the shuttle that had been your home for a month, “Bravo Echo 2-4.”

“Countdown 2 minutes.”

Sunlight, warm and inviting, welcomed you as you stepped off the ramp. Squinting into its brilliance, you recalled the way your brother would read to you on lazy afternoons and how your family would picnic on similar grassy knolls. The beeping over your shoulder grew faster with each passing second, and you lifted the cumbersome dress around your knees, wasting no further time jogging down the hill.

You were out on the flat land for just a second before the shuttle exploded into a fiery ball. You watched the blast shoot debris and columns of soot into the perfect sky. In another life, it would have scared you, shying you away from the destruction. Silent, stoic, you tracked plumes of grey smoke and the fall of ashes, comparing it to the devastation you found after the Resistance found your planet.

Days after the attack, you roamed fallen buildings and picked through still warm rubble. You had been too late, too far away. Knowing you could have done nothing to stop the strike was empty consolation.

You could have died with them. You would rather have died with them. Now, all you could do was die for them.

On bare feet, you crossed the flowery field, taking in the array of purples and yellows. You lingered on the blue-green grass, feeling the soft stick of it underfoot, and you basked in the wispy clouds overhead. This was life, teeming with vibrant colors, but it all felt hollow, dampened. You wondered if everyone who came here felt this way, grateful that this beauty would be one of their last memories but unable to fully appreciate what they saw.

Pressing your lips into a determined line, you steeled your will and turned to The Demarcation, The Great Divide.

Grandfather Sky Walker tasked the twins with creating and maintaining The Balance. One would usher life; one would usher death; both harbingers of fate.

It was striking, a sudden upheaval of vitality in deference to darkness. Tendrils of fog mingled with melancholy dusk, and you spent a long moment admiring the space between one and the other. This spot, this one impossible convergence, was balance. It was what every man strived to achieve, and no man could boast.

On the other side of the billowing veil, where you were coaching yourself to go, was The Ren’s territory. People far and wide spun countless tales about the land and its Master. It was a bottomless hole, they said, that would swallow you up steps past the boundary. It was an unending bog, and all who journeyed there were lost. All of its structures were built from the bones of the dead, and The Ren was the vicious king of an unforgiving wasteland.

Your grandmother, however, believed The Ren to be a merciful father, wise and misunderstood. He was the bringer of ends who did not differentiate between rich and poor. No creature was safe from his touch, and that made every creature equal in his eyes.

Whatever that land may be, whatever The Ren may be, there was nothing on the other side of that shroud that could compare to what you’d already endured. It was the way forward, your only way, and you bid yourself to go forth on deliberate steps.

Mirroring the track of your life, a balmy day gave way to a wintry gloom as you moved through the gauzy curtain, passing from one kingdom to another. The living world fell away, replaced by slender black trees that shot up to winking stars and stood adorned with wide, scarlet leaves. A ghostly breeze blew, shaking the leaves to delicately fall and blanket the spongy ground. You trod upon them carefully, uncertain what might lurk beneath the crimson carpet.

You took your time on the winding path, drinking in every otherworldly detail. Light pooled from a clandestine moon, and the very air shimmered under its grace. Midnight-colored blossoms dotted the road, mingling with swaying ferns. The stars shone so bright you could almost hear the twinkle, a delicate song tapped out to echo against the trees. Every inhale was laced with morning mist and rich earth.

The stories were wrong. This was no forlorn place. It was luminous, hallowed. Absent the touch of civilization, this land had bloomed unharmed, untainted.

This world felt more real to you, more easily understood. Colored with variations of shadow, it was peaceful in its ashen palette.

Reaching the altar, you stared, both reverent and curious. How many had come before you to lay their lives down for The Ren? How many had died as a sacrifice? Surely, its ruddy color came from generations of blood spilled in offering.

It was a chalice to which you would soon be adding.

The stone was cold and damp, raising gooseflesh on your nearly naked form. It curved down in the very center, a macabre cradle for all those laid here. A blending of emotion and chill cast your skin in shades of flush and set every digit to trembling. It was as though the thing waited for you impatiently, its very existence demanding an offering.

Your skepticism at your grandmother’s faith dwindled when confronted with an exact duplicate of the altar upon which you’d taken your initiation rites. It was larger, but the ridges were the same. The slab of your childhood did not bear such a florid hue, but the sacrifices it received had been sugar, water, bread.

This shrine’s very construction felt haunted, a cauldron of souls made solid.

Hoisting yourself up onto the behemoth, you arranged your tools in the very center. You set the athame at your right and spread the weighty purple velvet over the shrine, laying the fabric and yourself out as you would for a lover.

Your lips trembled. Your knees knocked together. The cloak barely covered your body, and the little satin bows lent an air of innocence you could hardly claim as truth. You hoped, swallowed a handful of prayers, that The Ren accepted sacrifices as the stories told. Today, confronted with the reality of this place, you believed it more.

Tenderly, longingly, you ran your fingers over the tome once more. You lifted it and pressed a gentle kiss to its cover. It would lie beneath your head during this last of your chores and for however long your body would remain here.

Closing your eyes, you conjured memories of your grandmother bearing witness to so many dead over the years and how you, filled with doubt and agony and hate, had failed to do the same for your family, your friends, your people. It had been too great of a thing, too much sorrow to compact into a single prayer.

The words came easily now, having been swirling and growing in your chest for weeks.

Into thy hands, Great Fathers, do we commend this soul, departed from the body, in payment for the souls still yet to come. We pray that you welcome her, keep her, and enter her into the great Balance so we may again feel the light of her love.

Swallowing your grief, you gripped the wicked blade tight. You had no more tears to cry. You brimmed with an awful energy, this ceaseless anguish bubbling up from your very marrow.

“Dark Father,” you brushed fabric away from your right leg and sliced a deep gash into the supple thigh before you could change your mind. “Hear my prayer.”

You hissed at the burn but smoothed your features into a stolid mask. You would do this for your family and people, who received no warning, no choice to convert or flee. You would make your entreaty to The Ren; or, you would die here and reunite with them. Whatever the outcome, this was your end.

“I commit my body to your hands. As your brother has given it to me, I give it now to you to use as you will. Grant me the grace of your ear that I may plead my case.”

Your breath stuttered, and you fought back the roaring in your ears so you could concentrate and carry on. Fixing your eyes upon the trickle of blood, you watched it turn to a pool and hurried to match it with another slash at your left forearm. Benumbed, you tracked the redness as it crested and spilled in every direction.

The callous cold seeped into your very bones, and you fell back against the altar with a gasp, fingers grasping for the book’s corner. You blinked, heavy lidded, as your face fell to one side, staring into the great forest beyond.

In your delirium, you thought you could see them, smiling and holding each other. Tears you thought you no longer had rushed forth, and you shook. Weakness or acceptance broke open the gate on your heartbreak, releasing a torrent of sobs and screams. There was no one to hear, to care, to chastise you for its futility.

You heard her voice, your grandmother’s tone the same that had been soothing your fears since you could remember, rubbing over you like a comforting balm.

More than yesterday, beloved. Less than tomorrow. Find me in the Balance.

“Nona, I’m coming.”

Your fit rode your wounds and bled away to faint sniffles and glassy eyes. You stared up at what you felt had to be an eternally night sky and pushed your fingers through the growing sticky puddles.

This was death, and you welcomed it. You would slip away into a dreamless sleep here in such a place as you never knew existed. Fatigued, breathing slow, your face fell to one side, eyes unfocused but still dancing from beauteous flower to leaf to timber.

He was a charcoal smudge, nothing more. His movement was so subtle your addled brain took him for a tree, black clad and too tall to be a man. He stepped through the maze, and what little tenacity you had left drained away.

He came to sit upon the side of the altar where you lay dying, tilting his head to look at you. You stared, bewildered and confronted with the most beautiful man you’d ever seen when you had been expecting The Ren, the great storied monster. He passed his hand over your face, and the sting of your wounds abated. The heaviness of your limbs lessened, and the burden of your body eased.

Feeling and consciousness and awareness flooded back into your senses, and you bolted upright. Understanding dawned, and you gaped at him, struck dumb by every mesmerizing feature. Ebony tresses crowned him brilliantly, and he looked back at you with deep, glittering eyes. His fair skin was sprinkled with twilight constellations, and his lips were full, lush, slightly pink.

This was The Ren.

Troubled by the absence of death, you surveyed your situation, shaking both tense hands into fists. The ritual robe clung to the altar more than it did to you, swirling lurid with your blood. Blood that still flowed, you realized. Wide-eyed and amazed, you studied this unnatural phenomenon. The wounds at your thigh and wrist still wept; they should have killed you, but there was now a sanguine loop wrapping each injury around to feed into itself.

“Why have you called me here?” His voice was gravelly, as though he hadn’t used it in millennia.

“Am I dead?” It was a staggeringly stupid question, but it was the only clear thought in your head as you stared at the vermilion ouroboros around your wrist.

“If you intend to answer every question with a question,” his enormous hand shot out to capture the flesh just above your forearm laceration, “you will be soon.”

He squeezed the wounded limb until you shrieked and tried to tug away. Deciding that he would not let you go until you appeased him, you licked dry lips and worked your mouth into a measure of moisture.

“Why did you come?” Your query shocked even you, and you snapped your mouth shut hard enough to hear the clap of your jaws.

True to his word, The Ren’s hand connected with your throat so fast you couldn’t say for sure he’d moved. In one moment, idiotic inquiries filled your muddled mind; and in the next, you were choking at the end of his arm.

“Your howling,” his fingers tightened at your throat, thumb rubbing into the pulse almost delicately. “The next question will be your last. Why are you here?”

Licking your suddenly too-dry lips, you studied him, wrapping both of your small hands around his wrist. This man, this deity, was walking death, and that he sat here with his hands upon you changed the very foundation of everything you believed to be true.

“I-I came to ask your favor, Dark Father.”

He shoved you away and stood from his perch. Death’s gravity pulled you down again, and you whimpered, reaching for him as though it would prolong the inevitable. Your mouth worked on a plea, but none came.

“You’ve wasted your time. And mine.” He turned away and spat the rest over his shoulder. “Sparing virgins their lives or the lives of their lovers lost its allure long ago.”

Glancing back, he must have seen something, perhaps the abject apology in your face and on your outstretched fingers, because he snatched you from oblivion in a blink. You broke into wretched sobs, each lung-full of air quaking and painful.

“I came here so you’d come for me.” You dug bloodstained fingertips into your eyes to staunch the tears. “And to ask for your help.”

He was ethereal, his presence just a step out of sync with the rest of the universe, and it was difficult to look upon. You turned your face to one side and tried to compose yourself. You were battling the significance of your loss against the staggering truth that The Ren was real and here.

“You come to ask favors but cannot even look upon the beast?” He closed the gap in a blur, and you shrieked, leaning away. “How do you plan to beg if you will not even open your eyes?”

Crowding in aggressively, he leaned over and braced himself with both sturdy hands on either side of your head, an effective cage. His gaze traced over every curve of your face, and you couldn’t move under the oppression of his scrutiny.

“You think you will make demands of me?” His voice changed, dropping to a malicious whisper as he brushed a lock of hair from your forehead, tracing it to its origin in your hairline.

He would eat you; you were sure of it. Razor-sharp teeth hid just behind those beautiful lips, and he would tear you to pieces. Bolstering yourself, you drew in a shuddering breath and looked up into the galaxy-filled eyes. You had to say the words. You had to tell him what brought you here, but you weren’t sure you could do it.

“The dying lamb has no value to the shepherd.” His suddenly gentle tone belied his impatience and interminable power. “Tell me why you are here; or, I will leave you to die.”

You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, losing yourself in his resplendent gaze. It was like staring straight into the sun, and every part of you felt branded by him.

Your reasons for coming here meant little to him, you were certain. You pictured your family again and the horror inflicted on them.

The tension in your body loosened as purpose flowed through your veins once more. Your trembling lips blew out a steadying breath, which seemed to please him. He traced your lower lip with the very end of his thumb, waiting for you to speak.

“Retribution.”

#kylo ren #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #lamb #here we go again

147 notes · View notes