#i know i say it a lot but i really should be beaten to death.

[rabbithaver]

back in September of 2023, just a few months into my Sonic hyperfixation, i had finally run out of Silver's appearances and lore to dive into. i missed him terribly (even back then i considered him a son to me) so i started listening to Ian Flynn's podcast, the BumbleKast. it was so much fun! i was having such a great time listening that i decided to make a Tumblr blog where i could share clips and transcripts with Sonicblr. i created bumblekastclips and began posting the funniest moments from the show i could find, doing my best to emphasize that none of the show was canon in any way and it was just two dudes having fun goofing around.

i really enjoyed running that blog and sharing my favorite answers with the tumblr community. i was hopeful that people would see that Flynn is a fan just like they are and that even if we have disagreements on the quality of his writing, he absolutely doesn't deserve the death threats, multiple doxxing efforts, and misinformation spread about him. he really is just a completely normal guy with a great sense of humor, and so is Kyle. not long after i created BKC, i joined the official Bumblekast Discord, and to this day, that is the single best move i have ever made. it is a small, intensely friendly, personal community where i have made some of the closest friends of my life. i am active in there every day, and many of its members feel like family to me now. hell, i have even met one of them in person twice (last night he came over to my grandma's house where we've been staying during her hospice care and we chatted, had pizza, and both lost playing Team Sonic Racing. it was incredible fun!)

through the BKDS, i have also gotten to know Kyle, the Bumblekast's co-host. he is an incredibly nice, super funny guy who is an absolute blast to talk to in VC and play games with. i am fortunate to now also be able to call him a personal friend as well as the host of my favorite podcast. he is so kind and when i am feeling down and struggling, he always makes an effort to tell me that he appreciates the energy i bring to the community and that i'm wanted there, and i believe him.

it's because of this community i have grown a lot as a person. my friends there have helped me through what, so far, has been the worst year of my life. my anxiety has gotten easier to manage. or at least, it had. as many people know, the show has swarms of people who hate it, and those people started creating problems online by posting clips out of context and trying to get Ian in trouble with SEGA. sadly their efforts worked, and Ian had to make the decision to ban Sonic questions from the show entirely.

it broke my heart, but i completely understand why he made that choice, and given the circumstances, i think it was the right call. SEGA also insisted they change their policy on people who post unauthorized clips, which means that SEGA indirectly killed my transcript & highlights fan blog... but honestly, i don't really care. that blog had its run and i am happy to leave it in the dust. i care so much more about the show's future and the well-being of my favorite podcast boys. some silly blog is nothing to me in the grand scheme of things.

however, a day or two after Ian announced this change, i received an anonymous ask from one of Flynn's countless haters. bumblekastclips always received metric shitloads of hate and harassment, which i always just deleted and moved on from. i intended to do the same with this particular ask, but with time, it's really started to bother me. i can't remember the specifics because this was weeks ago now, but it went something like this:

"I just wanted to say 'Thank You' for running the Bumblekastclips blog! Because of you, now everyone on Tumblr knows how much of a god awful writer Ian Flynn is. You brought so much attention to his stupid little podcast that not even SEGA could ignore it anymore. Because of you, Ian Flynn might even lose work from them in the future! That would be so great, he would never be able to damage Sonic's writing and reputation ever again! I'm so happy. Thank you! Because of you, more people than ever before are figuring out that he doesn't deserve to work at all. I hope you know that when he stops getting hired, it'll be all your fault. Their stupid little show will never make money ever again. Kyle and Ian will go hungry and we have you to thank for it. You're my hero!"

like, that's comically evil, right? bumblekastclips only had like 330 followers, max. the average transcript got maybe 20 notes. it seems like a stretch to claim that SEGA came down on the boys like that because of a shitty little tumblr blog that posted only a few clips each month and had long stretches of inactivity. when i received this ask i just rolled my eyes, blocked the person, and deleted the ask... but as time has gone on, what they said has really been eating at me.

i started BKC to share my appreciation for the show. i wanted people to laugh because so many of the questions had gotten me to laugh to the point of tears. the absolute last thing i ever wanted was to disrupt the show. the idea that the boys have lost a significant portion of their income because of my blog has been bothering me so, so much. Kyle is my friend, and so are a lot of the other members of the BumbleKrew. as unlikely as it may be, the idea that this all happened because of me makes me sick to my stomach. it's a stretch, sure, but far more unlikely things have happened. what if i'm a burden on the community i love so much? what if i actually do make everything worse? what if this really is my fault

[lucabyte]

🐮

[oh-no-its-bird]

Really stupid au where when they were younger, Kakashi and Obito shared an accidental kiss a lot like Sasuke and Naruto. (Kakashi commits to his mask shortly after but will never not insist it's unrelated)

Years later and Kakashi, trying to cheer up Naruto and Sasuke ab their own embaressing accidental first kiss, shares his own story

Then, years later when Obito reveals himself on the battlefield, instead of going "woah, another Uchiha!?" when he hears his name, Naruto can't help but point and shout OH MY GOD UR THE GUY WHO KISSED SENSEI!!!!!!!!

Instant dead silence. (Obito wants to die)

Sakura, who never heard the story ab how it was a one time accidental kiss: "omg... sensei's childhood boyfriend went evil on him... this is so fucked up"

Obito is VIOLENTLY thrown off by this turn of events (and also hasn't actually thought ab it in years oh my god that did happen didn't it)

Kakashi, seeing how badly it threw him off, and also the kind of person who plays hard into throwing people off and generally fucking w them to gain an edge, seeing Sakura mumbling ab lovers to enemies and just kinda goes "Yeah Obito I can't believe you'd do this to me I thought we had smthn special."

"Yeah a rivalry????"

"So I was only ever a way for u to get stronger,, figures u were using me,,,"

[Confused Obito car crash noises]

Sakura yells smthn ab him being a deadbeat and how Kakashi can do so much better and Naruto is instantly shouting in agreement as Sasuke stands there like "hn." Which is basically the same thing for him

Kakashi just starts straight up lying actually

"What about all those picnics we went on... watching the sun set over konoha..."

"Are you talking about when Minato said we weren't allowed to come back inside till we stopped arguing and ate on opposite ends of the roof bc we couldn't even look at eachother without yelling???"

"It was so romantic."

Obito, starting to actually doubt himself, "was that a date????"

(It was not.)

"You died in my arms..."

"I died under a rock"

"We literally got eye married" (not a thing, he just made this up 3 seconds ago)

"We got WHAT" (no one can prove him wrong tho bc no surviving Uchiha knows that much ab their clans marriage traditions)

"Oh my god sensei's husband is a deadbeat" - sakura, horrified (and maybe a little delighted)

"Figures." -Sasuke, who's been in proximity w Obito for some time now and absoloutley believes every word ab this topic Kakashi is saying

"Woah. This is almost as bad as the fact he murdered my parents when I was a baby dattebayo" - Naruto who's priorities are NOT what they should be

"Ok. I wouldn't go that far." - Sasuke, who's priorities are also fucked but not THAT fucked, oh my god Naruto

"No, no he's right. We should kill him even harder for this" - Sakura, who doesn't actually agree but wants an excuse for more juicy sensei love drama (and also wants to see Obito beaten to death anyways)

[doraminatook]

We're About To Get Playfully Blasphemous Here (or...The Metaphorical Death and Resurrection of Me)

2023 was the year I turned 33, and in case you didn’t know, many religious scholars cite that as the age Jesus was crucified and rose from the dead.  Now, within literature there’s a trope called the Christ-like figure in which a character sacrifices themself and from that death, something happens in order to advance the plot.  Usually that something is either the “dead” character rising from the ashes and obtaining new powers (think Gandalf the Grey battling the Balrog and then coming back as Gandalf the White) or the protagonist being so moved by the death of this secondary character that they are reborn in some way (think Red Badge of Courage’s Jim Conklin (JC…get it?) whose death changes Henry’s opinion on war.)

Because I’m a storyteller and have a dark sense of humor, I began to wonder if I would somehow have a Christ-like-figure-moment within my thirty-third year of life.  (Not long after my birthday, I told my mom that I just had to make it to 34 and then I would have “beaten” Jesus; being a good Lutheran woman, she did not appreciate this joke.)

Now, I may be reaching or forcing figurative imagery into the literal world (isn’t that what artists do?), but I think I did have a “death” and consequential “resurrection”.  

I’m at a strange place in my writing career in that I am not famous (by any means) but I’m also not considered emerging.  Recently, I was told by a theater that I should “sit this contest out” and give someone else a chance but at the same time my work has not been produced enough to catch an agent’s eye.  (It doesn’t help that theatre companies have an intense fixation on world premieres.  They want to be the first one to do the show, apparently assuming that as soon as a piece gets produced once, that means it’s finished.  But that’s a rant for another day.) 

Currently I live in Milwaukee and for a long time I thought (or at least hoped) that I could maybe just make it work here; it is technically a theater town.  Add to that the fact that my whole family lives in Wisconsin, my financial situation was not ideal, and my best friend (platonic soulmate) had made it fairly clear to me that she did not wish to move away from Milwaukee.  When I was honest with myself, I knew that I wanted to get out, but there were so many things holding me back from making the jump.  

As soon as the thought of moving away entered my head, Anxiety would perk up.  Always eager to be the backseat driver, it would shout things like, “Isn’t life here good enough for you?  You’ve got a roof over your head, a job that allows you to pursue your passion, and you’re perfectly healthy.  Be grateful for what you have and stop expecting something more!” 

I attended a workshop for other playwrights from the area and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I didn’t have a lot in common with many of them.  Discussions and questions whirled around about how we find time to write, where we get inspiration, and how we format a script properly.  Some of the writers present had never even finished a full script.  I certainly am not bringing this up in order to shame anyone, but it was an eye-opening experience for me.  Was I a proverbial big fish in a little pond?

My anxiety had an opinion for that, too.  

“Wow!  Way to be egotistical, D!  You think you’re so much better than everyone here?  Get over yourself!  You’re not special.  You’re just another ‘artist’ who thinks they’ve got something special to say!”

A few weeks later I was at my cousin’s wedding and after the ceremony, he approached me to offer congratulations for all the success I’ve had…only to then immediately cut me off guard with the question, “So when are you moving to New York?”  As the groom, he was quickly called away for photographs and I never really got to answer his question.  

If this moment had been in a play, the spotlight would have hit me right then and there and I would have begun some contemplative soliloquy where I openly pondered, “New York, eh?  Maybe I should go to New York!”

Obviously, as a theatre person, the idea of moving to New York had crossed my mind; it’s the theatre capital of the US for obvious reasons.  But, at the same time, New York just didn’t feel like me.  (I have a lot of opinions on NYC, especially when it comes to the outrageous ticket prices.  When it costs a small fortune to see a Broadway show, art becomes a luxury rather than a necessity.  But that’s a rant for another day.)  It certainly seemed daunting, and every good dream should be at least a little daunting.  But New York was daunting without being exciting.  It felt like something I should do…something that was expected of me.

LA didn’t do it for me, either.  Nor Seattle.  I considered many locations, but nothing really made me sit up and take notice.  I wasn’t about to dive headfirst into debt and throw away a good thing unless it was something that truly excited me…something that was enticing enough to spark a change.  

Again, Anxiety spoke up, “Calm the fuck down, D!  New York?  Even if that is what you wanted, they’d eat you alive there!  You’re a soft midwestern girl who can’t take criticism and cries at the drop of a hat!  You really think you could handle New York or LA?  Also, the cost of living in any of those places is way more than you will ever hope to make!  Stick with Submission Helper.  Stick with the contests and the festivals.  Go back to dreaming only as big as The Milwaukee Repertory Theatre.  Sit down and shut up!”

It may have gone on like this…if not for the summer of 2023.

Close your eyes and picture it: WGA strike, Barbenheimer, The Eras Tour, OceanGate, the Grimace Birthday shake…and in the midst of it all, I was having an epiphany.  

A favorite television show of mine dropped its latest season and I eagerly pulled out the Chardonnay and the popcorn to binge it all.  The vast majority of the show takes place in London and features several actors whom I admire greatly.  Between the giggles, sobs, and various twists and turns of the emotional rollercoaster that was Season 2, something all at once occurred to me.

This is what I want.  

That’s where I want to be.  

I want to move to the United Kingdom.

Was it daunting?  Hell yeah, it was daunting.  

And it was exciting.  

It was a dream that excited me.  

It burned inside me.  

It raged.

It burned so hot that I didn’t know what to do with it.  I paced around my tiny apartment, simply stunned by the prospect of it all.  

Anxiety was in the process of drinking a quad shot espresso con panna and promptly did a spit take upon hearing this new idea.  In a frenzied panic, it bellowed, “Are you nuts?  What the hell do you think you’re doing?  YOU can’t move to the UK!  It would be so difficult!  You’d need to apply for a Visa…or something like that!  Do you even know how to apply for a Visa!”  

“No,” I metaphorically replied, “but I could learn.”

“I bet it’s super difficult!” Anxiety shot back, trembling in fear, “I bet it’s expensive and complicated and you’ll never figure it out!  I bet your sense of humor wouldn’t translate!  I bet you’d end up broke and living under a bridge and crying because you threw away this good thing you had!”

For a split second, Anxiety almost won…but somehow, prompted by the promise of this new dream, I dared to ask, “But what if it worked out?  What if I could figure it out?  What if I somehow scraped up the money and did the research and filed the paperwork and just made it work?”

If it were a play, I would have been standing center stage, staring out into the audience like some kind of dramatic hero and whispering hopefully, “Yes…what if…?”  

It has been a long road to get here, but, despite what Anxiety likes to tell me, I did figure it out.  The process has been stressful enough to induce atypical Shingles and a few anxiety attacks, but it’s happening.  It’s actually happening!

This October I’m going to grad school at the University of Essex where I’ll pursue my masters degree in Scriptwriting.  I’ll hone my skills as a playwright while learning the ins and out of writing for film, television, and radio.  I’ll take the train into London on the weekends and see every show I can at the National Theatre.  I’ll get new life experiences.  I’ll do my best to explore every inch of that beautiful island.  I’m going to do something new because it’s scary and, most importantly, it’s exciting.  

(To add to the awesomeness of this new adventure, my best friend (platonic soul mate) is moving with me and pursuing her own dreams of studying acting…also at the University of Essex.)

My “death” was not as dramatic or world-changing as Jesus’s, but it gave way to a new life for me.  The power of storytelling combined with a newfound confidence was enough to catapult me into something new, something different.    

And I know you’re wondering what show I was watching that prompted this sudden change; if you know anything about me, you’ve probably guessed it already.  

Along with seeing as much theatre as I can on my visits to London, I also plan to have surreptitious meetings at The Bandstand, feed ducks some frozen peas at St. James’s Park, and maybe help avert an apocalypse (or two).  My birthday is in January and it just so happens that Season 3 is scheduled to begin filming around that time; perhaps on my winter holiday, I’ll put myself onto a train and take myself up to Edinburgh.  I have so many thoughts on what could possibly happen next to my favorite angel and demon…but that’s a rant for another day.

(Fun fact: I say this line at least once a week...if only to myself.)

[wolf-feathers12]

Big e and parenting/how to raise a kid in the Palaeolithic times. And the horrors of writing down word vomit.

TW: CHILD ABUSE,

From what I understand about warhammer there's this general consensus that big E KNEW how to be a better parent but just chose not to be one.

And it got me thinking.

What was parenting like back in the Palaeolithic times? (The emperor of mankind was apparently born in the 8th Millennium B.C. and again from my limited understanding this is sorta still apart of the Palaeolithic times? If anyone can clarify this I'd appreciate it!)

Now I'm no historian but I think it would be safe to assume that infant death would be very high. Meaning that you would try to have as many kids as possible because you don't know if they will all survive and kids weren't seen as their own person more of as workers or helpers

Maybe even tools???

Again that's a huge thing that ive simplified and I think it's also fair to say that there were many many communities where family relationships were far more nuanced but it does make me wonder.

If you grew up in a society where you could die from getting a simple cut and child abuse wasn't a thing (I'm picturing something like a Spartan society where being beaten to an inch of Ur life is seen as a building character moment) it was want made you a MAN.

Plus I don't really think neolithic fathers would be very understanding or supportive parents (having a relationship wasn't a goal surviving was kinda thing?)

Basically what I'm picturing is big e having one of those "I'm never going to treat my kids like this >:C" moments but by treating kids he's referring to the fact that he won't break their legs because they talked back kinda thing?

Big E strikes me as the kinda parent (in a modern au maybe?) to when called out on their neglect of their kids will be genuinely quite confused

"I never beat you guys? And you always had food ect??? I know abuse and I never abused you so stop complaining. :O"

Also if you were immortal and had lived since the Neanderthals (personal headcanon is that E is part Neanderthal or something hehehehe) the way you relate to people and have relationships with them would probably be a bit fucked? Add to that the fact that he's stuck in a BIGGER picture type mindset (AUTISM???) and you have a recipe for disaster.

That's not to say that big E is entirely blameless or should be wobberfied (you can if you want to lol) but I think there's a lot more at play then just "big E is an evil father"

If your still reading this then Ur a pretty cool person fr. Also my understanding of warhammer lore is limited so if there's something in cannon that directly contradicts this then pls let me know yo! >_<

thanks and have a great day! :D

[night-market-if]

Answering some bulk questions

I am getting the same kind of questions in my inbox and instead of answering them all individually, I thought I would just make one long post. Hopefully that can clear some things up.

Why is m!pen white and f!pen black?

Mostly because the character of Pen is death. They have no form. Not a real one. Much like the MC, the image they are presenting is a construct. So, when I thought about that, I kind of thought it would be fun to play around with two very different aesthetics (I think in the final edit I might even write them a bit different). I did this for two reasons. One, because I haven't really seen this in ifs. And two, I kind of liked the duality of it. Opposites, really. It sat well with me for the character of death.

2. Why does nothing bad ever happen to Milo? Stop playing favorites.

Bad things have happened to Milo. More so than the other characters, I would argue. I have a feeling this is more from people annoyed that a very specific bad thing won't happen to Milo. Because Milo has watched Malcolm and MC die. Was beaten as a child. Orphaned. Didn't know where his real home was or who he was. Has a ghost for a sister. (who he also watched die). Has been responsible for keeping his best friend sane for quite a few years. And got the shittiest job in the world. He has also been stabbed at quite a bit. Betrayed. And used.

I do a lot of bad things to Milo. Favorites would be if nothing bad happened to him. And defending your characters decisions is not playing favorites. It is just knowing your characters as a writer.

3. Who is your favorite RO?

I have said before that Milo is not my favorite to write. So inevitably I get asked who is. I don't answer this question because I don't want the complaints.

4. Why don't you have stats?

Because I don't like them. I come from much more of a storytelling perspective than a game mechanics one. And don't get me wrong. People that do game mechanics are awesome. I admire them a ton and enjoy their games (though my field is more video games). But that's never what I wanted the Night Market to be. I just want people to be immersed.

5. Do you feel you have to have inclusivity as a writer?

I don't know why I've been getting this one a lot. Might be something going on in the community. The honest answer is no, I do not. I have never felt pressured to have a certain representation within the Night Market. That all being said, maybe I don't feel that way because I tend to have an organically more diverse cast of characters? But I can't say I have ever felt like I have to put a certain representation in. And I don't believe writers should feel pressure for that. Because a lot of times, if you are just putting in a token character to do it, it becomes a bit problematic.

6. What are your favorite IF's and do you have recomendations?

I hate to say this, but I don't read IF's. I've dabbled occasionally in the past but I find when I read IF's, it messes with my head and my ability to write. Now, I read a lot of novels. That is my preferred vehicle of reading. But as for IF's, I probably won't read a lot of them until I am officially done with the Night Market. I struggle to enjoy stories when I feel like it is a part of my day to day job.

7. Why don't you ever speak out politically?

Because that is private for me. I don't want to. I want to provide an escape from the world. Not add to discussions that are being had by people far more adept than me. I leave my political feelings and responsibilities at home.

8. Why can't you provide (insert numerous topics) to the route?

Because coding and writing are a bitch. There is a lot of work that goes into this stuff that isn't always fun. And sometimes, as much as I would like to put something in or have a new route, I just can't. I am one person. A person who has a pretty hefty personal life. I am doing what I can.

[bonefall]

So, I'm writing an essay on the whole STATE of misogyny in WC for one of my university classes, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of things! No pressure of course, please feel free to say no!

A) Could I reference your good takes with appropriate harvard referencing and links back to your blog?

B) Are there any specific moments from the books that you think should be covered the most?

C) The end result will be a visual essay, so it's like those fun infographics people on Tumblr make on like ADHD and stuff, so when it's done, would you like to be tagged to read it?

(Sorry for anon, I'm nervous lmao, but if you'd be more comfortable I'll resend this off anon)

AAY good topic! You've got a lot to work with. Absolutely feel free to reference anything I've written, and tag me when you're done.

While you're here and about to write something so legitimate, I'm also going to recommend you check out Sunnyfall's video on gender in Warrior Cats. She breaks down the arcs into numbers, directly comparing the amount of lines mollies have to toms, and examining the archetypes women are usually allowed to be.

I think it's a must-have citation in a paper about WC misogyny.

...and, I think it's insightful to look at the WCRP Forum thread about the video. Note how the respondents immediately come into the thread to complain about how the video is too long so they didn't watch it, dismissing Sunnyfall as not being entertaining enough to hold their attention, even whining that she starts with statistics to prove her point, which I'm convinced she did exactly because they would have cried that she "had no evidence" if she didn't.

I am not a scholar, so I don't know how to document or prove that the books have an impact on the audience outside of anecdotes. But I think if you do write a section about fandom, it would be worth mentioning the in-universe and metatextual apologia for Ashfur and its reflection in the real world discourse, the authorial killing of Ferncloud because of fan complains, and the utter defensiveness against the discussion of misogyny you see outside of Tumblr.

You may also want to check out Cheek by Jowl, a collection of 8 essays about sexism in xenofiction by Ursula K. Le Guin. There's a very unique manifestation of authorial bias in animal fiction, having a lot to do with how the author views "the natural world," and it's worth understanding even though Warrior Cats are so heavily anthropomorphized.

So... Warrior Cats Misogyny

I think discussing individual instances can be helpful, but I'd implore you to keep in mind what's REALLY bad about WC's misogyny is framing and the bigger picture.

Bumble's death is shocking and insulting, but it's not just that she died. It's that the POV Gray Wing sees her as a fat, useless bitch who took his mate so she deserves to be dragged back to a domestic abuser, and he's right because the writers love him so much. It's that Bumble's torture and killing only factors into how it's going to hurt a man's reputation.

It's how Clear Sky hitting, emotionally manipulating, or killing the following women,

Bright Stream (pressured into leaving her home and family)

Storm (controlled her movements and yelled at her in public)

Misty (killed for land, children stolen)

Bumble (beaten unconscious, blamed nonsensically on a fox)

Alder (child abuse, hit when she refused to attack her brother)

Falling Feather (scratched on the face, subjected to public abuse and humiliation)

Tall Shadow (thrown into murderous crowd, attacked on-sight in heaven)

Rainswept Flower ("blacked out" in anger and murdered in cold blood)

Moth Flight (scratched on the face for saying denying medical treatment is mean, taken hostage in retaliation against mother for the death of his own child, which he caused)

Willow Tail (eyes gouged out for "stirring up trouble")

Is seen as totally understandable, forgivable, or not even questioned at all, when killing Gray Wing in an act of rage would have been "one step too far" with the ridiculous Star Line.

"Kill me and live with the memory, and then let the stars know it would only matter if a single one of your murder victims was a man."

It's the way that fathers who physically abuse their kids out of their ego (Clear Sky, Sandgorse, Crowfeather) aren't treated anywhere near the same level of narrative disgust and revulsion the series has for "bad moms", even if they're displaying symptoms of a post-partum mood disorder (depression, anxiety, and rage), an umbrella of mental illnesses 20% of all new mothers experience but are heavily stigmatized with (Sparkpelt, Palebird, Lizardstripe).

It's Crookedstar's Promise giving him two evil maternal figures in a single book, while bending over backwards to make every man in a position of power still look likeable in spite of the fact they're enabling Rainflower's abuse. Leader Hailstar is soso sorry that he has to change Stormkit's name for some reason, in spite of leaders being unaccountable dictators the other 99% of the time, and Deputy Shellheart functionally does nothing to stop his own son from being abused or even do much parenting before or after the fact.

It's the way men's parental struggles are seen sympathetically, and they don't have to "pay for it" like their female counterparts (Crookedstar's PPD vs Sparkpelt's PPD, how Daisy and Cinders are held responsible for Smoky and Whisper being deadbeats, Yellowfang's endless guilt for killing her son vs Onestar's purpose in life to kill his own), even to the point where a father doesn't have to have raised their kids at all to have a magical innate emotional connection to them (Tree's father Root, Tom the Wifebeater, Tigerstar and Hawkfrost).

It's less speaking lines and agency for female characters, being reduced to accessories in the lives of their mates and babies, women getting less diversity in their personalities, with even major ex-POV characters eventually becoming "sweet mom" tropes.

You could zoom in on any one of these examples and have an amoeba try to argue with you that "Oh THIS makes sense because X" or "Ah well my headcanon perfectly explains this thing" or "MY mother/girlfriend was abusive/toxic/neglectful and I've decided that you are personally attacking ME by having issues with how a character was written or utilized," but the beleaguered point,

That I keep trying to hammer in, over and over, across books worth of posts,

Is that these are trends. More than just a couple one-off examples. It's the fabric that has been woven over years, showing a lack of interest in, or even active prejudice of, women on behalf of the writers.

LONG STANDING trends, which have only gotten worse as the series progressed. From Yellowfang being harshly punished with a born evil son who ruins her life in TPB and the mistreatment of Squirrelpaw that begins in TNP, all the way up to the 7 Fridgenings of DOTC and Sparkpelt's PPD being a major character motivator for her son Nightheart.

So, I would stress that in your paper, and structure it less as "the Sparkpelt slide" and "the Yellowfang slide," and more as "The paternal vs maternal abuse" slide, and "the violence against women" slide. They're really big issues, there's tons of examples for each individual thing.

Anyway to leave off on a funny, look at this scene in Darkest Hour that I find unreasonably hilarious,

"Everyone who matters to me; my truest friend, my sensible and loyal warrior, the wisest deputy I've ever known, and 2 women." -Firestar, glorious idiot

He can't even think of a single trait for either of them what the hell does "formidable pair" mean lmaooo, when I finished a reread about a year ago this line killed me on impact.

[yukirayu]

Madarame's Route and the Few of Its Many Mistranslations

I haven't done this in quite some time, but I'll be giving some more TL comparisons between the original JP release and the localization, because an anon from Retrospring shared some tidbits from Madarame's route.

Because they have also explained what nuance got lost, briefly or otherwise, I won't do what I did in my previous posts (compare with MTL) just basically compile each translation discrepancy in a subsequent order, and add their notes in each one.

 Toono: "...Thought he'd never die." 「……しぶとい野郎だ」-> ["......Stubborn bastard."] NOTE: I sense someone is probably holding on to some unresolved resentment, LOL

Towa: "You were always like this. Are you satisfied now that you've ruined my life?" 「あんたは昔からそうだ。引っ掻き回して満足か？」　-> ["You have always been like this. Are you satisfied with the violent chaos you caused?"] NOTE: 引っ掻き回して appears to be an idiom meaning to "disrupt order through violence."

Madarame: "To hang out with friends." 「うろついてる連中と遊ぶんだよ」​ -> ["I'm going to play around with the people hanging around."] NOTE: Madarame has nobody he'd call a friend so the English line seems so out of place that it was easy to notice.

Madarame: "We had a lot more fights after that. Sometimes we came close to killing each other for real. But he still didn't back down." 「それから���喧嘩して、半殺しにしてやった時もあった。だが、アイツはそれでも向かってきた」 -> ["We'd fight from then on, and there was a time I beaten him half to death. However he'd still come at me."] NOTE: Well, someone was envious of Madarame's absolute power. LMAO

Madarame: "Stoop to an idiot's level and he'll beat you with experience, you know. Then after that..." 「馬鹿の相手をしても時間の無駄だからな。そうしたら……」 -> ["Because it's a waste of time to deal with idiots. Afterwards......"] NOTE: The English line is some dumb phrase I've seen on the internet. I get the feeling that the phrase was used against the person who put it there. XD

Towa: "...If I was a chick, I'd have ditched you by now." 「……俺が女なら腰が砕けてるところだ」 -> ["If I was a woman then my knees would have given way.] NOTE 1: 腰が砕けてる seems to be an idiom, it could mean like what it literally says, or to collapse/give up/lose one's nerve/to have one's knee's give way. NOTE 2: Wouldn't be surprised if the people who changed it hated Madarame (that's the impression I get), I just find that hilarious that they'd probably be seething and crying over a fictional character. Madarame ain't real, but he is already giving real people slow damage. LMAO.

I have to say though, it's rather obvious that while the one behind the localization seemed to dislike almost everyone with how their dialogues got butchered, Madarame's route really takes the cake, or whatever is the most unpleasant dish you can think of, in this case.

A JP-fluent of mine also mentioned how Madarame's route got the worst of the questionable translation choices, saying that Madarame's speech doesn't really have him cuss or talk that crassly. And it didn't surprise me that the H-scenes were done poorly, almost deliberately, even.

Now, this was what I replied to that very last statement OP had made, which I felt I should also share here... Even with a proper translation, I can easily see Madarame being divisive among fans either way.

He's meant to be something of an antagonist (not a villain) and while there's an intended goal in his route, said route still isn't exactly the easiest to swallow. Even so, a translator letting their bias affect their translation is already one giant misstep.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

I've been thinkin' on it, and I think the biggest reason people are still insisting that Ed is just awful and abusive and whatever (aside from the racism of it all) is because the writers of OFMD fundamentally assume that viewers will like him and be on his side.

And, like, that is one hell of a reasonable assumption. Before s2 we spent a lot of time getting to know Ed; we see he's very sweet and smart and can be silly, and his self-esteem isn't great and he already has a lot of self-destructive tendencies and struggles with believing he can have nice things. These are all things we see in s2 and none of them should come as a surprise. We've gotten to know Ed and in s2 the writers assume we will be able to grant him even the barest ounce of sympathy.

"But he's being super violent and hurting the crew!" Ed's behavior at the beginning of s2 is best described as "a bit over the top" in the context of the show, and before he pulls out all the stops trying to get the crew to mutiny on him in his suicide attempt, he never actually hurts anyone except for Izzy (Izzy's the guy who threatened him and caused all this, or he'd still be crying in his blanket fort at the start of the season. OFMD has ALWAYS had a "talk shit get hit" philosophy and Izzy should not be the sole exception).

"But he never had to face any consequences for his actions!" I think almost getting beaten to death and then having to spend an entire episode convincing yourself you deserve to live is a pretty big consequence, actually.

"But he never apologized!" The group apology in s2e5 was obviously a joke (Stede clearly wrote it anyway and made Ed memorize it, look how Stede mouths along and Ed fumbles his lines), and it's pretty clear that Ed's conversation with Fang is meant to represent what he's doing with everyone. He's trying. He thinks up a way to try to give Lucius closure, even though it doesn't work, and when Fang mentions something Ed did that hurt him, Ed immediately and genuinely apologizes. It is not a wild jump to assume Ed's doing that with other characters and the show just assumes we're smart enough to figure that out from context considering how the crew are good with Ed again in s2e6.

"What if he hurts Stede/is abusive to Stede?" Multiple characters ask Stede something to this effect, Stede says "that's really stupid, of course he won't," and Stede is right. Question easily answered.

We're shown that Ed's response to being hurt and upset is not immediately violence. His first response is to go and hide and make himself feel safe - tub, blanket fort, hiding under the blanket and Anne and Mary's. Violence is Ed's response to feeling threatened. There's a difference. We're shown this over and over and over again, and frankly the only reason I think some people miss it is because they don't care to think about what's making Ed feel threatened in the first place.

It's just so clear that some people watching this show care so little about Ed and only care about what he can offer in a scene with other characters. Ed did not enjoy anything that happened at the beginning of the season - the last time we see him in s1 he's sobbing his poor eyes out and that's implied to have been consistent through s2e2. He's suicidal and having a miserable time and yes, he's hurting people who care about him, but it's not just for funsies, it's because he's trying to get himself killed. It's wild to me that some people can turn on the Ed and Stede show, see Ed pull himself out of such a terrible place by the end of the season and commit to a life with his boyfriend, and think that the show is setting up Ed to be abusive or imply he hasn't gone through any character growth and just coasted through the season.

[shinynewmemories]

Okay okay I'm having Thoughts™ about the basement exchange again. It's a lot all at once but ima try to organize it into 3 main points:

1. Why was Katniss so hurt that Peeta didn't argue with Gale when he said "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without"?

At this point, Peeta had in no way recovered from the hijacking. Parts of the old Peeta were returning, yes, but he was NOT 100% back yet. Obviously, Katniss knew this. And it's not like Peeta necessarily AGREED with Gale; he just kept quiet. So why did she feel wronged by Peeta's "failure" to defend her? 

I think it's because Katniss's feelings for Peeta are the exact feelings Gale implied she WOULDN'T have for whomever she picked. Immediately after Gale said it, Katniss thinks: 

Am I really that cold and calculating? Gale didn’t say, “Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up,” or even “whoever she can’t live without.” Those would have implied I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I “can’t survive without.” There’s not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me.

I think Katniss is so deeply offended because she IS motivated by passion (for Peeta). I think love, desire, and compatibility ALL play a part in why she chooses Peeta. And Katniss subconsciously feels that Peeta, who is the OBJECT of her love/passion/desire, should know this. It's as if she's saying "Peeta, you OF ALL PEOPLE should know Gale is wrong because I feel ALL OF THESE THINGS FOR YOU!!!"

And while I think most people (including Katniss) would say her offence at Peeta's silence is a bit irrational, I think it speaks VOLUMES about the truth of her feelings. Especially towards Peeta.

2. What if Gale took what Peeta said about him having "to take care of her family" to heart?

I always assumed Gale took whatever Peeta said and promptly threw it in the garbage bin in his brain. You know, because jealousy? Or I thought Gale was already of the opinion that protecting Katniss's family was his job.

But what if Gale actually listened? What if that's why, during their last interaction before Snow's execution, Gale says, “That was the one thing I had going for me. Taking care of your family"?

Idk I don't have any big point to this. It's just a "what if".

3. What if Peeta took what Gale said about how Katniss would make her choice to heart?

I also always assumed Peeta didn't give Gale's statements in the basement much thought afterwards. After all, he had a lot of other things on his mind (the war, people being beaten to death for looking like him, the hijacking, etc.).

But what if Peeta actually listened? And not only that, but what if he, like Katniss, understood everything Gale was implying: that Katniss would not make her choice based on love, or desire, or compatibility? What if, when Gale said "Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without", Peeta heard "Even if Katniss DOES pick you, love, passion, and desire will have nothing to do with it"? And what if Peeta BELIEVED him??

If we assume all that is the case, the "so after" scene takes on a whole new meaning. Because one night, Katniss feels such an intense hunger (that's desire!) for Peeta that they end up having sex (that's passion!). And it's this moment that Katniss realizes she would have ended up with Peeta anyway and that he's the only one who can give her what she needs (that's compatibility!). And then, of course, the closing line of the book:

So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real.”

(That's love!)(Duh!)

So yeah maybe at some point after "so after", Peeta's just lying there and he thinks "Hey, Gale, if you can hear this: I just gotta let you know that you were dead wrong."

[gowns]

both my grandmothers (my only remaining grandparents) aren't doing too hot... they're both in their late 80s and have always been fairly sedentary / don't eat well, AND (this is the most potentially lethal part) they're both stubborn as fuck and won't accept help from anyone ever. this has led to things like my mom's mom falling down and breaking her fragile bones multiple times, and my dad's mom is still DRIVING even though she has increasing vision and hearing problems. on top of that, they are both showing signs of "sundowning," getting increasingly confused and losing their memory.

i recognize that i'm totally made out of the same stuff that they're made of; i am also a stubborn independent prickly bastard and this will undoubtedly be my fate. they're so happy being alone and living in their own space, and they REFUSE to go live in a home or have hired help.

and yes, i keep telling my parents that eventually they get to override their parents wishes, because my grandmothers should NOT be continuing to move around the world in a way that is actively endangering themselves and others. but no. my mom is still afraid of her mom, and my dad is still afraid of his mom, they have all this TRAUMA and WEAK BOUNDARIES and etc that makes it difficult to "keep it real" with their parents.

and... lo and behold... i am also made of the same stuff that my parents are made of... so strong, and yet so weak... so hard to look into the eyes of the person What Gave You Trauma and say "hey buddy, can i be honest with you," and then proceed to be honest with them.

--

anyway it's probably my grandmas' last holiday season. that is a really depressing thought. if they live another year, they will be in a markedly worse condition -- who knows what they'll remember, how much they can move around, by next year.

my dad's joke to me, after seeing his grandmother deteriorate, which he repeats to me often: "i swear to god, the moment i start losing my mind like that, i want you to take a baseball bat to my head! bam! take me out! don't hesitate, just do it!"

--

i've been thinking a lot about jokes and how they function as a release valve for fear, uncertainty, and tension

there's a delicate equation as to how much fear and uncertainty goes in and how much humor comes out

the way my father acts it out, too -- a guy who was ruthlessly beaten by his parents and grandparents -- "the moment i look at you and say 'what's your name again?' just grab that steel baseball bat and wham, wham, don't make it more than two blows, swing for the fences!" --

there has to be something therapeutic for him in this vision of cartoon violence death! the way he repeats it, like a prayer!

[suratan-zir]

Hi. I wanted to ask how you have those among Ukrainians who believe in russian propaganda. I just met one refugee from Kharkov, and he told me that Putin is fighting for the Russian world, and it was the United States that started the war. He reasons that since he speaks Russian, he should support Russia's actions. And this despite the fact that his city was bombed, and he and his family were on the verge of life and death.

Hi. I can't really answer this. I mean, I can try, but I'm not good at answering vague questions. I'm not well-spoken enough.

How come so many USAmericans worship Trump and see him as a savior of the poor when he's the exact opposite? How come far-right parties all across Europe gain more and more popularity, with people believing that fascists in power will resolve all their problems? Hell, we can take it a step further and ask how come people become anti-vaxxers and flat Earth believers? The answer is only one - propaganda. People fall under the harmful influence.

Russian propaganda has been extremely active in the southeast of Ukraine basically since we gained independence. Russia has been spending millions upon millions on brainwashing Ukrainians. The propaganda became more and more aggressive since the Orange Revolution. It was everywhere in the Donbas, you couldn't even wear a piece of orange clothing without risking being beaten up.

I was only a middle-schooler, but I remember it in detail. Propaganda materials such as leaflets were distributed everywhere. I remember one with Viktor Yushchenko (pro-European presidential candidate) against the background of the US flag and Uncle Sam who's saying, "Yushchenko is our pResident." I remember asking my mother what it meant, and she said it means that Yushchenko is a very bad person. This stuff was wild. And it only got wilder.

Russian propaganda claims over the years varied from the statement that "Donbas feeds the entire Ukraine" to "pro-European politicians and the US will make concentration camps in the Donbas for the Russian-speakers and will populate the territory with people from the West instead." I don't know how, but people believed in this purely artificial conflict. Not only were there never any persecutions against the Russian-speakers, but you would actually feel more comfortable speaking Russian in Ukraine. In most regions, the Ukrainian language was considered a "redneck" language and would get you nowhere. Of course, the Ukrainian government is also to blame for letting Russia control the narrative. But for most of these independent years, Ukraine was basically externally managed by Russia. During Yanukovych's presidency, we were like Belarus is now - a false "president" taking instructions straight from the Kremlin. So the brainwashing was getting worse and worse.

I told this story several times, and I'll tell it again. Before the "referendum" in Donetsk, most people laughed at the idea of the "republic." It was supported by some local lunatics, but mostly the whole thing was done by russian mercenaries and russian military. During this time, my aunt told me that those who support this are crazy and they're calling war into our homes. She was a reasonable person. She had a job, a nice apartment of her own, a happy family, and a bright future ahead. In 2015 they fled from Donetsk to russia, along with my grandmother. Why to russia? Propaganda. Then they got russian citizenship and used it to vote for putin. I asked how they could vote for him after what he did to them, after they lost it all. "We're thankful he gave us a home, gave us citizenship," was the answer. At first, he took everything from you, ruined your life, then let you restore a tiny bit of it - and you're grateful. I don't know how this works. It's not like they were welcomed in russia, they faced a lot of prejudice and oppression for being from Donetsk. To the point that my cousin was bullied at school for being from the Donbas, not only by kids but by teachers, despite being an excellent student and graduating with honors. Russians are outraged that their state "rescues" and "helps" those Donbas khokhols instead of helping "true" russians.

In the second month of the full-scale invasion, my grandmother proposed that I move to them, to the moscow region of russia. "This is the country that is trying to kill us all, how can you ask me to move there?" "What difference does it make which country to live in? It's safe here." So along with pro-putin brainrot comes also apoliticalness, passivity.

I'm rambling at this point. I don't want to go on about this forever, like I know I can. Let's leave it at this.

[tree0frog]

maybe a Levi x reader where the reader is a total tsundere (where she usually has a stoic face on her features when she doesn't know people and when they are strangers but inside shes soft and bubbly) and Levi hurt her feelings like really really really bad one day, her bubbly personality drops with him and everyone and her emotionless mask is put on. Reader ignores Levi for weeks and all of her friends are concerned and asking what happened to her and Levi can't help but feel guilty he broke her. lots of angst please? and also maybe at the end you can put Levi trying his hardest to apologize and win her back but she keeps fighting against his words letting her insecure thoughts and trauma make it hard to forgive him. but yes in the end, fluff!! (this was really long sorry about that hope it makes sense:( hope you make it a long story though! have a beautiful day ☺️❣️)

AAAAAhhhh thank you thank you thank you!! this is the longer fic iv ever made i think.

levi x reader

aot masterlist

main masterlist

word count-2.33k

tags-Levi refers to the reader as brat or captin, kissing talk of death angst,blood.

Levi's hand hovered over the old wooden door handle, he knew deep down you were fine, that you were alive, yet somehow he couldn't stand seeing you in such a state.

You had volunteered to help Hange with an explant outside of the wall, the captain had trust in not only yourself but also Hange that you both would come back safe and alive and for the most part you did.

Or well one of you did.

Levi could still rember Hange's screams as they shouted for help you limp in their arms as they ran to the medical wing Moblit hot on their trial a crimson river followed in your way. The captain wasted no time in running after the sanitise and their assistant to only be stopped at the door.

"Captin sir I think it's best you let Hange deal with them."moblits voice was slightly restless due to the running as well as the adrenaline running through him at the sight of one of his comrades bleeding out in front of him.

Now Levi being Levi, he knew trying to argue would get him jack shit so instead he decided to wait in his office knowing the Four-eyes would come and find him once you were stable.

Once you were alive.

Three heavy knocks shook him out of his trance.

"come in" was all that was needed from the captain to allow the person on the other side of the old wooden door to enter his office.

Hange walked through the door, their glasses rested upon their head blood, your blood covered them, their hair was more dishevelled than usual and they were wearing a slight frown upon their normally existing face.

"Before you say anything they are fine alive and breathing."

Levi let out a breath he didn't notice he was holding onto it.

"I'm so sorry Levi. I got distracted and overlooked the titan from behind. They went to kill it but their ODM gear slipped from the branch it was hooked into as they were killing it. they fell."Hanges voice was full of guilt.

"tch you would have done the same four-eyes" Levi said his eyes going back onto the stack of paperwork in front of him.

"You can go and see them if you want?" Those were the last words Hange spoke before they left to hopefully clean themselves up before they started on the report today.

Levi stood up making sure the door to his office was closed before walking down the hallway that needed a clean.

Somehow the hallway felt longer than he had rembied it to be, as if time had slowed. He stopped at the door, the same door he had tried to enter hours prior, his hand hovering above the old wooden handle as if contemplating what he should do.

Levi let out a sigh before walking into the room, the smell of disinfectant hit his nose almost instantly as he quietly shut to door from behind him.

His eyes found your once beaten and bloody frame resting in clean white sheets blood now gone, probably due to moblit and your chest now rising and falling with each breath you took.

The captain pulled up a chair from the small desk in the corner of the room moving it to sit beside your bed.

his hands now holding yours, it was cold too cold for Levi's liking as he just sat there hoping and praying to whatever higher power there was to bring you back to him.

two days and one night.

Levi spent by your side and he had taken the paperwork from his office deciding that now was a good time to try and finish it. The captain refused to level your side.

Levis's breath hiched when he saw your hand move ever so slightly.

He thought he was just seeing things until it kept happening his eyes flickered to yours, as he watched you open and close them trying to get used to the bright lights that were let in through the window on the far left of the room.     

“L Levi?” You groaned out a voice hoarse from the lack of use.

“Tch do you want so water are you in any pain?” His voice was the normal stoic voice of the Captain, but his eyes well his eyes told you everything you needed to know in your hazy state.

“Water please I feel fine what happened? Where Hange?” Levi shook his head as he stood up walking over to the wooden table pouring a glass of water before bringing it back to you.

“Four-eyes is fine it you they are worried about what the hell where you think” his voice was more hash then he had inteded.

Your eyes narrowed as you took small slips of the water that Your captain gave you.

“I’m fine Levi iv done worse and you first should know that” you said like it was nothing.

‘But you should have to’ Levi thought.

“You could have died if it wasn’t for Shitty glasses brat. What you did was stupid and reckless You put not only yourself but your comrades in danger” Levi raced his voice as he spoke to you.

Levi never spoke to you like that.

You went quiet choosing to look away from the man. A ping of guilt hit Levi but he knew he was right. You would always put someone over your own safety that was how you had been since you had met.

——

You were walking down the corridor with Moblit laughing about something he did while drunk the night before.

“{y/n} please” his face red from embarrassment.

“Ohhh I will never let you live this down” You whipped a stray tear from your eye as you both continued walking.

“What do you think of the new guy?” he asked.

“Mh you mean Levi I don’t know I don’t think iv had much of a chance to talk to him” You played with your sleeves as you passed a group of cadets.

You found yourself walking to the kitchen later that night I need some tea to help you through the huge pile of paper Hange has asked you to do.

You took a turn around the corner not looking at where you were going before you walked right into someone.

“Shit I and so sorry” you quickly said dropping to your knees to get your paperwork and hide for the rest of the night from the poor person you had so rudely walked into.

“Tch you should look where you're going next time” The voice was rough but a sort of calming in so odd way.

You looked up to see Levi helping you pick up your paper work taping them into one neat pile before he met your eyes.

“What?” He had a confused look in his eye.

“ n nothing sorry again” you stood up trying to organise your work.

“What are you doing awake you could get in trouble with the higher-ups ups” you asked taking the paper from his hands you chose to ignore how he felt when they brushed against yours.

“Couldn’t sleep and what about yourself” he shoots the question back at you.

Your face broke from its blank expression a little.

“Don’t think we have met I’m Captain {y/n}{L/n} nice to meet you cadet?” you said before you walked off to only turn around to see Levi’s grey eye looking back at you.

“I suggest you come with me if you don’t want to get caught, Cadet?” You asked not waiting for him to respond.

“Tch brat” he mutters before following himself.

He reached the kitchen he watched you pull two mugs from the cabinet.

“Tea?” You asked as you reached for the Earl Grey tea leaves.

He just nodded as he watched you make the tea.

The same way he did.

“How long what you been in the scouts for?” Levi broke the silence.

“7 years give or take been in the military for ten if you count my 3 years of training” you said moving the cup over to the dark-haired male.

Levi mutters a thanks before taking a drink from the hot mug.

You watched him your eyes held curiously while your face blank from any emotion.

You confuse the hell out of Levi.

“So you from the underground?” You asked taking a pencil out as you stared to look through your paperwork.

“What if I am” he retorted back.

“Calm down I just asked” you snapped back.

“This lighting is shit come on,” you said quickly finishing the rest of your tea before you moved to wash the cups but Levi stopped you.

“ I’ll do it brat,” he said taking off his uniform jacket and rolling his grey sleeves up to his elbows.

‘Shit’ you thought your eyes linger a little too long on his arms.

“What made you join this shit hole,” you asked leaning back on the counter as you watched Levi clean the two cups and dry them.

“Eyebrows” 

Eyebrows?

Then it clicked and you started laughing your head off.

This was the first time Levi had made or heard you laugh and for some odd reason, he wanted more of it.

“ you men Erwin?” You asked between laughs.

A smile still upon your face.

“Yeah” he said placing to two cups back where they belonged.

“I think we are going to get along very well Levi,” you said.

The two of you were up talking until the early hours of the morning when you had finally finished your paperwork.

—-

Two weeks.

Hit had been two weeks since you last looked or ever spoke to Levi and it was killing him.

You often spent some of your rare free time with him and his squad but none of them had seen you for two weeks.

Levi walked around the corner making his way to his office when he saw Moblit standing outside your door.

“{y/n} for the love of god please open this door we are all worried about you” his voice was filled with worries but also concern.

Moblit looked to his right to see Levi standing watching him.

“Good afternoon sir is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

“What’s up with them?” Levi demanded.

Even though Levi’s voice was rough Moblit could see behind his wall, he had walked past the captain a few nights ago to find him sitting outside your door trying to talk to you.

“They won’t open the door and they didn’t show up this morning for breakfast” Moblit sighed. Levi walked towards your door before raising his leg.

“Ah, Captain what are you doing” Moblit voice was now filled with panic as he watched the captain kick in your door.

“What the fuck Levi” 

Levi took a good look at you,

He was relieved to know you were alive but god you looked like shit.

Your hair was a mess and the bags under your eyes looked darker.

Levi closed the door behind him this time a little more gently.

“We need to talk,” he said taking a seat on one of the chairs in front of your desk.

“Do we because I think you made it very clear about how you left” Your eyes never met his.

“I I’m sorry ok but I’m worried about you so. Are your shitty friends” his voice was soft something that only ever happens with you.

“Iv lost so many people and when I saw Hange running with you in their arms limp I thought I had lost you as well and I couldn't stand the thought of losing you as well.” his voice cracked as he ran a hand through his hair before waiting to make the next move.

“I know what I said was shit and all that but I do care about you brat in more ways than one and I can’t see a future we’re in there and you aren’t you don’t need to save everyone all the time we know you're strong you don’t need to prove it”

His hand slowly moved to rest on top of yours he needed to feel you were here. That you were real.

“You should know better than anyone shorty I’m not going anywhere” you spoke your eyes met his.

He watched as you intertwined the two of your hands together.

“No way is my favourite moody captain expressing his long-time feelings to me ” you said back, making him roll his eyes a small smirk light up his face.

You were back. 

“So what if I am captain” Levi moved close to you, using his four arms as support to lean on your desk. 

Your face felt warm your eyes dared to flicker to his lips then slowly back up to his eyes. 

Levi’s brain stopped he could have swarmed you and looked at his lips.

“Damm brate” he mutters before meeting your lips with his.

The kiss wasn’t how you expected it to be Levi's lips were dry a little cracked even but the kiss itself was slow as if the two of you were pouring everything you had into this one moment.

The grey-eyed male pulled away first his breath was heavy as was yours.

“Promis me you won’t ever leave me”

Your eyes softened at the male.

This was the Levi you fell in love with not the harsh soldier he was made to be.

“ i promise that i am not going anywhere any time soon okay shorty” you whisper back to scared to say it any loud as if the gods above might hear you.

“You taste good” you mutter are you capture your lips to his once more.

“I have something that will taste even better later on brat” Your eyes widened as you realised what he was talking about.

“Levi!” 

“What captain” 

It was safe to say the two or of them didn’t get much sleep that night.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for @miri-tiazan; the one where omegaverse fucks up Red Hood's life. ( chrono || non-chrono )

Jason wants a lot of things. Jason wants exactly one fucking thing. 

He’d settle for this much, though. Right now he’d settle for anything Dick would give him, in fact. 

Anything at all. 

“I’m sorry. I know it hurts,” Dick says gently, the bastard, and Jason feels like the most pathetic, desperate thing alive. He’s–he–

He just wants. 

“Please,” he says, because he doesn’t have anything better. If he tried to flirt or call or took his clothes off, he’d look like–like he doesn’t know, even, what he’d look like if he did that. Too pathetic. Too desperate. 

Too much. 

Dick doesn’t answer him, just lets out a low, soothing rumble that doesn’t soothe a damn thing in him at all. Jason’s useless body burns at the sound of it. 

He wants to feel that rumble in his chest. In his teeth. 

He wants Dick to just come over here and fucking touch him. 

Jason opens his mouth to say something himself, to at least try to, but all that comes out is an awful, pleading whine. Dick tenses against the doorframe, just barely enough to be noticed by anyone with the experience to read him, and Jason–Jason doesn’t care that it hurts. It doesn’t matter that it hurts. Sweating out an unsatisfied heat isn’t any worse than being beaten to death by inches, than being blown up and crushed, choking on smoke, digging out of a grave and burning back to life in glowing green water– 

Than not having a home to go back to, after all that. 

So it doesn’t matter that it hurts. It matters that Dick doesn’t want him. 

Dick’s never wanted him at all. 

Jason bursts into ugly, miserable tears and curls in on himself, wrapping an arm across his chest and trying to shrink down small, less, little. Dick doesn’t recognize him. Dick wouldn’t want him even if he did. Doesn’t even want him not knowing it’s him. Didn’t want him as a packmate and doesn’t want him as a stranger and never, ever will. 

He sobs and sobs and sobs, and it hurts worse than the heat or the grave dirt or a crowbar ever could. 

“Alpha,” he keens, and really is as pathetic and desperate as he sounds, at this point. “Alpha.”

“Fuck,” Dick rasps, and knocks his head back against the doorframe. Digs his fingers into his folded arms. “I–that’s–” 

“Alpha,” Jason says again, and this time it comes out weak. 

“Fuck,” Dick mutters again, and covers his face with a hand. He’s staring at Jason through his fingers and his mask, though, and Jason thinks if Dick ever takes his eyes off him again, he’s just going to die again. He’s going to burn to ash and burn down Gotham and burn down the world, if Dick ever takes his eyes off him again. 

Or just never forgive the fucking bastard. 

“Please,” he repeats, fisting his hands against his own arm and the clumsily-layered bottom of his mediocre excuse for a nest, and doesn’t even recognize his own voice as he says it. 

Why should he? Dick doesn’t either. 

Dick doesn’t recognize a damn thing about him anymore.

[cowgurrrl]

Playing the Game

Pairing: Javier Peña x CIA!reader

Summary: The Aftermath [4.0k]

Warnings: interrogation setting, language, description of injuries (NOTHING GRAPHIC), discussions of nightmares, short dialogue in Spanish, Chekov’s gun if you squint really hard, some smutty thoughts and happenings, a little bit of backstory, canonical violence

"I understand that the events from a few months ago are still fresh in everyone's minds," you say, looking around the room of higher-ups. It's a big mix. CIA, DEA, military personnel, and even Ambassador Noonan. That's standard, you think. It's not every day an undercover CIA agent gets made in the streets of Medellín, kidnapped, and tortured for three days. "But my health has improved over these past few weeks, and my doctors have cleared me to return to the field. Given the grace of the board here today, I would like to return to work and finish the job I came to Colombia to do." 

You accepted the transfer to the United States Embassy in Bogotá a little over two years ago and did desk work for a few months before committing to an undercover job to collect intel on the cartel. It was safe enough. Most days were uneventful as you tuned into the codes and subtle behaviors of those involved. Still, you almost always carried your service weapon with you. You made the right friends. You kept your head down. You checked in with another CIA agent once a week and regularly relayed information to two DEA agents, Javier Peña and Steve Murphy. You were fine until you weren't. 

You still don't really know how they found out you were undercover or exactly what happened over those three days after they snatched you from the sidewalk. Sometimes, you're able to string together conversations had between them beating the shit out of you, but it's a lot of you repeating yourself. "No sé nada. No sé nada." You said over and over again as they accused you of lying and went back to torturing you. It wasn't an official ruling, but the people who stormed into the building collectively believed you were dead. When they stumbled in to find you sitting there, beaten but breathing, they thought it was a small-scale miracle. Upon further investigation and questioning, they were even more surprised you didn't give up any information. Instead, you threw out false leads to buy yourself and the embassy time. This wasn't your first rodeo. You knew better. 

All in all, you walked away starving and dehydrated with a perforated eardrum, deep lacerations from your own pair of handcuffs, a broken wrist, countless cuts and bruises, a concussion, a fucked up knee, and cigarette burns on your arms. Guards parked themselves outside your hospital room and your apartment until they were sure the threat to your life was suspended. Since then, you've been stuck at home, bored to tears, doing physical therapy exercises to regain strength in your leg, and reading declassified files sent to you. You're up to date on the latest happenings in Medellín and more than ready to come back. 

"Agent, I appreciate your willingness and courage to return to work, but how do you know the sicarios won't try to come after you again?" Colonel Wysession asks, and you shrug.

"How do we know that they might not try to come after any of us?" You ask. "You made a statement when you killed everyone involved with my kidnapping. They should know not to fuck with government agents, especially after Kiki Camarena's death." 

"'Should' doesn't mean they won't try it again." Ambassador Noonan chimes in. 

"You're right. They're still out there, wreaking havoc on the country and innocent people, which means you need all the hands you can get to catch them. I know firsthand how they operate and communicate with each other. You won't be able to get that information again, especially after the raid." You say. Agent Jones, the CIA representative, sighs as he flips your file open and looks over it. The interagency cooperation is nice and all, but it really comes down to him and Ambassador Noonan to make the final call. 

"You have an impressive record here, Agent. You were one of the top graduates from Camp Peary. A stint overseas to surveil communist groups in Eastern Europe. Assistance in multiple criminal investigations at home. Your information and skill have helped your country in innumerable ways," he says. "They even gave you a code name for your successes undercover: The Swallow."

"To be clear, I didn't approve of that name." You say quickly, and Agent Jones looks up from your file. 

"It's rare to get a code name anyone approves of." He says, and you nod, deciding to play nice.

"I guess that's true." 

You know exactly why you got given that name, and it will never not make your skin crawl. Years of work in the Agency, months spent undercover, and enough bullets fired in the name of democracy to haunt you for a lifetime, and in return, you get that name plastered to your record forever. So much for respect, right?

"Agent, our main concern right now is that in bringing you back to the field, we are putting a target on your back. Now, you've made it very clear that is a burden you're willing to carry, but that doesn't mean the United States is willing to carry it as well." Ambassador Noonan says.

"Ambassador, with all due respect, the second we put American agents on the ground here in Colombia, the United States not only carried the burden but also condoned it. Other Agency personnel are all aware of the immediate threat of being here and doing this work, and many, many men have disappeared because of it. I've made it back more than once. I can do it again."

"Are you sleeping well, Agent?" Agent Jones asks out of the blue, and you turn to look at him. The question throws you off guard. You were prepared to defend your work and skill, not your personal habits. But, your mind immediately jumps to the other night without your permission. 

It started how it always starts. Flinching in your sleep at phantom hits and talking to no one in particular. Random mumbling at first but then clearer, louder, until you were screaming. You shot up in bed, shaking and crying and swearing you could smell burnt flesh again. You didn't know where you were at first, but old habits die hard, and you instinctively reached for your gun. Someone grabbed your hand to keep you from hurting yourself and shushed you when you cried louder at the grip on your wrists. "It's me," he said gently, turning you around to face him. "It's me."

"I'm sleeping as well as anyone in my line of work can." You tell Agent Jones, pushing the memory from your head. "I'll sleep much better once Escobar's in the ground or behind bars."

"You're really dedicated to this, huh?" Colonel Wysession says, eyeing Noonan out of the corner of his eye, and you nod.

"A couple of loyal men with guns don't scare me, sir," you say. "After the show of force at the recon, I doubt they'll come after any one of us again. But if they do and it's me, I'll get on the first flight home. No questions asked." You know it's a good offer. You know they love to take risks with their agents and then act like they're doing them a service by taking them out. You know how to play this game.

Jones, Noonan, and Wysession talk quietly amongst themselves as you sit there, your hands folded calmly in front of you. It takes them all of two minutes to come to a decision. 

"You're cleared to return to four weeks of desk duty. After that time, we will reevaluate your position and see if we can't get you back in the field." Ambassador Noonan tells you decisively, and your jaw clenches. 

"Four weeks?" 

"I can make it six."

"Four will be perfectly fine, ma'am. Thank you, Ambassador." You say as you stand up and shake her hand.

"Welcome back, Agent." 

You almost forgot how mind-numbing desk duty is. If you hadn't been made, you definitely would've. All day, you watch agents from other agencies come in and out with intel and stories from the streets while you're forced to sit there and file reports on a typewriter that may be older than you. You want to gouge your eyes out when you catch wind of a planned tactical pursuit. The gun sitting in the top drawer of your desk feels like it's burning a hole in your brain, and all you want to do is go back out and do actual work. You didn't graduate top of your class to be a fucking secretary.

You don't know what's worse: desk duty or being chained to your desk when a familiar voice calls your name.

"Well, if it isn't the biggest pain in my ass," you greet as Javi parks himself in front of you. He doesn't object to you calling him a pain in the ass. It even seems to amuse him. "How can I help you, Javier?" 

"What makes you think I need somethin', huh? Maybe I just wanted to see how you're doing." Javi says, and you chuckle, shuffling especially important files away from prying eyes. He rests his hands on your desk and leans forward, his billowy shirt opening enough to give up a nice view of his chest. You glance between him and his collarbones and level him with a knowing look. 

"Call it intuition." You say. You wait another second for him to fess up to what he needs before lifting your hands to start typing again. He sighs and slides you a picture of a sicario, looking around to ensure nobody's watching the interaction. 

"What do you know about him?" He asks quietly. You furrow your brows and shake your head. 

"Who's that?" 

"C'mon, I know you have intel on all these fuckers. I just need to know where he hangs out. We need to ask him a few questions." 

"And when Noonan asks where you got the information? Because you know she will ask."

"I'll say I got it from an especially beautiful high-level CI."

"Enticing," you say. "I don't work for you, Javi. If you want information, go out on the streets and get it yourself." 

"Nobody's willing to acknowledge that this guy is the reason a CIA agent got kidnapped." He says. You stiffen in your chair and look at the picture again. You know you have information on him and remember seeing him around town when you were undercover. You also know you're not supposed to give classified information to the DEA until it is declassified.

"How do you know that?" You ask, and he shrugs as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"If I tell you, are you gonna give me something in return?"

"If you make it good." 

"We have reason to believe one of Pablo's informants caught you sniffing around for information and started tracking your movements. We still don't know how he found out you were CIA, and we need to find him to understand how," he says, pointing at the picture to emphasize his point. You take a deep breath and debate your options. "Look, all I'm asking you to do is… misplace a few files. It happens all the time. There's no way it would come back to you. Plus, I know how bored you are. Live a little."

"They've still got you on desk duty?" Steve asks as he comes down the steps, and you look away from Javi's intense gaze to smile at him. Steve, Javi's partner and DEA's golden boy, has always been kind to you. You're friends with his wife, Connie, and you've spent many a drunken night at their apartment. He's a good man. You give it a few more months here before that changes. 

"Couple more weeks." You say before looking back at Javi. “Sabe lo que me estás pidiendo que haga?” Thank God for white men who move to a country with no understanding of the language. Javi gives you a look and chews on the inside of his cheek. 

“Por supuesto que no.” He shakes his head and you scoff. 

"Eso es que piensaba," you say as you sigh, tear off a corner from a scrap piece of paper, and write down the name of a local bar. "His name is Jorge Alemán. He hides from his wife and mistresses at this bar downtown. He's gonna be armed, so be careful." You hold out the piece of paper to Javi but pull it back before he can grab it. "This doesn't come back to me."

"Course not." He says. You finally hand it to him and look over your shoulder to make sure nobody's watching you give him information. Steve looks confused but willing to go along with whatever as Javi memorizes the name. 

"Do me a favor?" You say, forcing his brown eyes away from the paper. "Don't pull your punches with him. They certainly didn't with me." It's the most you've talked about the kidnapping at work since it happened. You catch both Steve and Javi looking at the thick scars around your wrists, but you don't pull them away. If anything, you hope it inspires them to get a little creative with their interrogation. 

"Yes, ma'am," Javi promises. With that, he takes the paper and the picture, and the two of them disappear up the stairs to do whatever they need to get information. It's better for all three of you if you don't know the exact details of how the other does their jobs. You've each seen the aftermath of each other's training. You don't need to imagine much, but it's a nice boundary in a time where there seems to be none.

When Steve and Javi come back a few hours later with "important intel" for the Ambassador, you pretend not to know anything about it. Thirty minutes later, you're called in to get the information for the first time, and you tell them what you already told Steve and Javi. They agree to fly CENTRA SPIKE over him for a few days to see if they can pick anything up. "Is there anything I can do to assist with this investigation, Ambassador?" You ask before she can try to dismiss the three of you, and she shakes her head. 

"A few more weeks, Agent. I need to ensure your safety before I let you loose again."

"Ambassador, it might be helpful to let her return fully to the field. It could inspire Alemán to reach out to his contacts about her, and we could get more information about how she got made." Steve suggests, and Javi nods.

"He's right. We have to give CENTRA SPIKE something to pick up. Why not details about her?" Obviously, your absence has impacted them, especially if they're going to bat for you. Part of you warms at the thought of them caring so much about you, but the other part worries about what the Ambassador will say. 

"Her work is also valuable to the Embassy as a whole. It would be a mistake to sideline her any longer."

"Okay, gentlemen, you've made your point," Noonan cuts Steve off before he can continue, and you have to fight your smile when she looks at you. "Can you handle this?" She asks, and you nod.

"Yes, ma'am." You say. She shakes her head before reaching for what you're assuming is your file behind her and writing something down.

"The second I think it's too much for you, I'm pulling you back out. This time for two months and there will be no negotiations to be had unless you want to get on a plane home. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," you agree. "Thank you, Ambassador."

"Don't make me regret this." 

You'd be lying if you said you didn't go home with a little extra pep in your step. You got two weeks taken off of your mandatory desk duty and got your badge back. You've had much worse days, most of which ended with you drinking one too many and smoking until your small apartment is hazy. Today, you feel much better despite your apartment being a mess.

Mail has piled up on the counter next to your medical discharge paperwork and physical therapy exercises. Letters postmarked from the United States bore into you as you do your best to ignore them by plopping your bag on top of them. Half-open rolls of gauze are scattered around, so you could always have one on hand when changing your dressings. Your breakfast dishes are still in the sink, but you are not motivated to wash them. Besides, you're just gonna make a bigger mess once you start making dinner. 

You'd been thinking about what you would make all day and only settled on it once you left the Ambassador's office. There's not much you get to control during your day, so you take special care with the food you eat. You like cooking. You always have, and you're not half-bad at it. It's one of the only times you can call the shots and turn your mind off, worries about cartel numbers and communist groups in the jungle pushed away for a time. You're stirring a big pot on the stove when the knock sounds at your door.

He's late. He's always late. He'll claim it's deliberate so nobody can track his movements, but you're convinced he has no sense of time. His work habits can prove as much. You can't count how often you've been working late with him and had to pull him away from his desk because he didn't realize it was midnight. "Just let me do one more thing, and then we can leave," he's always tried to negotiate. You barely manage to get him to stop every time, but he relents after so much convincing. 

You turn down the radio in your kitchen and walk over to the door to let him in, a smile already tugging at your lips. You barely have the deadbolt unlocked before he's pushing through the door and stealing air from you. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes (a nightcap with Steve?), and your hands reach up to play with the curls at the nape of his neck. He hums against you as he shuts the door behind him and presses you against it. 

"Somethin' smells good." He mumbles.

"I'm making dinner. Figured it was a special occasion." You say, but he's already ducking his head down to mouth at the column of your throat, his teeth grazing the spot he knows makes you dizzy.

"'M not hungry." He says even though you know for a fact he's been living on cigarettes and coffee all day. You push him away and give him a look, but he feigns innocence, his fingers sneaking their way up your shirt.

"I did not cook all this food for you to tell me you're not hungry," you say. He opens his mouth to argue, but you kiss him before he can, and he, predictably, melts into you. "Dinner first, and then I'll let you do whatever you want me to do. Deal?" 

"Whatever I want?" He echoes, and you nod. "Must be a damn good dinner."

"Mm, the best." You say as you push him off you to return to the stove. He sighs and lets you pass, but he quickly settles behind you, his hands dangerously roaming over you as you stir the pot again. You smack his wrist when his hand tries to duck under your waistband, and he groans. "You made a deal."

"Deals are broken all the time," he kisses the back of your neck, insatiable, and you shiver as his mustache brushes against your skin. "I've also been thinkin' bout this since you pulled that shit at work."

"That really did it for you, huh?" You ask, a smirk pulling at your lips, but it quickly fades when he grinds his hard cock against you. He nips at your earlobe and successfully manages to unbutton the top of your jeans, your breath hitching when his fingers trace the waistband of your panties.

"You don't work for me, huh?" He breathes, and you laugh as you rest your head back on his shoulder.

"My security clearance is higher than yours." 

"Y'know, sometimes I think you like terrorizing me."

"Who says I don't?" You know you're treading thin ice with him, but you don't care. You always like to rile Javi up just to see what he'll do. When he reaches around you to safely turn off the stove, you know you've got him right where you want him. Something in your brain complains about the dinner you made, but it quickly shuts up once his fingers push your underwear to the side and graze your clit. You sigh in relief, already putty in his hands, and he's barely touched you. 

He draws tight circles around the little bundle of nerves, and you grip the edge of the counter to try to keep your balance. His other hand rests lazily around your throat, not enough to restrict your breathing but enough to keep you upright with the promise that he could. This— the desperate need and no time wasted— is more familiar than anything else.

Since the kidnapping, he's treated you like you're made of glass. He tried a few times to come to take care of you, but every time you argued about something, you would make him leave. You'd rather heal alone than have someone staring at you like a kicked dog. You were the one practically begging him to touch you the second you felt well enough, and you were the one who had to convince him you wouldn't break. Later, he would tell you he was scared to even kiss you because he just kept seeing you chained to that chair, bloody and beaten. It's taken a lot of adjustments on both sides, but him pressing you against the counter and taking control is the most reminiscent of the beginnings of your relationship when it was still "one more time," and you could barely stand each other. 

It was stress relief. In a lot of ways, it still is. Nobody knows about you two, and neither of you is ready or willing to disclose to Noonan. She'd immediately send one of you home, but it definitely wouldn't be Javi. So, you're completely fine sneaking between apartments and fucking catastrophic days away. It's enough. Unlike the way he's touching you.

"Javi," you whine, arching into his touch, and he shushes you. His middle finger barely pushes into you when a loud boom sounds nearby, followed by blaring car alarms. You jump, and he quickly withdraws and shields your body with his as the floor shakes. It might not have been in the neighborhood, but it was really fucking close. You wait out any aftershocks or additional bombs, and both your phones start ringing, not even five minutes later. 

A car bomb planted in Jorge Alemán's truck exploded when he put the keys in the ignition. He died before the bomb was even done exploding. Whoever found out you were CIA not only sold that information, but they killed Alemán before he could talk. They must've seen Javi and Steve poking around. They might know you're back at the Agency. They might try to kill you as a way of tying up their loose ends. Steve warns you as much when you show up at the scene, uncomfortably turned on and annoyed at the same time. 

"This could get real ugly," Steve says, and you nod. 

"You regret coming down here?" You ask. He gives you a look as Javi walks around the vehicle's wreckage but shakes his head.

"Do you?"

"No," you say. "I came here to nail Escobar, and I'm not going home until we do. If it has to get ugly for that to happen, that's fine." He looks like he wants to say something more but stops himself. Instead, you join Javi next to the car and talk with the local police about what happened, completely aware that bystanders have seen your face and the gun on your hip. They know you're with the United States government, and they know what you're worth.

Yeah, shit was gonna get real ugly, and you thought you were ready for it. But then again, everyone did in 1992.

TAGLIST:@abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia (let me know if you don't wanna be tagged for this series!)

[testingthewatersss]

Three Nights Night one Trigger warnings for PTSD and nightmares, mentions of war, torture, phantom limb etc, wintersolider flashbacks in future parts. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Part One of three 2300 words fluff, angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI Apparently it takes three days to form a habit, you decide to see what three nights can do.

Falling in love had been easy. Easier than breathing.

So easy in fact that Bucky hadn’t been able to stop himself from worrying about it all for at least 10 hours a day.

Worrying about being so dependant on another person, when he’d lost everyone else that he’d ever cared about, aside from Steve.

Steve who had laughed at his concern, a quick “That’s why they call it falling, Buck— It’s not meant to be difficult, and if anyone deserves something nice like this, it’s you.” being the end of their conversation on the matter.

Truthfully, he isn’t that dependent on you. Not yet, anyway.

But, fighting to not fall is definitely not easy, and right now, he’s clawing onto everything he can, just so that he won’t let himself go too far too fast.

But God knows he’s in over his head already. He spends every waking second thinking about you, and when he can next see you, and talk to you, and maybe hold your hand for a moment-

Yeah, it’s like you hung the damn moon.

and now, you're standing in front of him, looking lovely as ever, in a towel fresh from the shower you've shared, and just like you do every night, you're offering to let him stay the night in your room. "Where you might actually get some rest for once"-

-and he’s trying not to say yes. He’s fighting against every fibre in his body that wants to curl up beside you right now, this second, and it’s— It’s... It's much harder than it should be.

“…Sweetheart…” you murmurs, voice concerned, “…You tell me every mornin' that your bed's too cold. I'm just reminding you that mine is very warm, and if you want to, you can start spending the nights here, you leave late and come by early as it is…”

He wants too. He really, really wants too.

And it shows.

His face is so easy to read.

You thinks absentmindedly that it’s no wonder HYDRA kept him masked so much. You wouldn't have wanted to look into his eyes all day if you were them, either.

He’s just watching you silently. Jaw ticking as he argues with himself about how to reply to your repeated offer. Not wanting to pressure him, you decide to laugh it off and kiss him goodnight, but then, you sees his eyes drop to the floor.

The expression that’s on his face now is so hopelessly forlorn that you can’t help but reach out to stroke his cheek-

His whole head snaps sidewards in an automatic bid to protect himself from a slap and you feel a dagger slice through your heart as you realise what's happening.

“Oh, Sweetheart” you whisper, fighting to keep your tone calm, “You’re tired, huh?”

He gets jumpy when he’s tired.

He gets quiet, too, and teary on occasion, and now, he looks like he’s on the verge of something new.

When he drags his gaze back to your face, he looks like a cornered stray. Like someone who’s about to be beaten half to death for flinching without permission.

“You don’t have to stay” you remind him softly, “Bucky, of course you don’t— just try and get some rest okay? I'm gettin' a little worried...”

Your hands are back at your side, and your face, he notices, your face is nothing short of adoring.

And that… God, oh, god, that is what is going to make him lose his grip;

“I, god, doll I’d love to stay with you…”

He’s said it now, and he knows that just like that, that it’s over.

That he’s giving up to the free fall and that the best he can hope for is a better landing than the last time he fell and ended up at someone else’s mercy.

“I… I just, I- I- I wanted to do it different.”

Your head tilts curiously to the side as you watch him ringing his flesh hand in his metal one.

"Different how?" you ask, a genuine quirk in your brow.

Bucky hears himself huff as his cheeks flush hottly, "I'm a lot to deal with at night" he confesses dryly, "I- I was hopin' to make it easier on you, doll- give you more time to back out"

"Back out?" You echo, almost offended by the idea, "That's-"

"I.. I really can be a lot, doll..." he cuts in, voice gruff with embarrassment, "...I know you love me, and you've always been real patient with me, you're... you're a damn angel, and I've always wanted to spend the night, I've always hated leavin' but I- I just couldn't put all of that on you, because I know it's too much-"

“-I don’t think I know what you’re talking about” you say, interuppting him with a smile, “Buck, you’re gettin’ awful flustered”

He scoffs at the playful lilt in your words and reaches up to paw at his chin, grateful for the way you'd stopped him from rambling.

“Yeah” he agrees after a breath, “You do that to me, sugar, haven’t ya noticed?”

Slower this time, you reach out to stroke his cheek again.

This time, he lets himself keen into the feeling of your fingers against his face, almost purring in delight at the contact.

“I have an idea” you say softly, “why don’t we try three nights”

“Three nights?” he echos quietly, “Three nights of what?“

"Of sharing" you tell him, beaming now, "Tonight, tomorrow and the night after, if you want to stop before then, then we will..."

I wont, Bucky thinks instantly, I won't ever want to stop, thats the problem. "If you want to keep going after that, then that's what we'll do"

"It's not me I'm worryin' about" he murmurs gruffly.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I've been inviting you for half a year, Barnes. I'm not going to be the one kicking you out."

"But if you do want more space, doll- then you'll tell me, right?"

You look at him, seeing the stubbornness already setting on his features, and then you nod in agreement, knowing any further argument would be pointless.

"During the three nights" he pushes, "You'll tell me, if I do anythin' that is too much for you, then you'll tell me and give me chance to fix it- promise me"

And then, you lean in and kiss him. Your palm flattens out against his jaw, and before he knows how, his own arms have laced around your waist, holding you against his chest as you pull away to nod, your free hand reaching down for his metal hand, so that you can twist your pinky around his. "Promise” you murmur, “and, will you please try remember that I love you, and want you here... don't worry too much, okay? nothin's goin' to change that”

Your tone has shifted now, you're not playful, you're genuinely asking because you care about him, and it shows.

"Promise" he says, smiling as he squeezes his little finger gently around yours before bringing your hands up to his lips, where he can kiss against your knuckles, hiding his clear emotion for a second.

Before you can get suspicious about the way he's trying to bury his face in your fingers, he’s throwing himself into your front, grabbing you into such a tight hug that you have to gasp for air in between a bout of surprised laughter. You flex your newly freed fist and waste no time in squeezing him back, trying and failing to return the strength that he is putting into the embrace.

Bucky’s not laughing, though. He’s just holding you.

He’s just clutching you as tightly as he can without hurting you, and burying his face in your shoulder, while he tries to convince himself that he won't end up doing something that makes him lose you forever.

You give him a minute, not wanting to try and break free from the stifling position when he so clearly needs the closeness;

and then, you realise that his pulse is racing. You can feel it thrumming against your front, too fast to be your own.

“Sweetheart” you murmur, voice betraying your concern, “You okay?”

Your breathlessness jars him. He remembers himself instantly, and releases his grip with a flush of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry” he bursts, “Shit- doll, I- I’m real sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“What? Hug me?”

“Crush you” he corrects, grateful for the playful tone you're using, “I didn’t—”

He looks so bashful. His eyes are firmly set downwards and he’s wringing his flesh hand in his metal one in an obvious display of awkwardness. and because he wants to reach out and hold your hand, again-

“I’m fine” you tell him calmly, reaching out to stroke his cheek, “you look exhausted though, huh? Shall we turn in?”

Silently, he looks up at you, and you can physically see a layer of bravado falling away.

This is difficult for him, you realise, being vulnerable doesn’t come easy to him, especially not right now, and sleeping next to someone? It doesn’t really get much more vulnerable than that.

“I love you” You decide to say, disregarding how often you've already said it, “It’s going to be alright.”

And then you're reaching out to take his hand, and he’s letting you, because he's yours, and he doesn't want to pretend not to be, not now he thinks it might all work out, and then, the next thing he knows, he’s in bed.

The journey there, and getting undressed is a blur.

He’s so nervous that he’s in a daze.

He thinks that that's ridiculous.

You've been intimate, more intimate than just getting undressed and being under a blanket together, anyway. But for some reason this feels much more intense than all of that.

And then, he’s back to starring.

He’s on his side, a few inches away from where you are, and he’s just looking at your face. Trying to drink in the sight of your features, trying to memorise the curve of your jaw, and your cheeks, and your mouth—

“C’mere, sweetheart”

Your voice is like honey, and he’s blushing like a teenager;

“How do you like sleeping?” you ask, genuinely curious, “Cuddled up? or with some space?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but then he closes it. Swallowing dryly and reaching up to paw at his jaw while he thinks of a way to tell you that he honestly doesn’t know anymore without it sounding tragic.

“It’s been awhile since you’ve had options” you say for him, “Did you ever share a bed with a girl before?”

A crease forms between his brows as he tries to force his mind back;

“Does my ma count?”

you laugh at that, soft and airy as you reaches out to stroke his temple.

“No” you murmurs, “No, I don’t think so…”

“Then no” he sighs, “I never did more than kiss the dames I courted, doll”

“This is ‘more than kissing’?” you tease softly, “We’re barely touching, Barnes.”

“Barely” he agrees, voice almost a breath, “But back then, things… things were different.”

“I know” you say, sympathetic now, “I’m sure you were a perfect gentleman”

“I wouldn’t say that” he murmurs, edging his front towards you, “a gentleman wouldn’t have been kissing them either”

“Well I’m sure they weren’t complaining” you sigh, “a handsome officer like you, they could’ve done worse.”

You're beaming at him as he scoffs, small and shy under your consideration.

“Want to try gettin’ closer?” he hears you offer, “You can always go back to your side if you get too warm.”

It’s almost too good to be true. The idea of being curled up in your arms. Of being able to sleep tucked up against your chest, of maybe, just maybe, being able to drift off without his thoughts spiralling into panic because everything is too quiet and he can’t convince himself that he’s not back in some awful cell—

“C’mere…” You purr, adjusting your position to receive him, “…It’s alright…”

It’s more than alright.

He's pressed against you. He can feel your arms wrapped around his back, holding him close and the skin on skin is so soothing that he has to bite back a moan of delight as he settles into position. His flesh arm is bent up, with his fist under his chin, and his metal one is draped over your waist so that he can feel your pulse thrumming through the censors in his palm.

It’s stable, and calm, and he is so, so in love that his chest feels like it could burst from the pressure, and he wouldn't have a single complaint—

“I don’t want to speak to soon” you murmur, “but I think this might be a winner, huh?”

“Yeah” he agrees quietly, “I— I think so.”

The idea of tearing himself away from the embrace is heinous.

The idea of going back to his own room in three nights, knowing what heaven feels like is worse.

This, is the closest to calm he’s felt in a life time. This, feels a lot like the mercy he used to beg for, back when mercy hadn’t been something he understood.

And then his eyes are closed.

And he’s falling asleep, and he thinks dreamily that he should be trying harder to stay awake. That he shouldn’t be giving in this easily—

but then, he hears you.

He hears you hushing him, exhaling gently into his hair as you stroke a slow circle across the bare skin of his back, and he decides that if he is going to fall, then he’s glad it’s with you. The fact that he's deeply asleep in minutes doesn't really surprise you.

The fact that he stays that way does. You'd been prepared to soothe him for hours, if that's what he'd needed, but then again, you think, as you start to drift off yourself, he probably has a lot of actual resting to catch up on.

x | night 2 | night 3 Masterlist