#i struggle with past tense and present tense so if this looks weird i am working on it

[abnomi]

PSYCHOANALYSIS ON CHARACTER PASTS IN WRECK IT RALPH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1!

ok... so you know how some characters were never given a backstory to play off of? (like Turbo for example)

i dont know for certain the psychological impact that not having a past could have on video game characters (or if they would even care), but what i do know is that it is objectively damaging to not have anything that came beforehand to work with.

imagine being tossed into a world, have whatever code implanted into your brain tell you specifically what you need to do, not have any choice in the matter, and then be forced to go from there. whether or not the individual believes they need a past is irrelevant; they lack one, regardless.

the psychological differences between video game characters with a past and those without come into question... are those who have a solidified memory of who they were before more or less susceptible to growth over time? or are they both intrinsically equal? maybe it depends on who it is, what game theyre from. some could thrive off of the idea of not being latched onto a past that was chosen for them, while others could long for at least some semblance of an in-between.

all things considered, it would be significantly more difficult to have a broad understanding of emotions when you aren't granted access to the same grace that those with a "before" may have. without any memories, you'd have to rely on your external surroundings to achieve any kind of development; a noticeable contrast to those who already have at least some internal understanding of themselves that came with their programming.

characters who begin their life with a clean slate may be bound to being more actively involved with the world around them because it's how they have to learn. if they don't, they're going to get stuck in the same mindset for an indiscernible amount of time until some kind of external force pulls them out of it. they don't have knowledge of their initial life; all they have is the current moment.

a big factor that correlates with all of this is the psychology of nature vs nurture. in short, "nature" is the deterministic aspect of genetics (or in this case, code) influencing who one may be, while "nurture" is how one's development is influenced by the role that one's surroundings might play. in humans, we experience both of these; they go hand-in-hand. in the WiR universe, however, it's not always guaranteed that a character will have a chance at having both at once.

those with a past get both nature and nurture, bundled into one package. however, those without are only presented with nurture, tossed into a world and expected to move on from there (maybe with a faint sprinkle of nature, but not anything that goes beyond an implication of what their life was like before spawning in). they have limited options compared to the ones who don't have to start off on a blank slate.

something else to keep in mind is how without the presence of a past, there will be far more variations between the same character across different locations. without any code telling them who they used to be, they will learn about who they are through their environment and go from there. of course, no single character will be the exact same, but code largely determines the mindset of a character and how they process the world around them.

in Turbo's case, i personally think it wouldn't matter a whole lot to him because of its irrelevance to his main concerns, but it undeniably had a strong hold over his behavioral development as an individual; he is very immature. he had no foundation to start off with... well, other than the message that was branded into his mind, dictating every decision that he has ever made: he has to win.

he acted like a child when he first came around because, in a sense, he was one (not literally HAHA, i think of him as in his late 30s). his game was plugged in for about five years before he had the biggest tantrum of his life, and keeping in mind how game characters are technically immortal until the moment they're unplugged (unless they die in another game before then), this really wasn't that much time in the grand scheme of things. it was hardly anything at all.

without a healthy outlet to process his feelings, coupled with an unnerving lack of life experience beforehand, of course he'd lash out a lot! of course he'd be overwhelmed by his own emotions to the point of not knowing what to do with himself!

that doesn't excuse his behavior at all, as he did have opportunities to change for the better or learn from his mistakes, but he chose not to. he was too stubborn for his own good.

maybe part of the reason he's so hellbent on being the best is not only because it's lodged into his code to feel that way, but also because it would feel like betraying what little personality he was coded with to go against it. yes, he's never been too keen on the idea of having anything or anyone tell him what to do, but consider this: he's clinging to his own identity, protecting what small fragments he was given and holding onto them for dear life. he doesnt have a past; he has goals, and losing said goals would be losing himself and the footing he has on his own identity. he's defined by succeeding, and he refuses to let this go. this is more headcanon-territory but it is fun to explore concepts like these!!! bro is internally empty.......

Felix has a past, yes, but it's vague and uncertain. he had a father, but does he even know what the man looked like? who he was beyond a name and an heirloom?

notice how it took thirty years for the handyman to shift his perspective on who Ralph was as a person. this could likely both be a product of the nicelanders and himself all being programmed with the belief that "Ralph is a bad guy," thus internalizing it, combined with the external influence and pressure Felix upheld being the good guy. (EDIT (LOL!!!!!): i know felix doesnt hate ralph but constantly being surrounded by everyones fear of him would have at least made him cautious about interacting with him)

his younger years have no hold on how he makes decisions, especially considering how absent said years are. his code only hints at the idea of a father, alongside the foundational belief that he is good.

his lack of a clear upbringing contributed even more to his sheltered persona, oblivious to the hardships that everyone else might face. combine this with how every NPC he surrounded himself with never dared to criticize him, he was prone to experience stunted empathetic development. he was never a bad guy by any means, but his lack of exposure to difficult situations did not fare well for his psyche.

that isn't to say he hadn't ever been in any difficult situations before. the roadblasters incident absolutely shook him to his core and likely cut deep into him, as he hadn't ever experienced anything similar to it before. without a fleshed-out past, he didn't have a bright idea of what hardships might linger just beneath the surface.

to his credit, he has changed for the better, now having more awareness of how others feel and function outside of himself. he makes sure to treat everyone with equal amounts of dignity, regardless of any preconceived notions he might have. :-]

when it comes to Calhoun, her experiences shape her significantly, directly being the cause of her hypervigilant and instinctual nature. it can't be ignored that she suffers from PTSD due to how her character's life was mapped. this demonstrates that having knowledge of who one was before isn't always necessarily a wholly good thing. not to say that her condition makes her broken in any way! it just brings difficulty into her life that wouldn't have been present otherwise.

there is some goodness that can be brought to the surface from this; just as it isn't completely good, it isn't completely bad, either. on the opposite end of the coin, she knows how to keep herself and others safe. if it weren't for her predetermined past, she'd potentially face more struggles on the battlefield.

not only that, but it helps us, as the audience, empathize with her character, along with Felix. we learn that she isn't simply intense and nothing beyond that; she's just been through a lot. on top of all of this, she is very emotionally mature and understands how to push through horrific situations, especially when necessary. it is her job to do so, after all!

Calhoun's heavy experiences may be part of her character's mold, but they do not define who she is. a past only steers a character in an approximate direction; it does not 100% determine how they grow from there. we directly see evidence of this when she moves forward and marries Felix :-]

and then there's Vanellope :-] she did have a past, but it was ripped away from her. how does she cope with this? by defining herself and becoming her own person, unrestricted by her code. she didn't start off as a princess, she started off as Vanellope.

even when she had the chance to reclaim her status as princess, she didn't, instead choosing to stick with the version of herself that she passionately created. there's a great chance that she wouldn't be the silly little booger we all know and love if it weren't for her time to think about who she was and who she wanted to be; the omission of her past was a significant contributor in how she now presents herself, unconfined to how she is apparently "supposed" to be. she has more room to choose for herself.

she doesn't let anyone else tell her who she is, holding her handcrafted identity with pride. her eccentricity is nowhere near a flaw, making itself known as a strength. her perspective of the world is unique to her and allows her to emotionally connect on a deep level with Ralph.

one doesn't need to be tied to a past to be a person. it doesnt put any more or less weight on anyone's worth, and we see this as clear as day with her character! starting off with nothing, she grew into her own skin and found her sense of self all by herself without the guidance of anyone else. i am so proud of her. i love my baby ok

above all else, having a past isn't a surefire way to predict how one may develop; it is only an aspect of who someone is. an important aspect, yes, but there are many other things to consider in the sea of personalities and experiences...

the biggest difference between having one and lacking one is ultimately how an individual character might go about how they change over time and how long said progression might take. the past is only a starting point; a pre-written map without a marked destination created in order to provide a basic concept of who exactly one was earlier on. being left without one leaves some with a need for more effort to figure life out, and this distinction will affect everyone in many different ways. at the end of the day, though, a map is just a map. the road itself is what matters most 👍

[doiefics]

no regrets

pairing: jihoon x gn!reader

prologue: when you finally open up your heart, jihoon has a logic. perhaps things can be made better at a ghosted book store.

genre: fluff + friends to lovers

wordcount: 897

warnings: slight age difference even though both are adults

"No! That's mine!" You whined at the older male as he teased you by threatening to devour the chocolate bar in his hands.

"Maybe it was." He commented, emphasising on the past tense.

"If you don't give it to me I won't think twice before ruining your white shirt with this weird mix of yellow, blue and green paint. It's acrylic." You warned him with an evil smirk.

"Will you?" He teased you again.

You inched your paintbrush's tip dangerously close to his clothing, and Jihoon's eyebrows started to furrow in response.

"There you go, all right." He gave in right away.

He offered you a bite since your hands were preoccupied with the colours in front of you.

"Don't drop it, they are gonna charge you for the amends." He warned you in a whisper. Perhaps painting at a bookstore was a bad idea.

"Nobody is listening, there's no one here." You spoke casually.

The atmosphere was filled with the smell of old paper and wood emanating from the dozen shelves that were arranged all around you. Jihoon leaned against one of them, using it to support his back while you sat next to him. The owner of the place wouldn't mind you two being there when no one else was here either, you were never the type to draw on books.

You had known Jihoon ever since you were a toddler, he was your neighbour's son. Even though he was four years older than you, you both enjoyed great chemistry.

The differences in preferences, from conversation topics to lifestyle choices, were noticeable in the younger years but given the present time they were more or less similar, you both were now adults, after all. 

Jihoon's attention from his book was diverted at the sight of you struggling to keep your hair in place. 

"Did you shampoo your hair today?" He mocked again but his laughter was quickly brought to an end as you raised the brush again.

"Which book are you reading?" You leaned your head to the side to have a better look as you peered into the pages.

"Something your dumb brain wouldn't understand." He spoke, without lifting his eyes from the words that were tying down all his interest.

"Tskk!" You voiced as your hair flicks slid through and in front of your eyes, again, caused by the motion of the head

Jihoon closed his book, tipped his body in your direction, and reached out to tuck your hair back in place.

His face was close, albeit not too close or too far away, giving you a view of his face. In a snap of a moment, you felt different, even though on the inside you knew you had been suppressing what you felt for him.

Ever since you came of age, Jihoon seemed more than just a friend. 

As he fixed your hair, you poked the heart-shaped mole on his cheek. He made eye contact with you and grinned in response to your action.

Maybe this was the right time.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his soft, pink ones. It was only a peck. The two of you paused for a brief second, not moving. You softly slammed your lips to his again, this time the contact lasted longer, the lips started to move in sync with each other, eyes closed and an odd surge of hormones was coursing through your body.

Jihoon abruptly pulled back as he shook his head. "No!" He breathed, his eyes never meeting yours. "This is not right, Y/N. You’re younger than me." He reasoned. 

"I'm an adult. I know what I am doing." You protested back.

"I'm four years older than you!" His voice held emotions.

You backed off, showing him a subtle yet apologetic smile. "If you think that's right."

Jihoon was buried in thought, so he remained silent for the next few minutes, increasing your tension. Would this act end all of your past dynamics? For some reason, however, your gut held no regrets. 

The hands of the clock moved to indicate the passing of more time. Silence still prevailed, and you joined Jihoon in staring into a blank space.

"What are you thinking about?" You asked.

"About us." He said.

"Huh?" You gained back your focus.

"This is so wrong." He repeated. 

"I'm sorry. let's just forget it happened-"

He cut you off. "I can't convince my heart." He confessed.

"I like you Y/N, but I can't help but think of how wrong it would be."

"Why would it be wrong?" You questioned again, proceeding to give him a reason by yourself. "We are both adults, and what's wrong with loving each other? It's not a crime." You explained.

"The age difference. What if you regret being with me after some years?" Jihoon was very emotional yet serious about this.

"Then I'll have to call you grandpa for the rest of our lives." You said playfully, taking his hand in yours. 

"No regrets." You promised.

"No regrets." He repeated as he opened his arms, and heart for you.

You wasted no time in falling into his embrace, without taking notice of one thing. The paint.

"This was my favourite shirt!" He whined, again. 

"Oops." You pouted.

Jihoon took the brush away from your hand, using it to make a heart shape on your cheek, making you both blush like idiots.

masterlist please refrain from plagiarising, translating or posting outside of this platform

[tytarax2]

Johann Uber x reader

So, someone asked for this, and made me really happy.

I mean, I love this man

Enjoy <3

It's a little… cheesy in my opinion, but it's a fluffy scenario off the football field.

inspired by something my boyfriend actually did <3

Kinda suggestive in some parts... but it's like... two lines.

02:05 am It was the time your phone was showing. "I can't sleep…" You thought. The pressure of everything was on you these past few days. It was so overwhelming… Leaving the warmth and comfort of your bed, you got up and went to sit in the living room. You stared at the ceiling and thought… well... overthought, it's a bad habit of yours. About an hour passed, but it felt like a couple of minutes until you heard Johann's German accent speaking to you. "Awake again?" He asked. "Yeah… I didn't wake you up right?" Like I said, you thought it had only been a few minutes. "No, not at all, I just didn't feel you in bed," He said as he came over and sat next to you "Are you okay?" He sounded somewhat worried. "Yeah, just…" you sighed "A lot of things…".

"I see…" he replied. He understood you completely, being a retired soldier, he understood the feeling of having a lot on you. You stayed silent for a while until he finally spoke up. "How about… we spend the whole day together tomorrow? I mean… doing different things, and nothing to do with work." You smiled and nodded tiredly. "Sounds like a good idea to me…" You said as you looked at your legs.

Johann stood up first and lifted you into his arms, you leaned against his chest as you drifted off to sleep, and your boyfriend carried you back to bed.

---

The next day, Johann made sure you were completely relaxed, as much as he could handle.

You woke up, and he was still there… actually, it would have been weird if he wasn't there, since your whole body was on top of his. You stayed there observing him for a while, each of his features, his somewhat messy blonde hair, thick eyebrows, not-so-noticeable but present dark circles… he needs a break too… his jaw… and his lips.

"Enjoying the view?" His voice brought you back to reality, you smiled blushing "You have no idea"

Finally you got up after a while, went to shower and prepared a delicious breakfast together.

It was raining outside, so you couldn't go out, but you could enjoy yourself quite well in the comfort of your place.

You both heard the light sound of the rain on the window while you set up a fort of sheets in the living room. Your laughter filled the room as Johann, struggling with a particularly stubborn blanket corner, nearly toppled over. "How hard can it be to tuck in a blanket?" You laughed "Hey, don't mock the architect! This is gonna be the best fort ever"

You set about preparing snacks while he made a sort of mini-cinema inside. When the fort was ready, the two of you crawled inside, and watched several movies… some you didn't watch, needless to say.

Afterwards you did your exercise routines together, and as always Johann wanted to impress you.

"2996, 2997, 2998…"

You had some takeout for lunch, your favorite food to be specific, and then, you made some strudels to spoil your big soft bf.

You can't miss the spa afternoon at home, you started by lighting some aromatic candles and putting on some lo-fi music. You mixed up a blend of essential oils for a relaxing massage, and Uber prepared the bath with fluffy towels and a variety of bath salts… obviously after you gave him instructions, he doesn't know much about such things.

"Feeling good?" You asked as you ran your hands over his broad back. "This feels really good… where did you learn to give such great massages?" He asked you, melting under your touch. "I watched a few videos. Plus, I know all your tense spots"

After giving each other gentle massages, you filled the tub with warm water, added rose petals and a generous amount of lavender bath salts.

The two of you got into the tub, enjoying the tranquility and each other's company.

The essential moment, putting on face masks and taking silly photos in front of the mirror.

The day finally ended with the two of you wrapped in blankets in front of the fireplace drinking hot chocolate.

"This was a perfect day… we should do this more often" You suggested. "Ja, we should," He said kissing your head.

Masterlist

[storymaker14]

Passing (House of Worf, Part III)

[This was originally posted by me on another site on 20 September 2019; it has been copied here without change.]

I tend to picture specific scenes in my head, and from time to time they do not leave me alone until I get them out. The whole of the first Trek vignette was essentially that. Once I wrote that, I had Martok laughing about the second grandchild in my head, so I wrote the second. Then I had another scene, one that shows up toward the end here, so. I actually feel weird writing this: by all rights, what happens here ought to be written by Keith DeCandido IMHO. But... Here's my shot at it. Also, there's one more scene in my head, plus (I'm writing this after the rest) I haven't actually had Alexander and V'Lin appear yet, so... hmm.

"vavnI'!"

Long years of experience allowed Worf to wake quickly at the shout. He sat up, tensed in readiness, but the two figures at his door were immediately recognizable to him: his grandchildren, Kaasandra and Kellen. "What is it?" he demanded. "What is wrong?"

The two looked at each other, and it was the younger brother who spoke. "The chancellor is calling for you," he said. "Urgently."

Worf checked the time: it was an hour that someone as young as his two descendants might be still awake -- especially, if their clothes were any indication, ones that had been out tonight -- but people as old as Martok and Worf would be comfortably in bed. He rose quickly. "What is the matter?"

This time Kaasandra answered. "He did not say," she said simply, the but unspoken but clear. "He is in his bed."

Worf wrapped a robe around himself and tied it tightly. "Come," he said, neither allowing nor receiving argument.

As they approached the open door of Martok's private room, they heard his voice coming forth: "Worf! My friend and brother; I need you!"

"I am here," he said, standing by the bed and looking down at the head of the House. "What do you need?"

Martok looked up at him, his one eye wide and flickering. "I have seen them, Worf... I have seen my children. Shen, Lazhna, Drex... They were here."

Worf straightened. "You had a dream?" It was the only possibility that didn't concern him greatly.

"I had a vision!" Martok replied. "Worf... I believe tonight is truly the night."

Worf was concerned, then. He turned to his grandchildren. "Leave us," he said, gently but firmly.

"No! Stay!" Martok reached out, and with a shared glance, the two decided that the chancellor outranked even their grandfather. "You may be needed."

As Worf looked back at his friend, he knew of what Martok spoke. There was a joke among other species that no one really knew how long Klingons could live; after all, natural causes such as old age couldn't possibly be in even the top ten causes of death. It was an exaggeration, but not a huge one. Worf had seen -- met! -- Klingons alive into their fourteenth decade or more. It was, perhaps, both physical and mental: cleverness and guile were just as important as physical strength.

But like all races, there was the possiblity of stress and overwork taking their toll. Say, for instance, being the head of a mighty Empire for longer than anyone in history. Martok still presented a strong public image, but the length of time he could do so had grown shorter, and worsened all the more in the past year. Few knew: Worf, his family, Martok's trusted physician B'Oraq, perhaps a few others he confided in.

"I wonder," Martok continued, "why I didn't see her." He fixed his eye on Worf. "Do you suppose she is waiting for me to come to her? Or is she upset that I am daring to die in bed?"

"I think, brother," Worf replied, "that you have earned the right to die wherever you like."

Martok chuckled. "But still... the Chancellor of the High Council ought to at least make an effort." He sat up, grunting and struggling. "Will you help me? All of you?" He addressed the young woman and man at the door, ones he'd seen grow and develop into fine people. "I think I would prefer to die at my desk at least. Give the appearance of having led to my last breath."

Worf turned to his grandchildren, knowing he could not support Martok on his own, much as he might want to. "Please," he said simply.

"Of course," said Kaasandra, entering quickly and supporting under one arm.

"I have you," followed Kellen, taking the other arm. Together, they lifted Martok to his feet.

"Chancellor," Worf said. "Your bedclothes."

Martok looked down. "Fah. I do not need a cloak or armor."

"A robe, at least," Worf insisted.

"Hmf," he said, smiling at those helping him up. "He seems concerned for my dignity, then. Doesn't want people to think I walk around the House half-dressed."

"It would make sense, Chancellor," Kellen said gently, with an equally gentle smile.

Squinting in mock-displeasure, he turned to the other. "And you?"

Kaasandra made a brief show of consideration. "What if she catches you half-dressed?"

Whether in jest or not, that prompted a brief gasp. "You're right," Martok said. "Worf, please... A robe, at least."

Within two minutes, Martok had dressed himself just a bit more properly, and was supported once more by the two strong youngsters. "I am ready now," he addressed all present. "Let's go."

Martok's office was not far, and the trip was not hurried. As they helped him into the chair behind his desk, piled high with readers and physical documents, Martok let out a long grunt as he settled. "Thank you," he said, puffing with exertion more than those he'd leaned on. "Will you stay? Make sure nothing interrupts my journey?"

The brother and sister looked at Worf, who nodded. "We will stay," he assured.

"Good." Martok forced his breathing to slow. "What will the people think?" he chuckled. "A Chancellor, dying of natural causes instead of the blade or by poison. Do we even know the last time that happened?"

Worf snorted. "The people will say that only death itself dared face Martok, leader of destiny."

"Ah, Worf," Martok said. "Well said as always." He huffed. "Where are Alexander and V'Lin?"

"Off-world... Further negotiations with the Pact and the Romulan remnant."

"Of course," Martok said. "Did I do well to defend the Romulans from their former allies? Or should we have joined in the conquest?"

Worf glanced at his grandchildren, people who would never remember when the phrase "Romulan Star Empire" brought fear and distrust to the hearts of the galaxy, especially the Klingons. "History will judge," Worf said. "But I believe it was wise. Our people can fight for preservation and defense, not just destruction and attack."

"And it was enjoyable fighting the Kinshaya," Martok said, a moment before bursting into a laugh far throatier than those he'd managed in a while. "Which reminds me: is Klag still on the Council?"

Martok had spoken with Klag not even a half-day earlier; Worf chose not to point that out. "He is."

"If anyone asks or cares, he has my support. He is clever, a fine leader in battle, and quite wise. Just don't let anyone say his wife poisoned me." He chuckled again. "B'Oraq did fine work."

"I will relay that to both of them," Worf nodded.

"Good." He squinted at the door. "Children... Who is that behind you?"

Kaasandra and Kellen both turned, but saw no one. Martok, on the other hand, clearly did see someone. "Ahh." He turned to Worf. "Brother, it has been a pleasure... but I think they're here for me."

Worf sighed, knowing who he saw, in general at least. "Good journey, Martok. Q'apla!"

"Q'apla, Worf. Continue the journey here; there will be a place prepared for you when it's done." He turned to stare at the open door, or rather beyond it.

The two young adults looked to each other, and whether they spoke silently to each other or simply came to the same conclusion, gave their grandfather and his adopted brother their privacy.

"Tell me who you see, brother," Worf said softly.

"I see my father, Urthog," Martok said. "I am so glad he is among the honored dead. I see my son, Drex; of course he would be there. His final battle was filled with glory. I see my daughters, Lazhna and Shen." He chuckled. "Clearly dedicating the death of Morjod to them worked. I see so many I remember... those who died in glory against the Dominion, the Borg, the Pact... They are welcoming me to their number. No one seems to mind that I die at my desk, rather than on a blade or on a ship."

"You have earned your place in Sto-Vo-Kor many times over, brother," Worf assured him.

"But where...? She must be there... It is impossible that she..." And then Martok gripped the chair with one hand and reached out with the other. "There," he breathed. "I see her, Worf. She is magnificent..." He inhaled deeply, and as his final breath left him, he spoke her name: "Sirella..."

He slumped in the chair, and after a moment, Worf checked his body. Yes; Martok had died with his eye open wide. He nodded in satisfaction, then a low rumble started in his throat. He threw his head back and roared to the skies, as if the honored dead would not be aware of the arrival of the leader of destiny. A pair of well-throated roars followed suit; his grandchildren had not gone far, then.

Worf stood, smoothing his own robe, as Kaasandra and Kellen entered again. "Do you need help, vavnI'?" Kellen asked.

"No," Worf said firmly. "Get some sleep; we will deal with further arrangements in the morning." He looked at the empty shell that had housed one of the greatest men he'd ever known. "There will be much to do."

[ghostierants]

Creepshow Art

I watched quite a few of Shannon’s videos over the years and I was what I would consider to be a fan of hers. I admit to being late to the drama and exposés about her, I had shit going on, you know? And this drama has long been said and done, but I still am going to try and aim to write a post from that, a Viewer’s Perspective.

Watching her content for a couple years was fine and dandy, However similar with Chaos55t, I always found it weird that she was always in some sort of drama. But I mean I didn’t care if the stories were exaggerated or made up because I mean come on, it’s the CC (Commentary Community). Many of the DA or Tumblr based CC are very dramatic to say the least.

I have to admit I was never an avid watched of Emily Artful, I watched a few of her videos here and there but not to an extent that I know everything about her, and that is still the case. There isn’t anything I particularly find wrong with her, I just tend to jump around with the content I consume quite frequently and tend to stick to a few channels in each genre of the plethora of content there is to consume on the internet. When it came out that Creepshow, Shannon, was Emily’s stalker, I was shocked a bit. But I was hardly surprised.

If you take a look at her videos now, the ones that are still up or were reposted, that is, her personality does come off a bit as arrogant or confrontational. There is nothing wrong with that in itself, in fact I think it was part of the reason people kept watching. However when you take a step back and rewatch them after this was all said and done, it is more glaringly obvious that something was up. I mean, in almost every video there was someone that wronged her in some new way.

I am one to admit to looking at my partner’s exes Facebook accounts just because I’m nosey, but I usually only do it once or twice and then I’m done. But Shannon took Facebook stalking exes to an extreme and delusional level. It’s almost like she was scared that Emily would one day come back and be like “This is my man now, begone Shannon!!!” Which may point to some mental health issues.

I firmly believe trauma or mental health issues were the root of all this on Shannon’s part. At the end of the day as Shannon is an adult, the fault of letting herself dive into her delusions is probably what caused all this. This is an important lesson for those out there who struggle with personality issues (such as myself) to really work on themselves.

I myself have a personality disorder and I have done some toxic things in the past out of me not taking care of my mental health and I fully acknowledge the fact that I was wrong. The issue begins when those who commit wrong deeds do not take accountability for the deeds done. Even if you completely black out and do something horrible, you still did it and you should still take accountability for it. This is where Shannon and several others before and after her failed.

She clearly failed to take accountability for herself before it got to the stalking point and ended up doing these horrible things to not only Emily, but her own friends. Those who were supporting her. But I do not put fault directly on Shannon as her partner also plays a role here. It has been established and I certainly don’t need to tell you that her partner is an abuser. I see so many commentary blogs and channels use was as if it was past tense. And yeah technically it was past tense but if it remains and it is still affecting others to this day, it’s present tense. Shannon’s partner likely fed these delusions until Shannon became what we know her for now.

I won’t speak on the behalf of her using art that wasn’t her’s because I myself haven’t viewed proof of it yet and I don’t want to make a long rant about how that’s not right because as we know in situations similar, some people aren’t afraid to take others to court. I don’t have time for that frankly.

[ahtsumu]

long shots ; miya osamu

pairing: miya osamu x f!reader

synopsis: miya osamu is the teacher’s assistant for food chemistry i. you can’t stop thinking about him.

tag(s): college!au, slow burn, TA!miya osamu, grad student!reader, fluff, reader is a go-getter!! ; warning(s): profanity, suggestive themes, talk of insecurities and imposter syndrome ; wc: 5.6k

a/n: happy birthday to @starrysamu​! i love u. pls excuse any errors. i’ll weed them out later! btw this fic is not a sugar daddy au LOL

HIS NAME IS Miya Osamu and he always looks like he has it all figured out. Comes in every class with his black hair perfectly tousled, the sleeves of his dark button-up rolled to his elbows, a cup of coffee in one hand and the strap of that black messenger bag in another.

“He drives a BMW, did ya know?” Isla says in your ear one morning. Your only friend in Food Chemistry I gives you a pointed look before sitting back in her chair in the lecture hall with a smirk on her face. “Saw it this morning. Bet he’s loaded.” The two of you watch the subject in question walk across the classroom and settle in his seat at the table in the corner.

“Shut up,” you whisper with wide eyes. A grin–– far from innocent–– makes its way onto your face. “Imagine being Miya Osamu’s sugar baby.”

“He’s not old enough to be a sugar daddy.” Isla looks at her nails disinterestedly. “And that’s too many AUs in one. He’s already the TA, for god’s sake. This isn’t some shitty Wattpad novel.”

A light giggle slips out of your lips. “I can see the title already. My Sugar Daddy is the TA?!”

Now, if anyone had been listening in on your conversation, they would’ve assumed many things about you. The first being that you’re both gold-diggers. This is untrue–– at least, in your case. Isla, you’re not so sure about, given how your friendship only goes back about one month. But she tags you in memes on Instagram so maybe it’s as real as real gets. Their second assumption would be that you have a big fat crush on your TA. That one’s complicated, mostly because it’s true, but only kinda. It all started in the second week of school when Isla caught you staring at Osamu and slipped you a post-it note with both your initials encircled in a heart. And, because you’re shameless with a good sense of humour, you made a show of kissing it while she was looking. And thus began your meaningless but incredibly entertaining, satirical, co-written fantasy about Miya Osamu.

It also didn’t help that on the first essay you got back, Isla’s paper had been marked up with “are you sure?”s and “this is a jump”s, while yours had “excellent reasoning” and “insightful analysis”. You’d even gotten a little comment at the bottom: y/n, fantastic work. you should speak up in class more often. –– OM

But Miya Osamu doesn’t play favourites because the next week you’d gotten another essay back, this time with another comment at the bottom: y/n, not your best work. you could’ve done better by connecting your first paragraph with the second using grant’s reading. conclusion lacked punch, too. all the best. –– OM

Every time you’d read the words scrawled in blue ink, you’d felt a pair of eyes on you. But you chalk it up to Osamu being a careful grader. A good TA. Someone who cares about his students.

Isla calls bullshit on that. You’re not really sure how to feel about her stance.

The classroom door opens and shuts again. You don’t have to look at your phone to know that it’s nine on the dot. Instead, you and Isla straighten your backs, pull out your notebooks, and focus. Your no-nonsense professor says “good morning” in her usual perky manner before jumping right into her keynote presentation.

“Did you all find the reading okay?” Professor Lee asks an hour into the lecture.

A chorus of “yes”s fill the air. You bite your lip, wondering if revealing that you didn’t understand shit will out you as the class idiot. Or maybe your silence is telling enough–– maybe the people in the seats beside you have noticed the grimace on your face and are having thoughts like ‘gee whiz, am I glad I’m not dumb like her’. Heat rushes to your cheeks. Sometimes you really wonder if you’re smart enough to be here. Occurrences like these do nothing to dispel your insecurities.

You vaguely hear her ask something like, “Any thoughts about the reading?” It’s not that you’re actually dumb. It’s just that this class is ridiculously hard for an introductory course, even for a graduate programme. From the start of the semester til now, fifteen people have dropped the class. There’s just twenty of you left. Guess a ridiculously hot TA can’t save a course’s drop-rate.

Before you can make your mind up on what to say, your professor moves on from her question.

As you look off to the side of the room for a break from your thoughts, you find a pair of blue-grey eyes pointed in your direction.

Everything about you, from the expression on your face to the way your muscles tense, makes you look like a deer caught in headlights–– even though he was the one caught staring in the first place. So maybe your shamelessness works on a scale.

Miya Osamu lifts one corner of his mouth.

And as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all, he looks back down at his laptop and continues typing.

The rest of the lecture goes through one ear and out the other.

“Everyone, I believe Osamu has something he wants to say,” Professor Lee says as everyone begins packing their bags.

The raven-haired TA slides out of his seat and sits on top of his desk. “Yeah.” Osamu clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. You notice how the muscles in his arms bulge from the movement.

“Whipped,” Isla mutters, grinning mischievously.

“Him for me,” you whisper back, though your eyes do travel back to his face where they should’ve been all along. Osamu catches your gaze and holds it. And then he looks away again.

“Now, I know you’re all Nobel prizewinners in the making,” he begins, garnering a round of snickers and giggles from your classmates. Most people say that cliques dissolve in college. That there’s no such thing as popularity amongst graduate students. That much, you agree with. But no one ever said anything about popular teacher’s assistants. Especially smart, attractive, witty teacher’s assistants like Miya Osamu. “But in case you didn’t understand the reading or would like to develop a deeper understanding of it, don’t hesitate to email me. I’ll try to host a review session all of us can attend.”

Professor Lee smiles appreciatively at Osamu, adding, “That’s a wonderful idea, Osamu. Guys, please take this opportunity if you struggled with the reading. I know eighty pages is a lot, but our next three classes are structured around the concepts in the reading and the mid-term next week will almost exclusively be about it, too.”

Well, shit.

To: m.osamu@hqu.edu

Hi Osamu,

I was wondering if I could get some help with the reading from last class. To be frank, I couldn’t make it past page 15 and I’m lost like a snot-faced five-year-old in a shopping mall on Black Friday. Sorry. Thanks in advance!

Regretfully,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: m.osamu@hqu.edu

no problem. is 5 pm tomorrow at jack’s okay? we start on the concepts from the reading next class so i want to get you up to speed asap. let me know. thanks.

OM

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

It’s five minutes to five when you pull into the parking lot of Jack’s Diner. The shiny, retrofuturistic eatery is a university favourite but the empty parking lot tells you it’s completely deserted right now (and rightfully so–– who eats dinner before six?). The black BMW parked a few spots from your car, however, says that you’re not alone.

Osamu’s figure comes into view as you reach for the handle to the front door of Jack’s. The twenty-six-year-old sits by himself at one of the bright red tables in the back, typing away on his dark grey laptop.

His head lifts up at the sound of the opening door. Osamu calls out your name and waves you over.

“Hi,” you greet with a smile, sitting down across from him.

“Hey.”

You look around before leaning forward on the table. “Is anyone else coming?”

“No.” Osamu sits back in his seat. “I thought about hosting one big group, but then I realised that it’d probably be stressful for the staff here.” He nods his head in the direction of the kitchen. “And I had a hunch that everyone would have different questions. Forcing everyone to review concepts they already know is a waste of time.”

At first, you nod. That makes sense. But then you furrow your brows. “So how long have you been here?”

Osamu blinks. He hadn’t expected you to ask about him. “Hmm? Oh.” He taps his phone to check the time. “Just a while.”

Quirking a brow, you ask, “And how long is ‘a while’ to you?”

“Seven hours,” he admits, chuckling lightly when he sees your jaw drop. “A lot of people had questions. They just don’t act like they do. Anyway, time flies. Really, it does.” Quickly, he clears his throat and sits forward. “So, about your email.” He grins. “Not sure if you meant it to be funny, but it was.”

“I’m glad my distress was entertaining for you. Do you TA just to watch grad students suffer?”

“Perks of the job,” Osamu says. His grin widens when you giggle. He’s never heard you laugh before and he realises at that moment that it’s really nice. And then that same grin falters. Gracefully, of course, and imperceptibly to you. But not to him. Is it okay for him to be… thinking things like that? About a student? But you’re not really his student since he’s just the TA. Right? Osamu ignores the weird feeling that comes over him and clasps his hands together at the edge of his laptop. “Back to your email. Can ya tell me what you’re confused about?”

Three hours and two Impossible Burgers later, you suddenly understand everything about food molecules so well that you wonder why you’d even been confused in the first place. But besides that, you’ve also picked up things about Osamu. As a person and not an idea. Not that you’d been actively searching for fun facts about your TA. But they’d stuck to your brain like gum at the bottom of a desk. He likes to slip sarcastic quips into a conversation every now and then. Eats burgers upside down (“The right way,” as he’d said, smirking). Is friendlier than he looks.

“You’re really good at explaining things,” you comment as Osamu shuts his laptop closed.

“Well, I kinda have to be,” he says. And maybe it’s the mental fatigue catching up on him or the fact that he’s real fond of the reason why he can break big concepts down into morsels but suddenly, the rest of his thoughts spill out his mouth like wine. “I have a twin brother with potato salad for brains.”

“Oh?”

And before he can stop himself, he tells you about Miya Atsumu, the pro-athlete you’ve definitely heard of but never gave too much thought. And then you hold onto the fact that they were both on the volleyball team and you ask of which school, so then he tells you about Inarizaki, the high school he attended, and then his decision not to go pro to go to college, and then––

“Sorry,” he laughs, cheeks turning pink. “You probably didn’t need to hear all that.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say–– and you mean it. “Your life is interesting.”

Osamu leans back in his chair. “Well, I’m sure yours is, too.” He holds your gaze like it’s the key to your presence. It’s an invitation. The kind that comes from people who don’t really know if they want you around but also don’t want you gone.

You take it.

Osamu shouldn’t–– he really shouldn’t–– but he wonders about the things you didn’t tell him the entire drive home.

Isla laughs when you tell her about what happened at Jack’s. You lay in bed with your phone next to you on speaker, your face turned on your pillow so that you’re staring out the window at the city below.

“He wants you,” she sings.

“Or he was just being nice.”

“Methinks not!” Isla giggles. “He’s intrigued, girl! You’re like that cute little new mystery in his life and he just wants to get to know you.”

“I think he was just being polite.”

“Or he’s crushing on you!”

“In your dreams.”

“You mean yours? Boo, you’re no fun today. Usually, you go along with the jokes.” Isla’s tone is playful on the surface but full of implications.

A few silent seconds pass. Yeah, you think, agreeing. I do.

“Girl,” Isla drags out the word in a high pitch, saying it like a scientist says ‘eureka’. “You’re not playing along anymore because it’s real now. You're actually catching feelings!”

“Am not!” you laugh.

“The Y/N I knew would’ve said ‘nah, bitch, he’s catching feelings’ and I think that says all there is to say.”

“Okay, I think he’s cute but it’s not a crush,” you concede, grinning. “And he’s the TA, Isles. It’d never happen.”

“Not while he’s still a TA in a class you take.”

“Isla.”

“Ask him out once this semester ends! Unless you’re chicken.”

“I’m not asking him out.”

“Knew you were––”

“Have you seen me? He’s asking me out.”

Miya Osamu walks through the door at eight-fifty as usual that next morning, dressed in his usual button-up, holding his usual cup of coffee. But this time, as the rest of his tall frame passes through the doorway, Osamu’s eyes subtly scan the faces in the lecture hall, lingering for just a while over yours. The corners of your lips turn up. You hope he saw that.

“Bitch!” Isla whisper-screams. The students sitting around you turn around at the noise and grin at each other when they realise it’s just Isla being… well, Isla. She shoos them away jokingly.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Care to explain why our TA was literally eye-fucking you?”

“That was hardly eye-fucking,” you retort. “Maybe like an eye-handshake.”

“Yeah, a naked eye-handshake where his thang is handshaking your––”

He does it again the next class.

And the next.

And then he doesn’t. Miya Osamu walks through the door to Food Chemistry I at eight-fifty in the morning in a navy blue button-up with a cup of coffee in his hand and looks through the rows of seats in the lecture hall for your face, only to find it missing.

He debates pressing the matter.

To: m.osamu@hqu.edu

hey osamu,

i wasn’t in class today because i’ve been sick with the flu (no big deal, just feel like i’m dying). a classmate sent me pictures of the slides from today so i think i should be fine, but is it okay if i email you with any questions? thank you very much!

miserably,

Y/N

MS Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

From: m.osamu@hqu.edu

y/n,

of course. sorry to hear that you’re sick. let me know if i can do anything to help you. the midterm is next week. get well soon.

OM

PhD Candidate

College of Agriculture and Life Sciences

Haikyuu University

“You writing that the midterm is next week did not offer me any peace of mind, by the way,” you say, spinning around in your chair as Miya Osamu enters your pod in the library.

He offers you a wry grin. “Hello to ya, too.”

“Was that an accent?” You thought you’d heard one at Jack’s, but you couldn’t be sure because it’d been so spotty.

Osamu slips into the seat beside yours and pulls out the laptop in his messenger bag. You catch a whiff of his cologne–– something spicy and woody, but clean. It suits him. “Nice catch. Yeah, I speak a regional dialect. Took me a while to smooth it over but it still resurfaces every now and then.”

“Why?”

“It just didn’t seem fitting for a PhD candidate, I guess,” Osamu explains, opening the slides from the class you missed. A day after your initial exchange, you’d emailed him again (with a much clearer mind) and asked if he could go over the slides with you in person.

i literally feel like i’ve been given the homework from russian lit, you’d written. except the russian has been translated to hieroglyphs and my task is to choreograph an interpretive dance based on the hieroglyphs.

Osamu had snickered when he saw your email. that doesn’t even make sense. must be the fever talking, he’d been tempted to write. But that strange feeling had come over him again, the one that’d screamed at him to keep it professional, goddamnit, so he’d played it safe instead and sent is eight pm at the main library okay? He hates that you’re getting a watered-down version of his personality. Osamu swears he’s a lot more interesting when he’s not, well, a TA.

“I think it’s fine,” you say, smiling. “I like it. It’s you.” And suddenly, you’re wondering if it’s okay to be complimenting your TA. If it’s okay to say that you like things about him, or if that crosses some grey, unclear line. Is it weird to treat your TAs like they’re your friends? It’s not like TAs are real teachers. Right?

A grin–– wide and genuine and almost excited–– grows on Osamu’s face. He rubs the back of his neck as his eyes flit over to the laptop screen. “Thanks. Really.”

You nod. But you feel like there’s more that he might want to say, so you wait.

“I got a lot of shit for it when I came here for my master’s, y’know. Not to my face, of course, but people would refer to me as ‘the guy with the accent’. A professor once said it made me seem crass. Said it’d hold me back in my career.”

“So you changed.”

“Adapted,” Osamu corrects. “It’s hard to admit but conforming is sometimes all you can do when you don’t have the power to change the system. Can’t really make everyone suddenly respect a dialect.”

“And after you’re finished with your PhD, you’ll go back to speaking in that dialect?”

Osamu looks out the window and smiles, probably imagining the plans he’s already made about the future. “Yeah.”

“What if you have to speak the standard language at your job? Like, your boss is all, ‘hey man, if you don’t speak––”’

“I’ll be the boss.”

“Oh?”

And with a little more prodding, Miya Osamu tells you about the restaurant chain he plans on opening after graduation, the slides about food additives left completely untouched.

The librarian knocks on your pod a few minutes before eleven to tell you they’re closing.

“Shit,” Osamu murmurs, running his hands through his hair. You’re still laughing about something he’d said before the librarian interrupted him–– one of his stories from high school–– and he thinks that you’ve completely forgotten that the reason you came to the library was to catch up on the material you were already behind on. And now you’re behind on that. But you look so carefree right now and, actually, you’re very pretty and you’ve got such a good heart and it’s a lot for him to process but he knows he just wants to see you happy a while longer. So Osamu just slumps back in his chair and laughs along with you.

He says your name as his chuckles grow softer. “It’s pretty late. How’re you getting home?”

“I’ve a bike,” you reply. It’s good for the environment and is a pretty solid form of exercise if you do say so yourself. Sometimes you just don’t feel like driving. 

Osamu presses his lips in a thin line. Would it be too much to offer you a ride? “I can drive you home. It’s really not safe for you to be alone outside, especially near midnight. You can get your bike tomorrow. Or I’ll get it for you.”

He drives fast. Not the unsafe fast that speed demons drive at, but the kind of fast where you know he’s got some edge to his character. You bring it up to him–– especially since it’s nighttime, for god’s sake, he could hit something–– and all he does is remind you how there are lamps as bright as the sun lining the entire road to your dorm. And the fact that you live in the least accessible dorm on campus.

“A twenty-minute drive?” he’d exclaimed when he saw the GPS monitor.

“A bunch of roads are closed for construction. It’s a ten-minute bike-ride because I can cut through campus.” And suddenly feeling a little burdensome, you’d added, “Sorry. I can still bike––”

“No.” He’d held his hand out in front of you, gesturing for you to stay in the passenger’s seat. “It’s not a bother at all.” Because it wasn’t. Osamu was… happy. Not that he’d admit that.

“So this BMW,” you start in a teasing tone.

Osamu smirks. “A gift.”

“Can I guess from who?”

“Sure.”

“Atsumu.”

His brows rise. “Colour me impressed.” He hadn’t expected you to remember anything he’d said about Atsumu. Or maybe he had but told himself otherwise to lower his hopes.

“I’m smart like that.”

He snorts. “Not if you keep distracting me and using your review time to…” hang out with me, get to know me, tell me things about you… “…goof off.”

You grimace. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Osamu makes a turn down a familiar street. It dawns upon you that you're ten minutes away from your dorm and suddenly you wish he’d just make the wrong turn at the next intersection so that you could talk to him some more. It can even be about the health benefits of fish or the molecular makeup of kale–– you don’t mind. You just want to be around him longer.

“I think you’re really smart,” Osamu says quietly. “I think you’re not processing the readings because you’re distracted, or just not fully applying yourself. Obviously, last class’s slides are a different thing, since you were absent. But you really are smart. I’ve seen your papers.”

You bite your lip to hide your grin, feeling heat rush to your cheeks. “Thank you.” You look out the window, too jacked on dopamine to think straight. “I think I still need you, though.”

And that innocuous little sentence floats right out your mouth into the air, settling between you like a little wedge before either of you even realise it. Neither of you says anything. You marinate in the awkwardness before stuttering out a clarification. “To, um, to explain things. Y’know, since you’re, uh, so good at… explaining things.”

Osamu clears his throat and chuckles stiffly. There’s a slightly pink tinge to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he says, looking straight ahead. He can’t even look at you. Fuck. It’s so awkward. “I’ll try to keep… explaining things.” Fuck. What does that even mean?

A few uncomfortable minutes pass in silence. The night can’t end like this, you think. It can’t when everything else had gone so well. You still have to see him for a few more months. “Did you know,” you start, catching Osamu’s attention, “that Jack’s Diner has a location in Italy?”

“Oh?” he asks, making the final turn to the street where your dorm is. He actually hadn’t.

“Yeah. I asked the owner about the chain a while back. Have you ever been to Italy?”

Osamu shakes his head. “I’ve been to Paris, though. To see a friend. He’s a chocolatier.”

Now, if Osamu had been your friend, you would’ve said something like well, let’s go to Italy together, except he’s not. He’s your TA and you’ve been reminded that enough tonight. So instead, you say, “When you open that restaurant of yours in Italy, let me know.”

“That’s gonna take a while,” he laughs. He appreciates how you said ‘when’, though. And he tucks that little bit of confidence you have in him somewhere deep in his mind so that it doesn’t get lost.

“Isn’t that just seven hours?” you shrug, grinning. Osamu’s BMW pulls up outside your dorm and parks as he marvels at what you just said. You’re amazing. You unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face your driver.

“Thank you for driving me,” you say, offering him a smile.

“Yeah,” he replies.

You stretch out your hand. With a puzzled look on his face, Osamu grabs it and shakes it. Firmly. You can’t help but notice how nice his hands are. Calloused for sure, but they feel nice.

“Goodnight, Osamu.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

He watches you jog into the building before driving away. And it’s like you’ve possessed his car or something because the smell of your shampoo and perfume is everywhere and it’s too much but it’s also not enough at the same time and he can feel your palm against his as he spins the steering wheel to make a turn and for the first time in his life he doesn’t turn on the radio to fill the silence in his car. Osamu replays everything you said in his head.

But he especially thinks about that part where you said you need him.

Weeks melt into months. You turn in essays after essays for Food Chemistry I, each coming back with detailed commentary in an all-too-familiar blue scrawl. All your other classes go well–– extremely well, actually. You might just end the semester with a 4.0 if Food Chem doesn’t fuck you over. Isla still tags you in memes on Instagram. You still tell her about everything that happens with Osamu.

Speaking of.

“That’s the wrong equation,” he says behind your ear as he settles in the seat beside you. The sound of his low voice so close to your ear sends a small shiver down your spine. “You gotta switch the hydrogens.” Osamu knocks on your skull lightly. “What’s goin’ on up in there? Ya got somethin’ on your mind?”

You laugh and elbow him in the side. “Shut up, ‘Samu.” He’d told you during one of his office hours that he’d gone by that nickname because he had a teammate with a foreign name in high school. It sounded so cool, he’d said, grinning.

I think Osamu sounds pretty cool already, you’d teased.

And he’d replied, Let’s trade. I like yours, you like mine, why not share?

You teeter on the line between friends and less-than-friends and, oddly enough, more-than-friends. Sometimes you still play it safe. Sometimes he pauses between texts and real-time conversations, no doubt to scrap an instinctive reply for something more “professional”. Sometimes you say things that make him look at you with the ghost of a smile at the corners of his lips. Sometimes he calls Atsumu to scream about you.

“S’not a no,” Osamu points out. He’s dressed in a black sweater and grey trousers today. You’re suddenly reminded of how the weather’s been getting colder when someone opens the door to the university café and lets in a gust of chilly autumn air.

“Okay,” you admit, setting down the pencil. “I just… don’t really feel prepared for this next test.”

Osamu frowns and looks down at your worksheet. “Your process is correct, though.”

“Right, but… I don’t know. I’ve just not been feeling great about myself lately,” you laugh, looking down at your feet. “Food Chem’s the toughest class I’ve ever taken. And remember how I completely embarrassed myself in that class discussion last week? It’s not really making me feel like I belong here.”

“Imposter syndrome,” Osamu remarks.

“Correct-o.”

He says your name softly and puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Maybe you’re not the smartest, but you’re definitely smart. And you belong here. I’ve seen your papers. They’re just as great as anyone else’s and I don’t hand out compliments for nothin’. You’re gonna do some great things but ya can’t improve if you ever give up.” Osamu searches your eyes for a sign of your understanding.

There’re a lot of things you want to say but you don’t know how to put them into words. “Can I hug you?” you finally ask.

Osamu doesn’t even think about it. “Of course.”

He feels you smile against his chest and wonders if you can feel his heart beat faster.

Isla camps out in your dorm as finals come around the corner.

“I don’t understand shit!” she wails, throwing her notebook into the air.

“Isles, it’s okay,” you laugh, slipping out of your chair and walking over to her nest in the corner. “You gotta chill, dude.”

“Not fair! I didn’t have a hunk holding my hand through this course all semester,” she retorts, humour glittering in her dark eyes. “I had the Organic Chemistry Tutor and his accent’s cute enough but, girl, you had Miya Fucking Osamu!”

“You’re literally the worst.” You giggle and sit down beside her. “Tell me what you’re confused about. I’ll try to explain it to you.” The way Osamu does.

You text him that you’d channelled his brains later that night.

His reply comes seconds later. all you, einstein.

From: osamu

good luck on the exam

you’re going to kill it

To: osamu

would u like to divulge any… information about it? 😏 😏 😏

From: osamu

bye

To: osamu

i was kidding :(

From: osamu

fine. tip #1: write your name

To: osamu

not very helpful. 0/10

From: osamu

keep running your mouth and 0/10 is what your score’s going to be

i’m kidding

you got this, y/n

“Holy fuck,” Isla groans as you cross the street to head to lunch at Jack’s. “If you don’t see me next semester it’s because I’ve gotten my grade back and decided to drop out.”

“What would you do?” you ask, amused.

“Maybe move to New Zealand. Raise some sheep. Marry a hot, blond shepherd and fuck off to a cliffside cottage.”

“Solid plan.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“What about me?”

“Remember that conversation we had at the start of the year? About your man?” The two of you reach another red light for pedestrians.

“We’re friends. He’s not my man,” you laugh. Though it pains you to. Something about being Miya Osamu’s friend doesn’t really sit right with you, but you don’t know how to not be his friend. You don’t know how to move out of the corner you’ve backed yourself into.

“But you wish he were! And now you can finally hit him with that ‘Hey, Osamu, I’ve been madly in love with you since the start of the semester, wanna fuck like rabbits and then open that store in Italy?’ and he’ll be all––”

A throat clears behind you. With wide eyes, the two of you turn around.

Holy fuck.

Miya Osamu stands behind you with his hands in his pockets and an enormous smirk on his face.

“He’ll be all what?” he asks, eyes fixed on you.

Isla murmurs an excuse and starts walking on her own to Jack’s.

“Um.” You swallow nervously and shrink in your coat. “You heard all of that, right?”

“Yep.” Osamu grins. He grins. He’s grinning. He’s smiling like he’s won the fucking lottery and you honestly don’t know what to do with that information.

“So, like,” you look down at the sidewalk and kick at a pebble, “what are your thoughts about that?” God, you could die. “‘Cause I know you’re a TA and it’d probably look pretty bad and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you because I like you and it’s cool if we just…”

Osamu interrupts you with a laugh. “My thoughts,” he says, “are that I want to kiss you.” His fingers lift your chin up. “What are your thoughts about that?”

Well, shit. “I think that’s pretty cool, yeah,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut as his face comes closer to yours.

He tastes like mint. And his lips move softly, slowly against yours like he’s savouring the moment. And then you feel his hands snake around your waist to pull you closer–– closer because you both are tired of forcing the distance between bodies that want to be near each other, closer because he’s thought about kissing you just like this for so long, closer because you remember the last time he’d touched you was three days ago and it was just a brush of his fingers against your arm and that feeling of wanting more haunted you for the entire night. But holy shit, Miya Osamu is kissing you. He’s kissing you.

And then he pulls away. His dark eyes flit over yours. “I,” he breathes, “I need your course load next semester.”

“What?” you ask, disbelief written all over your features, chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breathing. You just kissed, for God's sake, and he's––

“I need to know which courses not to apply to TA for,” he grins, cupping your face in his hands. “Can’t be teachin’ in a class with my girlfriend as a student.”

“So we’re official?” you ask, beaming.

“If you want,” Osamu replies with a smirk.

You grab the front of his coat and tug him down for another kiss. “Hell yeah, I want to be official.”

[echo-of-sounds]

not much of a birthday

Headcanons and a smut drabble for Aizawa’s birthday! I struggled to think of as many headcanons as I did for the other characters. Hopefully the smut makes up for it!

Warnings: it’s nowhere near as rough as the last one, but the smut does include a Daddy kink

Aizawa’s birthday is difficult. It’s not that he hates it. He’s just kinda… whatever about it. It makes planning a birthday party, or any celebration really, and buying presents a challenge.

Large gatherings aren’t his favorite. If you truly want to throw a birthday party, don’t make it a surprise party and only invite his closest friends (seven people max). Too many people mean he’s going to sulk in his room the entire time, not wanting to deal with the large, noisy crowd. He wants his birthday to be quiet and relaxing.

Buying presents is so damn difficult. He doesn’t really have hobbies or interests outside of being a teacher and a Hero. Well, he likes cats but you can’t buy a cat every single year. The best option is clothing. Everyone could always use new pairs of socks and underwear.

A leather wallet, beard softener, a simple, handsome sweater, and maybe a new type of coffee are also some options. He’s a laidback guy with laidback interests. Keep the presents to things he needs and will definitely use. If they’re too elaborate or eccentric, he’ll never get around to using it.

“I hope you like them,” you said with the best smile you could muster as you sat the presents on the coffee table. The wrapping was beautiful but the content wasn’t particularly intriguing. 

Shouta unwrapped the first one: a package of socks. The next was a package of boxer briefs. Then two nice, simple T-shirts. Then a gift bag with a new brush, hair ties, reparative shampoo, and protein conditioner to prevent hair breakage from all the shit he puts it through.

He thanked you for each one.

“You’re welcome. But there’s one more.” You nodded to the last, most specialized one. It took a few weeks to finally think of and find something that wasn’t as plain as underwear.

He grabbed the flat present off the table and unwrapped it. The tape ripped easily, letting him see the dark brown leather padfolio. It fit his laptop, notebook, and had plenty of smaller pockets. It’d hopefully help him be just a little more organized in his commutes. 

After looking through all of it, he gave a rare smile and kissed you, mumbling as he pulled away, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday, Sho.” He narrowed his eyes when you stroked his cheek. “What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it?”

You sighed at his too-intense gaze, knowing he wasn’t going to let it go. “I’m glad you like the presents. I really am. I just… I guess I wish I could buy you something exciting and unique. I want to make you feel special.” You rubbed the back of his neck, massaging the strained muscles.

“You don’t need to buy me expensive things to make me feel special.”

“I know. I know that. But… I want to spoil you for at least one day and you make doing that incredibly difficult. I feel like you deserve something more for all that you do. I just want to spoil you,” you lightly laughed and kissed his temple. “For once.” 

“You don’t need to-”

“I want to,” you whispered against his skin.

Shouta grabbed your hand and met your eyes. “These past few days have been more than I needed.” He kissed your nose then your mouth. “After weeks of screaming teenagers, a weekend with you is all I want,” he confided.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.” He drew you close and swung your leg over his lap. He lifted your shirt off, connecting a deep kiss after. His tongue wandered over yours. You sighed, casually grinding, pressing your breasts against him. 

His hands drifted to your front and unbuttoned your pants. Without breaking the kiss, you stood. Rough hands slipped in the sides and yanked them and your underwear down. Fingers frisked you, not afraid of being brusque as they circled your clit, making you widen your stance, giving him more room to fondle. 

Two fingers slipped in. They crudely waved as his palm grazed your clit. Your legs tensed and your spine curved towards him, wanting to be closer. But his clothes were still on. Leaving his lips for only one second, you removed his shirt. Pulling his sweatpants down was next and was awkward with his hand unabashedly prodding you. 

A flick jolted your clit, stopping your actions. You gasped around his tongue, trying to moan his name. Another thwack jostled you. Shouta’s bitter rasp provoked you awfully, “You know what to call me.”

“Daddy,” you softly cried. 

“Good girl,” he praised and tugged you into his lap. You couldn’t ask what he wanted you to do because his fingers reentered, just as crude, just as grazing. When you reached for him, he warned, “Don’t touch me.”

You didn’t object. Your head dropped to his shoulder through his fondling. The two fingers inside folded, growing rougher by the second. His other hand played with your thigh and ass, scratching and kneaded and nailing your skin raw.

Your hips jerked on their own. You tightened for the spank and reprimand, but it never came. Which was weird. You gently whispered, “Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

You didn’t know how to ask why he didn’t scold you like he normally does. Thankfully, you didn’t need to figure it out. Lips lined over your neck and shoulders. Hands rubbed along your sides and back, keeping you warmly close. He spoke hushedly, “I don’t want to punish you today. Just listen to me, okay?”

You sat up to see his smile and nodded. His thumb pulled your bottom lip down. “You’re a good girl. You can ride me now,” he granted with a deep kiss.

Lining him up, you lowered, sighing happily into his mouth. His heat and heft fit comfortably, perfectly inside. You wasted no time and hugged his shoulders as you began grinding. Arms embraced you. Lips and tongue skimmed your skin. Muscled thighs tensed and swayed with your hips.

He sped up. It excited you to do the same, craving to hear him groan. You wanted to give him the pleasure he always gave you. It was his birthday after all.

Raising on your knees, you bounced, stirring a hint of sound from him. It also motivated his hips to hump up. They met yours in the middle, nudging him nicely and loudly against your front wall. Your breasts bobbed with the faster motion. Heat encircled one. His first groan rippled over your nipple, sucking, damn near gnawing on it. 

Black hair tangled around your fingers. You clung tight, keeping his mouth suckling. Your thighs hastened, hips hustled on, working up a thin sweat, tightening your body, almost there.

But he pulled away, halting your hips. You whimpered shamelessly, “Daddy, don’t.”

“Are you going to make me cum as well or should I do that myself?”

“No, it’s your birthday,” you panted, gripping his arm, jerking in his hands.

“I don’t think you can.”

You tucked into his neck. Hands grasped and arms lifted you up as he moved, laying you down on the couch, making sure your head rested on the pillows. He gutturally purred into your ear, “My birthday present is you. Let Daddy do it.”

Without waiting, he quickly snapped his hips. You scratched his back and moaned. His shoulder blades wavered with his humping. His thighs spread you bare. His back bowed beautifully.

The thrusts stopped. Your whine came out louder than expected. His heat deserted you when he sat up and pulled out, leering between your legs. Thumbs felt up and down your outer lips, petting with pressure. They bore heavily over your clit before caressing again, stretching you open, smoothing you closed, toying with all the delicate nerves. A particularly brutal sweep on your clit induced a high-pitched gasp. You clutched his forearm but his fingers continued. Your hips and thighs fidgeted, struggling to get away under his weight. His smirk did not go unnoticed.

You pawed his chest, fussing, “Please.”

Spit dripped from his mouth, slowly dribbling onto you. Thumbs persisted their patterns, now wetter, harsher.

“Please…” 

“Please what?”

“Please, Daddy, please, fuck me, please. I want you.”

“There you go.” He lifted your thigh to rest on his chest, lowered to kiss you, and resumed his thrusting. Your leg bobbed with his sinks. “Is this want you wanted?”

You nodded with a smile, scratching his sides. He paused mid-thrust and chided in a cautionary tone, “I may not punish you but you still need to be grateful.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Thank you.”

“That’s a good girl.”

“Really?”

“I promise.” Hot air puffed as his lips returned, so wet and so warm, heating more with his sweeping tongue. Hips slowly swayed. His scarred abs and hair-dusted chest fluttered under your fingers. Small flattery and honeyed words voiced into your mouth. 

“I love you,” you breathed.

“I love you too.”

The softness faded. Thrusts steadily built up. Teeth pinched and pulled your bottom lip, taxing the sensitive skin. They moved to your neck next. Pinches turned to full-mouthed bites, running all over as he clamped hard, trying to mark you as much as possible.

“Daddy,” you choked out through the heightening breaths, seeking his permission.

His husky utter heated your skin, “You can cum. You don’t need to wait for me.”

“Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, thank you, thank-” 

“Shhh,” he hushed into your neck.

Your nails rooted in his sides, signaling your looming release. Lips covered yours and swallowed your peaking moans. Wetly and weakly, you mumbled into his mouth, around his tongue, “More.”

He lifted until his tip remained inside then buried in with a heavy, strong thrust. His pace maintained heavy and strong too. His groans matched the intensity. Your hips and thigh hurt so wonderfully under his mass. Moans trapped in your throat, leaving you huffing, hot, and hanging.

Dry, jugular groans tipped you over, “Cum for me. I know you want to. Cum for Daddy.”

Your body went rigid with clamped muscles. Shallow breaths ceased. Heat flooded but no moans sounded. The internal pleasure kept you gasping for air through your release- gasping for his finish- gasping for your Daddy, who kissed and caressed your trembling frame.

When you slouched, he stood and kneeled over your shoulders, holding himself for you. He entered the second your lips opened, salty and throbbing. Using the armrest to support himself, his thrusts started anew. You gagged as he hit the back of your throat. But his hips didn’t slow. 

Looking up, you could tell he was close. He glared at you. A blush painted his cheeks and chest. You snagged his ass, holding him in your mouth.

“Fuck.” He bucked further. Though it caused another gag, you still grappled at him, letting him fuck your throat. His grunts grated too low to understand, but you didn’t need to. Hair pressed to your nose as he drove fully inside. Joints locked. Fingers fastened in your hair. Liquid salt spurt, trickling, choking.

You sucked him as long and deep as you could until breath became your priority. You eventually tapped his thigh, needing air. Your mouth was emptied. Saliva and cum connected you to his depleted erection. The string split, driveling, messing your chin and breasts.

Before you could so much as move, Shouta nabbed his shirt and cleaned you, careful of your swollen lips and bruises. His scowl at his concentration was cute, slightly puffing his bottom lip out. He noticed and raised an eyebrow. 

You waved it off, “Nothing. Happy birthday, Daddy.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the presents.” He finished his wiping and tenderly kissed you, lovingly brushing his tongue along your lips. “Tomorrow you can take me to a movie.”

You exhaled a dry laugh, “That’s not exactly exciting or unique but it’s a start, I guess. But right now, can you get me some ibuprofen? My neck’s sore.”

“And a heating pad?”

“Please and thank you.”

Shouta kissed you once more and went to get the items. You patiently waited, wanting to cuddle him for the rest of the night.

[therenlover]

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

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

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

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

Rating: M (+16) 

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

Word Count: 10,200~

“What’s with the mask?” 

The question was innocent enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Usually,” Bucky chimed in dryly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zemo hummed lowly. “And so they did,” 

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

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

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

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

Y/N. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now that was enough to make him pause.

“How did you-”

“How could I not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The jab didn’t land, though. 

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

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

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

“Y/N,” They replied.

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

“Don’t call me that,” 

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

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

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

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

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

Oh yes, he had been gathering up his notes…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They did quite the opposite. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that Helmut cared for them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankfully for Helmut, a new hand came up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A drink, dear leader?” 

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

“Too many,” 

“For once, I agree with you,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

That struck a nerve in Helmut’s chest.

“And who says that has to be true?” 

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

“I never said there would be no casualties-”

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

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

“I shudder to think what it might be,”

“How are you going to hide your face?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know I am. Isn’t that wonderful?” 

“Why would that be wonderful?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never said there’d be no casualties.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never thought I’d see the day,”

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

“I’ll try not to,” 

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

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

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

“What?” 

“You weren’t invited,” 

They quirked up an eyebrow. “Huh?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They just chuckled as their eyes scanned the sky. 

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

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

“Do you think I don’t know that?” 

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

“Yeah, he would have…”  

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

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

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

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

Y/N shrugged. “I want to go sleep,” 

“Why can’t you sleep out here?”

“I don’t want to be woken up,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It fell on deaf ears. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nicholas; caught a bullet through the neck. 

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

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

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

Hans…

Helmut didn’t know how Hans died. 

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

What remained now? 

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

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

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

“Wait!”

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

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

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

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

It was only right that they go together. 

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

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

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

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

“Quiet,” 

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

Who was he to deny them? 

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

“Oh, fearless leader… I win,” 

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

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

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

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

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

All the same, he hated them for it. 

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

Ghosts haunted him often.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“As soon as you’re married,” 

Married. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So it had a name!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ciczheni,”

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

“We buried them in Ciczheni,” 

He nearly dropped the bottle in his hand. 

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

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

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

Ciczheni. 

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

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

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

Making a family. 

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

For Y/N, though... 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They both would. 

--------

a/n: I’m not crying, you’re crying. 

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater​ , @elaineygrace​ , @multiyfandomgirl40 ,  @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy​ , @wh0re-4-techno​ , @forcebros​ , @sugarsweetkiss​ , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff​ , @killsandthrills​ , @novasstudy​ , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp​ , @inmate-marmalade​ , @alanathedeer​ , @your-pixels-are-showing​ , @shit-post-things​ , @bbarton​ , @sux-ubus​ , @halefirewarrior​ , @janelongxox​ , @rax-writes​ , @wondermia69​ , @booklover2929​ , @lol-im-done​ , @rorodendra​ , @spookycereal-s​ , @viviace​ , @wxrmh0le​ , @whatawildone​ , @mush-room-princess​ , @aliyahsfantasticlife​ ,  @gredvb​ , @chipster-21​ , @whatawildone​ , @cloud-of-roses​ , @bry-97​ , @mossybank​ , @simsiddy​ , @xxspqcebunsxx​ , @be-cautious-around-bri​ , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car​ , @frothonthedaydreams​

[rawliverandcigarettes]

How about 3, 17, and 24 for the writer asks?

Hey, thank you so much for the great asks, these were headscratchers in a very interesting way!

3. How would you describe your writing style?

But beyond this first instinct, I think I'd describe it as... introspective??? maybe??? I'm bad at writing movements and I apologize.

What I can say is that it's very literary-inspired, especially by the specific sub-genre of woman-driven character studies (so Helen Oyeyemi, Emily Friedlund, Emma Cline, Akwaeke Emezi, Lauren Groff to a smaller extent...): lots of weird verbiage, metaphors, comparaisons and parallelisms all around. I love sentences that are compelling, beautiful and revelatory: if I can nail one like this every once and a while, I'm very happy.

I also had to admit to myself that my writing style has a lot of spiritual ties to the realism movement of the 19th century in France, especially Gustave Flaubert, which 17 years old me would have loathed me for. I am driven by similar concerns, for example the immensity of romanticism having to cram itself into the claustrophobic constraints of reality, and my obsession for subtext as well as my love for tragi-comic situations do come from somewhere.

I am also inspired by every story that really is invested in a place or a group, and gives the reader a glimpse at its truth through flawed and limited perspectives; I'm thinking Jorge Amado, the TV Show The Wire, the game Disco Elysium... Things that try to breach the barrier between the personal and the political.

It is also not illegal to call my writing style flowery (though I will be moderately-to-unfairly grumpy about it since I try to put care and importance on the words I use), but it is true that my primary goal is not always clarity. I do go for depth over accessibility sometimes, which is a choice readers don't have to love and is understandably not everybody's cup of tea.

17. Past or present tense? Why?

It depends on the story! I love both (like I love every point of view pronoun, depends on the story and what it needs)! For some stories, I seek the immediacy of present tense to convey something about the mood, the character's perspective, etc. For others, I love past tense for its distance, its contemplation, sometimes the breath of inevitability it can bring with it.

I am also deadset on writing a short story in future tense at some point. This point of view really intrigues me in what it can do and how far it can be pushed.

24. Thoughts on flashbacks/flashforwards.

Hehehehe.

So I think flashbacks are just a great storytelling tool in general; there's so much meaning that can be brought from the backstory of a character to its fictive present, and regular character introspection can hardly ignore flashbacks given the character has working memories.

Then, I think flashbacks can be pushed super far, become characterization themselves, and then become absolutely unmanageable and eat your very soul. It doesn't have to be, but it can do this, and will do this if you let them.

(I am struggling so hard to figure this part out in TEoP)

I have rarely interacted seriously with flashforwards, but I keep on wondering if they really are that different from flashbacks in principle? I suppose it depends on where the fictive present is located, but if flashforwards are considered as such for retrospective fiction (for example, an old character looking back on their youth and something that happened then), then what's a flashback and what is a flashforward?

Maybe it's because I haven't played with them enough to fully get it, but I have trouble understanding how to truly separate the two given that time is an illusion, especially in fiction.

Thanks again, these were really fun!

(based on the Yet Another Writing Asks!)

[mandoalorian]

Loving You For You [Maxwell Lord x GN!Reader]

Summary: Maxwell Lord is struck with a panic attack when he's getting ready to shoot one of his famous infomercials. He's hit with the trauma of his youth and begins to spiral, until you, his loving partner, show him that it's okay to feel afraid and it's okay to find admittance in his struggles.

Warnings: descriptions of poverty, starvation, body dysmorphia, panic attack, general insecurity, brief mention of addiction (alcohol and gambling), brief mention of abuse.

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2000>

Author's note: So many of you loved 'Perfect to Me', which was about a reader who had their own body dysmorphia (you can find it in my Masterlist under ‘Maxwell Lord’, and asked me to write more. I put a little twist on things and wrote this, a one-shot in which Maxwell suffers from body dysmorphia and struggles to leave his past behind him. Reader discretion advised.

Masterlist

When Maxwell Lorenzano was 6 years old, he owned one pair of shorts and two t-shirts. He had no choice but to wear them throughout the coldest winter in history, his knees red raw from the cold, and they lasted him for two years until he quite literally was growing out of them. When he finally parted with them, his mother gifted him with a dark blue knitted sweater, and Maxwell swore it was the best present he'd ever received. He'd finally feel the warmth he craved so desperately. The warmth that other children got from their parents embrace...he was getting from an itchy sweater that smelt like cheap beer and cigarettes. But it was his, and it was all he had.

After Maxwell's father stole all of the money for his gambling and alcohol addiction, he left Mrs Lorenzano with just five pesetas to feed the small family for a week. The brown eyed boy remembered that winter as the worst one yet. The bedwetting had gotten bad again and he had never gone so hungry. He remembered his stomach rumbling in class and his cheeks would flush as the other kids teased and laughed at him for it. He remembered stealing a banana from another kid's packed lunch, getting caught, and told that if he continued to steal, he'd be nothing but a criminal low-life just like his father. But he was just hungry. His shoes had holes in them so his toes poked out. He bathed in a tin bucket once a week right up until he was a teenager.

And thirty years later, Maxwell Lorenzano, or Lord, as he now went by, was staring at himself in the full length bedroom mirror. Everything was perfect. He'd proved everyone back home wrong. He became someone. Someone esteemed, someone important and someone with a heightened self worth. People asked for his autograph in the street and preached to him about their love and admiration for his work. He was a man who could make dreams come true. Everything was perfect… or so it should've been.

It didn't fit. Maxwell picked at the way the pale pink polo shirt clung to his body. He turned to the side and sighed when he saw the way it highlighted his little tummy. He sucked in his breath, trying to flatten it, but it didn't really work. And for a split second he considered how many meals it would take to lose that little bit of weight. This whole outfit had been tailored for him just two weeks ago and it was perfect but now he hated it. He didn't just hate it. He felt disgusting.

It was weird. Sure his insecurity about his body image was rampant as he took in his appearance, but he didn't feel like himself.

Truthfully, when he changed his name from Lorenzano to Lord he had done it to start anew. That name was his father's and he wanted no association with the man who had abused and tormented him and his mother. But when Maxwell Lorenzano became Max Lord, it was like the struggle ended. He'd fought for so long and so hard trying to fit in with the modern-day example of a successful businessman. He was the least American all-American man. He dyed his hair blonde, even seeked a vocal coach to try and rid himself of his accent. And it worked. Everything was being handed to him on a silver plate. He was the coverboy of Forbes, the owner of three country clubs and day spas across America. The Wall Street Journal were constantly on his case, wanting to interview him. He was swimming in cash. He had everything he could ever want. But it wasn't him.

He felt like a fraud. A liar. A con-man. And as he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he saw nothing but the broken little boy he was thirty years ago, wearing ill-fitted clothes and a fake smile. It wasn't meant to be like this. He was spiralling.

"Hey honey?" he heard your sweet voice call from the next room, your footsteps approaching down the corridor. His tense composure relaxed ever so slightly when he heard you coming, and he grabbed the white suit jacket from the top of the dresser, quickly pulling it over him. He didn't want you to see him like this. See his tummy and the way the stupid shirt didn't fit him the way it did two weeks ago. You'd seen him naked plenty of times and deep down Maxwell knew that you wouldn't care, but he just felt so vulnerable in his own skin. "The camera crew are waiting downstairs in the lobby and they're getting antsy," you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration as you padded into the bedroom. "The director is insufferable, Max. I keep telling him this is your infomercial, not his, but he just-- hey, Max? Are you listening?" you narrowed your eyes with concern. Maxwell hadn't looked at you once since you walked into the room.

"Hmph? Oh yeah." he murmured, turning back around to see if his tummy poked out even wearing the white jacket over the shirt. It didn't, which was a relief for him, but the padded shoulders of the jacket made him look huge and boxy. And it was just another thing he began to hate about himself.

"Are you okay?" you asked, biting your lip and walking towards him. You wrapped your arms around his waist and placed your hands over his tummy. He winced. "Max?"

"Yeah I'm fine." he said quickly, pulling out of your grip and buttoning up the suit jacket.

As he was about to leave the bedroom to start shooting the latest infomercial for his company, Black Gold Cooperative, you grabbed his arm and pulled him back. You popped open to the button of his suit jacket, freeing his tummy, not that you noticed. "You should keep the jacket undone," you hummed. "I like you in pink." You placed the palm of your hand on his chest and subconsciously began to brush him down, straightening his collar so he looked as smart as possible.

"I might get changed. Don't really like this outfit." Max muttered with a frown that made your heart ache.

"Wh-what? You loved it when you tried it on for me at the tailors the other week. And you look so good. Is there something going on?" you asked curiously as Maxwell stepped away from you.

He sighed in defeat (and slight frustration), before ripping the jacket off his body and letting it pool to the ground. "Look." he said, pointing his finger aimlessly at his tummy.

"What?" you asked, genuinely bewildered.

"Look." he repeated again, wiggling his ring clad finger this time.

"Maxie you gotta help me out here," you replied. "What am I looking at?" You noticed Maxwell's lips begin to quiver and tears prick his dark glazed eyes. He swallowed a lump in his throat that he didn't realise he had before slapping his hand over his face in shame and breaking down into a heaving, sobbing mess. "Oh Max," you cooed, taking him in your arms and guiding him over to your bed. You sat him down on slid next to him, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into your chest. "Baby what is it? You can talk to me."

"Nothing fits," he hiccuped, and you felt his tears dampen your own blouse. "I feel disgusting. I feel fake and. Disgusting. It fit two weeks ago- and now-"

"Max," you hushed him, running your fingers through his golden locks of hair. "It fits you perfectly. You look amazing, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your partner, I'm saying it because it really truly does. You look so handsome." you promised him.

"When I look in the mirror all I see is the old me. The me who wet the bed, who starved and stole and who couldn't save my mother from my father's horror and abuse. I moved here to escape it all, but it still haunts me. It follows me and I can't- I just want it to stop." Maxwell confessed, the tears now streaming down his face.

You had dated Max Lord for three years now, and you were both deeply in love with each other, but he had never quite opened up to you about his past trauma. You knew little things here and there but you never expected it to be so bad. Your boyfriend was suffering and you felt so helpless.

"I hate myself." he continued through a choked sob. He began to feel so constricted in his clothes, tugging his pink shirt. It felt like he couldn't breathe, and you saw the panic on his face.

"Hey, breathe with me. Let me help you." you whispered, cupping his face with your hand and wiping away his tears. He found himself subconsciously leaning into your touch and he followed your breathing. Inhale for seven seconds and then exhale. And repeat. It was working. As he followed your breathing, you gently began to undress him and as you discarded the garments of clothing he began to feel better.

Leaving him on the bed, you promised you'd be back in one second, quickly darting into the walk-in closet and bringing out some of his comfiest cashmere pyjamas.

"I- I can't," Maxwell panted. "I have to shoot the- the infomercial."

You shook your head, unfolding the pyjamas. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, okay? This is your infomercial. Not anyone else's."

"I can't let them down." Maxwell insisted, looking back at the clothes that were pooled on the floor. He had to be brave. For once he had to be brave.

"No," you said sternly. Maxwell looked at you with doe eyes. "I want you to change and get into bed. I'll be back in one minute, I'm just going to let the crew and the director know that we'll do this another day."

"Yeah but-" As always, Maxwell Lord was the most stubborn man on the planet. "I can do it. I can- I can-"

"Sweetheart," you whispered, planting a kiss on his forehead. "There's no shame in admitting when you can't do something. No shame in struggling. I love you all the same."

"You aren't embarrassed of me?" he sniffed wearily.

"How could I be? I feel like the luckiest person on the planet because I scored with you. You're the most amazing, gentle, compassionate guy I have ever met. Max, I wish the rest of the world got to see you the way I see you. You are perfect." you smiled and Maxwell felt his cheeks flush pink.

"I love you so much." he confessed, and you giggled, leaning in to brush your lips against his.

"I love you too," you smiled warmly, nudging your nose against his. "Get comfortable and I'll dismiss the crew. I'll bring a VHS up and we can watch a movie in bed too. Anything you fancy?"

Maxwell pondered for a second, trying to remember his wide selection of filmography he kept in one of the living room cabinets. He could always go with one of his favourites— a guilty pleasure he liked to indulge in when he craved comfort. "Breakfast at Tiffany's?" he asked with a hopeful glint in his eye.

"Oh yes, we haven't watched that one in a while! I'll make us both some herbal tea too," you exclaimed, handing him a comb so he could brush out all the hair product and reveal his natural waves. "We've been needing a movie day." you commented.

"Let's not do anything," Maxwell grinned. "For once. Let's just relax and cuddle and watch movies."

"I can't think of anything better." you smiled cheerily, pinching his cheek and giving him another kiss.

Permanent taglist: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love @hayley-the-comet @pinkninja190 @maxiarapamaya @autumnleaves1991-blog @artsymaddie @harrys-stan @kennedywxlsh @cripplingmoon @cheekygeek05 @mrschiltoncat

[mmvalentine]

Lockdown Lovers, pt 2 | Feysand

Modern pandemic AU. Part 1 Part 3 Part 4

Feyre's smile dropped as soon as the bathroom door banged closed. She cursed herself mentally. Her crush on her best friend's cousin was getting wildly out of hand, she was pretty sure Rhys knew it.

Octopuses are so weird?! That was how she was trying to get him to spend time with her? Feyre slumped back in the couch, her legs sliding out in front of her. Octopuses? Octopi? Octopodes? She didn't know, but she was fairly certain it wasn't her grammatical clumsiness that made Rhys bolt for the bathroom and away from her. The poor thing had been stuck in an apartment with her for a month now, and clearly did not reciprocate her feelings. As the weeks went by, he had been avoiding her more and more. Feyre tried to stay out of his way, but in a tiny apartment where you weren't supposed to leave the house, it was very difficult.

Lost in the cringe, Feyre hadn't noticed the shower shut off, or the bathroom door open. She did, however, feel the kick against her ankle and the surprised yelp that came from Rhys as he tripped over her outstretched legs. Her eyes flew open.

"Rhys! I'm so sorry!" She scrabbled to pull her legs back and reached out to help him up. It was then she noticed he was naked in a towel, hair still wet, and she was touching his bare shoulder. His skin was soft and hot from the shower. She swallowed.

"Sorry," she mumbled again. Rhys just smirked. "Well, that's certainly one way to get me awake in the morning," he said. He ran a hand through his damp hair, and his bicep flexed with the movement. Feyre's eyes were dragged to the planes of his chest, and the harsh black lines of his tattoos.

"To be fair, I suppose this is my fault for having such a tiny apartment." "Yes, I mean no," Feyre replied quickly. "You know how grateful I am for you letting me stay. As soon as the lockdown lifts I'll be out of your hair."

Hair. His dark, thick crop looked so good slicked back like this. Feyre pushed her fingers though it in her mind, and had to will her focus back to the present. A funny look had come over Rhys' face, and she blushed, wondering if he had caught her fantasising.

"You can stay as long as you like," Rhys said. "Mor always says I get sullen when I spend too long away from other humans. Whatever that means."

Feyre smiled her thanks, and Rhys padded back to his bedroom.

For the rest of the day, Feyre bummed around the house. She watched netflix, and baked cookies, and cleaned the kitchen within an inch of its life. Like every other fucking day for the past month. Unlike Rhys, she was struggling to keep up motivation to work. Being cooped up like this made her feel both restless and sluggish at the same time. She did spend some time each day at her laptop, doing uni classes online, but it was difficult to get inspired to write when the environment was the same every damn day. She tried not to bother Rhys too much- as an extrovert, Feyre seemed to be struggling more with the lockdown than he did. By the time the sun was setting, she broke.

Outside Rhys' bedroom door, Feyre raised a hand to knock, then let it fall, then raised it again. Three times. After a month of living at close quarters, she wasn't sure why this was still so hard for her. Finally, she forced her knuckles to the wood, then waited. There was just the muffled music for a moment, then Rhys appeared.

"What's up?" he asked. His room smelled like him, and she got the sudden urge to go inside and curl up in his sheets.

"I, ah, was wondering if you'd like to come watch a movie with me. I ordered pizza." Rhys quirked an eyebrow. "Don't we have like a whole leftover lasagne that you made?" "Well, yes, but I felt like pizza." Rhys rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Sure. I'm just finishing up but give me a yell when the pizza gets here." Feyre nodded and headed back to the lounge. "And no more of those serial-killer docos we've been watching!" Rhys called after her.

Twenty minutes later, Feyre shut the front door and called out to her housemate. "Rhys, pizza's here," she hollered. She headed back to the lounge, flicking the lights off on her way through, and sat with her legs crossed under her. She balanced the flat boxes on one knee and pulled her laptop toward her on the other. A minute later, Rhys appeared next to her and sat down heavily on the couch. He pulled the pizzas from her, and opened the top box.

"Hey, you remembered my order," he said. Feyre snorted. "We live together, Rhys, I think I can remember one pizza order."

He picked up a slice and bit off half of it in one mouthful, then slung an arm round the back of the couch behind her while he chewed.

"So what are we watching?" he asked. "Not serial killers, right?" Feyre said. "Right," Rhys confirmed. She hit the link to stream to the TV, and Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge! came up on the screen. She expected Rhys to complain, but his eyes lit up and he leaned forward.

"Oh this is a great movie," he said. "Yeah?" "It's a classic, great choice."

Feyre smiled, surprised, and set the laptop to the side. She settled back against the couch and started on her own pizza. Rhys' arm went back behind her, and where his wrist hung off the couch, his fingers grazed her arm.

Feyre's skin warmed at even this slightest touch. It had been weeks since she'd had any real physical contact with anyone, and she sorely missed it. Mor was always so physically affectionate, she would kill for one of her signature hugs right now.

But alas, this was all she had. Feyre pushed the longing down deep and tried to concentrate on the movie.

Then, Rhys' arm moved from the couch, to actually resting across her shoulders. Feyre leaned back into him automatically, then tensed up as she realised what she had done. Before she could feel embarrassed, Rhys gave her arm a squeeze, and she relaxed into him. The warmth coming from under his soft hoodie felt amazing, and she almost groaned in relief.

Feyre stared ahead at the TV for a minute, the peeked up at Rhys. To her surprise, he was looking down at her, light from the screen flickering off his violet eyes. A slight grin tugged at his lips.

"Comfy?" he said. "Mmhmm," she murmured. He was so close she could have reached out and touched his lips.

Rhys turned his eyes back to the movie, and Feyre followed suit.

A few minutes later, he turned his body and lay back into the couch, pulling Feyre with him so she was between his legs with her head on his shoulder. She thrilled at the thought of being horizontal with him.

"Is this okay?" Rhys asked, just above her ear. "Yeah," Feyre replied, aiming for nonchalance. He chuckled beneath her, and she wasn't sure she achieved it. She felt the rumble through his chest, and loved it.

The movie played on, but Feyre lost track of it. She was busy secretly exploring this comfortable position with Rhys- the way his hoodie smelled like him, the solidity of his body beneath her, and the enthralling amount of contact their bodies now had. Sure, Rhys flirted, but she knew he wasn't genuinely into her. Still, she couldn't help moving her hand slowly across his chest, flexing as she felt the planes of his muscles even through the thick fabric. She breathed him in, and her head was dizzy with the scent.

Suddenly, Feyre went still, realising what she was doing. Her face burned in the dark room, and she hoped he was distracted enough by the movie that he hadn't noticed her smelling him. Feyre shifted her weight around, trying to find a position that felt less like she had pathetically draped herself all over him.

And then she felt something hard poking into her lower back, and stopped moving.

****

Keep it cute or go full smutty? These are the questions I have for you.

Also tags seem to not be working heaps well, so I don't know if pt 1 is more visible or if people just like it better. Any advice?

[nagito-kissmaeda]

A Lapse in Judgement - Part 4

CHAPTER ONE: A Dangrous Present CHAPTER TWO: A Past Forgotten CHAPTER THREE: A Foreshadowing CHAPTER FOUR: One Possible Conclusion CHAPTER FIVE: Untethered

Komaeda Nagito x Ultimate Empath!Reader

Summary: Deep down you always knew that it would end this way. Contains: she/her pronouns, emotional torture, canon major character death, suicide ment Read on AO3

You should have seen it coming. Komaeda was weirdly distant after you escaped the funhouse, alone in his room and not answering even when you pleaded for him to open the door. You should have seen the signs, you should have kicked the door down. There were so many things you should have done, but did not.  It made sense that someone would finally take the initiative and get rid of him after the bomb threat, you might even have forgiven them if it had been a gun to the head or a knife to the heart. 

You cup his face in your hands, staring hopelessly into a set of eyes with nothing behind them. Praying that if you look for long enough you will feel something, anything to prove that he is still in there somewhere. Your throat is dry and raw from a constant string of screams and sobs that you can't even hear. 

“Hey, c’mon. You have to get up.” Hinata says, reaching out and resting a hand on your shoulder.

You whirl around and the pity living behind the eyes of six different people slams into you. It only makes you angrier, “I am not leaving him.” you suck a breath in through your teeth, hot tears pouring down your face, “One of you did this .” you gesture to the empty vessel that had once held the soul of the man you loved, “Someone tortured him. You know perfectly well that he wouldn’t have resisted if someone tried to kill him. They didn't have to do this, they could have just stabbed him and been done with it, but no . The mother fucker tortured him.” you turn back to the body and brush some of the bloody hair away from his forehead, “You can do your worthless little investigation around me, but I am not moving.”

Your hear Hinata sigh behind you and suggest that everyone start investigating elsewhere for now. Sonia mutters some words of apology in your direction, but you ignore her and listen as only five sets of shoes leave the warehouse. Your fingers cart shakily through Komaeda’s hair and you ask, “Why are you still here?” 

Kuzuryu rounds the body and drops into a crouch on the other side. He doesn't say anything, he just stares at you. Behind his eyes you can feel more than just pity, it’s deeper, more complex. Empathy, guilt, understanding . 

“You know what i'm trying to say right?” He huffs, “I don't really understand how your weird-ass talent works, but you felt that. Didn’t you?”

“Oh.” You whisper, heart tensing with a sudden realisation, “Pekoyama.”

He turns away from you, a silent indication that these emotions were for him and him alone, “Yeah.” he says. 

You sniffle, trying to stop yourself from crying again while gently stroking Komaeda’s cheekbone with your thumb, “He was scared of dying alone.”

Kuzuryu doesn't say anything, but he also makes no move to leave.

“I know i probably couldn't have stopped it but, i wish i could have been there. I wish he could have seen me. I just hate…” your breathing is raggard, it’s hard to speak, “I know he did some fucked up shit, i know! But I loved him, I did and I don't even really know why. It’s just, it's...just-” your hands are looping around on eachother, circular, as you try to explain feelings that don't make sense, “-it’s like we’ve been here before. Like I love him because I already loved him, and will love him again and again and again ad infinitum.” You’re sobbing now, Kuzurya reaches across Komaeda’s corpse and rests a hand on your shoulder. A noise more like a shriek than a sob rips through you and your hands tangle in your hair, “I feel like i'm going crazy…” you whisper.  

“It’s grief.” He replies, “One day, we’ll both get over it.”

*

The trial is arduous. You were not around for much of the investigation, but that didn't matter to Monokuma, he dragged you kicking and screaming into the elevator and over to your podium. Everyone keeps looking at you, at the way your hair is frazzled from your grasping fingers and the barely dried tear tracks running down your cheeks. You can tell that Souda especially is just waiting for you to snap, like Komaeda once did. 

Your fingers are gripped white around the front of your podium, eyes locked only on the photograph across the room. Your mouth curls at the irony, that even he is staring at you. Judging you . 

Hinata is leading the discussion as usual, but there is a moment of silence every now and again. Like he is waiting for input from someone who cannot speak. A bottomless void, a lapse in more than just conversation. Hinata clenches his fist tight. 

You aren’t paying much attention, your talent has been acting up. You’ve been feeling things that aren’t even there, from a past life? From someone else’s? Nervous shaky hands cupping your cheeks, one hand and one glove slowly lifting the hem of your shirt. Lips that taste like summer and lips that taste like desperation. You can’t remember anything tangible, but god can you feel . Two sets of hands, two pairs of lips. Completely differently but irrecoverably similar. You feel like throwing up. 

“What do you think?” Hinata asks and you are ripped back to the present.

“Huh?” 

His brow is pulled tight, but his eyes are apologising to you and begging you to stay calm, “Would Komaeda commit suicide?” 

“I….WHAT? No!” You can’t believe it, you can’t believe the shit Hinata is trying to pull, “did you see the body? You think he did that to himself?!” 

Nanami turns to you. Giving you a gentle smile, “It’s okay.” She says, “we’re just working through it, but we need your help.” you’re shaking with a barely contained mania, teeth grinding and tears building in your eyes. Nanami just keeps smiling, and she means it. You can feel her fear, but even more than that, you can feel how deeply she cares for you. For all of you, “You knew him the best, didn’t you? Do you think he would do it?”

You feel calmer. Taking in a deep breath through your nose, “Not without a reason. He would never kill himself just for the sake of dying, he’s smart. He was trying to accomplish something.”

Nanami nods and rests a hand over her heart, “thank you. Considering what we found in his cabin, along with your testimony, I think it was more than just a suicide.”

What they found in the cabin was poison. Taken from the final dead room. You are dimly aware that it was probably in his pocket while he was fucking you, you turn your eyes to the ground. 

“We also found...one other thing.” Hinata mutters, he pulls an envelope out from his pocket and passes it over to you. Everyone is leaning in, trying to get a glimpse at what it is, “It was on the bookshelf, it’s addressed to you.”

Your hands are shaking as you grip the paper. You reach out and trace the lines of your name written in his messy handwriting. The envelope is still sealed.The trial continues. 

The reveal of the poison reveals a motive. Komaeda was trying to take the traitor down with him, the poison hidden in plain sight and his luck rolled the dice. Hinata runs through everything, piece by piece but there is no way to know who did it. No way to know who the traitor is. Unless of course, they come forward.

Nanami’s smile is heartbreaking. Hinata’s jaw is clenched tight when he realises the truth, whispering her name so gently so sweetly, like he is begging her to tell him that it’s all just a lie.  

You have a feeling though, twisting and turning in your stomach as Nanami begs for your votes. You try and ignore it to just vote for the traitor that Komaeda had wanted to kill, but the longer you waited the more the thought festered inside you. your fingers are still curled tightly around the envelope you don’t want to open, and his fingers are skill curled around your heart.

“Wait!” The word escapes from your mouth like a thunderclap, everyone’s eyes turn to you, “Please don't vote yet.”

Nanami tilts her head, a sweet smile on her lips that doesn't match the sorrow in her eyes “It’s okay. I need to go.”

You feel a tear spill over and run slowly down your cheek. Your hands are shaking, “Nanami. You don't .”

Souda groans, “I thought we were done! Why do you guys keep doing this?”

“Yeah.” Hinata says turning to you, “What is it? What happened?”

Your mouth opens and closes as you struggle to find the words. The room is closing around you and it feels like there is a vice affixed to your lungs, “What if he didn't want to kill the traitor. What if he wanted to kill everyone else?” 

“WHAT?” Souda screams, and the room fills with noise. Everyone is arguing and talking over each other, but you don't even hear it. Your fingers are shaking as you flip the envelope over, running your nail under the seam delicately, wanting to make sure it doesn't tear. (you don’t notice, but Monokuma is leaning forward with a grin on his face). It pops open and you reach inside. It isn't really a letter, it’s little more than a few worlds scrawled onto a notecard, but it changes to course of the trial all the same.

My life for yours

I love you

You clap a hand over your mouth and a sob rips through you. Tears rolling down your cheeks in rivlets as your body shakes, you collapse forward onto the podium. Your legs have given out. It was you . That moment in the funhouse, when his smile softed and his eyes turned bright, he thought the traitor was you . Because you took the time to love him, whatever sin he believed the rest of your cohort committed he thought you absolved. Innocent. You weren’t . He died for you and you weren't even the person he wanted to save. Did you even deserve to live now? Knowing it was a fictional version of yourself that he died for and not your true self? You knew the answer, and it made your next move just a little easier. 

You swallow, using your arms to push yourself back up. Breathing as deeply and evenly as you can, you force yourself to smile, “I killed him.” the words feel disgusting on your tongue, but they are true all the same, “It was me.” all the eyes in the room turn to you and you can feel them all, the confusion, the hatred, the sadness, it fills you up until you are bubbling over, crying and laughing all at once, “he thought i was the traitor. The grenade with the poison, I threw it. Nanami is innocent.” You pass the note back to Hinata, and his face pales when he reads it.

“But I thought…” Sonia starts, watching the realisation dawn on Hinata’s face, “I thought Nanami was the traitor.” 

“She is.” You say, “But...I was kind to him.” You turn to Hinata again, it’s hard to see him through your watery eyes, “Will you convince them for me?”

Hinata’s face is grave, but he nods.

*

There is little time for goodbyes. Just before Monokuma pulls you away, Nanami grabs you by the hand and smiles.

“They told me to keep an eye on the two of you.” She says, “What happens twice will always happen a third time.

”“What do you mean?”

A tear cascades down her cheek, you notice it glitters eerily in a way real tears never would, “love transcends memory.”

“Wait- Nanami what-” 

“ALL RIGHT! TIMES UP!” Monokuma yells, “And I have the perfect punishment ready for the Ultimate Empath.”

You grab Nanami’s hand tighter, desperation racing up your spine, “Nanami, what happened two times? You have to tell me please-”

A metal collar snaps around your throat and you’re tugged backwards, feet scrambling against the ground as it races under you. Your reach out a hand, Nanami’s name screeching from your lips but the familiar figures of your classmates grow smaller and smaller as you disappear down a hallway and into the darkness. Something slams you down in a small wooden chair, the room is pitch black and you can't see a single thing. 

You try to struggle and a set of metal shackles clamp around your wrists and ankles. It’s quiet. You can hear the sound of your rapid heartbeat and the whirring of machinery. You’re going to die. A sob catches in your throat and you squeeze your eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling over. Then, a flash of light behind your eyelids, and something (or someone) comes up from behind you, forcing your eyes open.

 “No…” you whimper, struggling against your restraints with a new determination. The metal bites into your skin and you writhe and shake, your heart is pounding and you can't breathe , “NO! Don't make me look. Don't. PLEASE!” 

Whatever they are using to keep your eyes open does not relent. You are sobbing and begging and pleading, but they make you watch.

Komaeda is sticking the duct tape over his mouth. He lifts up the knife, and the determination in his eyes morphs into fear. His hand shakes, and he drives the knife into his thigh. You scream, trying so hard to escape that the chair is creaking and groaning under you. He stabs again and again and again. Knife down the arm, knife through the palm. You feel it all. Slamming your head backwards into the back of the chair, bitterly hoping that you’ll crack your skull open like an egg. You want to die. 

He is just lying there now. All alone. Staring up at the spear where it dangles above him. It hurts, it hurts so much. He is all alone, you left him to die all alone. You’re like a rabid animal, twisting and turning in the chair, unhinged and terrified. He is still just lying there . You can’t stop crying, your chest is hurting from the way your breath heaves and from the shrieks that won't stop leaving your throat. Then, a door opens. Now that you know to listen for it, you recognise the sound of monokuma panels toppling over, and the woosh as the curtain catches alight. The determination in his eyes is back, but then…

“Oh god! Is he back there?” That was your voice, “We need to put out this fire, if he’s back there he's going to die!”

Komaeda laughs behind the tape. Eyes softening. He loves you loves you loves you. He’s going to miss you. 

You aren't making any noise anymore, your mouth is hung open in a silent scream as you feel your heart beating in tandem with his, “I love you…too” you whisper, your voice shattered and wheezy.

His eyes open wider and for a moment you think he heard you, but then you realise what he heard was the sound of the fire grenades shattering. For the first time, during this whole ordeal, he feels regret. Just before the poison reaches him, he changes his mind, maybe he doesn't want to die. It kills you. Your very being is twisting and warping, your heart catches on a hook and is reeled back into shore, the tears running down your face begin to boil and steam. You watch him as he starts to writhe, screaming inaudibly behind the tape, struggling against his restraints as the poison enters his system....and you feel it.

Finality, relief, and a bittersweet goodbye. 

His eyes glaze over, and your soul rips in half.

But then, the joke is on Monokuma, because whatever he does to you, however he deals the final blow. It doesn't matter. You are no longer there. You’re in a classroom a million miles away, sitting on the windowsill with the boy you are in love with. His nervous fingers, gently intertwined with yours.

[ftstorm]

My take on 5x10

Welp, that was a big one!

You know, before going into this episode I reminded myself this was the first episode of a new era, the first episode completely made by the new team.

So with that in mind my expectations were "Okay, let's see what they've got."

And oh boy did they surprise me.

DISCLAIMER: this text post is long af, not kidding.

1. THE INTRO SCENE.

You guys have no idea how glad I am that we got Mac doing a usual MacGyvering in his house. It's been ages since they implemented this format of showing his dynamics outside Phoenix and around his house.

I wasn't worried about the proposal thing at all. Guys, you have to accept that MacRiley was always going to happen after that 4x04 episode.

There was also the fact that this was the intro scene (usually the most important plot issues happen in the outro scene), Bozer's weird reaction and the melancholic audio cue.

If that proposal was happening, they would've made it more uplifting.

(I gotta say that watching Monica Marcer and the official MacGyver account making damage control in Twitter 3mins into the episode was a funny experience)

So my initial questions about Mac wanting to propose were: "what are his motivations?" and "how is this not going to work out by the end of the episode?"

The second question we got the answer later on. The first question remains unanswered. If we take on Mac's words, he says:

Mac: Unexpected, I know, I know. But that's why I like about it. You know ever since I lost my dad and Jack I've been thinking about the bigger picture. A commitment to make things work it's exactly what Desi and I need. A grand romantic gesture. *cue melancholic music*

Here we're presented with a bunch of things worth analysing, in my opinion.

He's trying to see the "bigger picture" which, for me, it means he's trying to tackle down different issues from his life with one specific, efficient action [the proposal]. Those issues being:

> his current romantic relationship: make is aware they have an inconsistent relationship > his performance at work: he needs balance between his personal affairs and his work, which is based on saving the world in a daily basis and for that he needs to be focused. > dealing with his past losses: to my understanding, saying "ever isn I lost my dad and Jac I've been thinking about the bigger picture" means that he doesn't want hopelessness to take over him, he wants to keep on moving and being proactive about his life.

So... you have to understand that in some sort of way, this proposal thing is a signal that Mac is healing. In some sort of way, if you were in Mac's shoes you would see that it was a positive thing for him. A step forward.

The thing is, we [the audience] have an extended understanding of the situation and we know that an engagement would be an incredibly rushed decision.

As well as it is that Mac's trying to move forward, he obviously hasn't been able to pinpoint the true issue behind his relationship with Desi. He isn't wrong about them lacking in the commitment department, but forcing the relationship to scalate isn't the right move. He should be asking himself: "Why are we avoiding commitment?"

And that's when he'd find out that they have very deep and important trust and communication issues.

~~~~

2. Moving on. MURDOC.

Russ: I can process it more efficiently by having it all spread out ahead me, you know. I reckon see the bigger picture at once.

This is when I realized that the episode was centered on this whole "bigger picture" idea. Russ struggles to see the full picture until the very end and Mac finds out that he hasn't been seeing the full picture of his life at all by the end of the episode.

Fast forward, the team's in Mexico, Riley knows about the ring already and she has already had the talk with Bozer in which she refers to her feelings for Mac in a past tense.

Then Murdoc appears.

And as if the episode wasn't already a rollercoaster after Mac's reveal, now Murdoc shows up to put everything upside down.

First I gotta say, man Dastmalchian is SUCH A GOOD MURDOC. Excellent actor. The way he delivers his lines, his facial expressions, all of it make an original and very entertaining Murdoc.

He always gives me such a Andrew Scott's Moriarty vibes and I love it.

Secondly, his dynamic with Andrews: *cheff kiss*

I loved how Andrews was so over Murdoc's theatrics, to the point his facial expression screamed "Why did I even reclute this guy" LOL.

Back to the story.

This is something I was hoping it wouldn't happen but at the same time I don't see another way it could've happened which is the explanation behind Murdoc's escape and how Phoenix didn't know about it.

Because what they told us is that the FBI didn't let them in on Murdoc's escape, right? Does that imply that the FBI has a corrupt agent in charge? Does it imply that the order of not letting Phoenix in came from above? Maybe someone with higher clearence than Matty? A politician? Governement conspiracy?

It smells like plot hole, tbh. I feel like the Murdoc's escape is a classic "it is what it is". We'll see if they come back to this in later episodes.

~~~~

3. BIG SECRET REVEAL 1.

By now we're at the point of the rollercoaster where you're going up and up and up. Your tension building more and more as you're getting close to the drop.

Bozer and Riley's audio was the drop.

You know, during this scene I jumped from my seat, closed my eyes, cringed, squealed, my heart accelarated, forgot how to breathe...

As a person who is a little bit bipolar when it comes to romance (I can be very shy about it or very outspoken about it) that scene made me SO UNCOMFORTABLE.

Imagine having your feelings exposed not only to the person you have feelings for but also his girlfriend who happens to be your friend, your boss and the criminal that's threatening to kill hundreds of people.

I was like: "Not like this!!"

And Mac's reaction didn't help because of the lack of it. I don't know what I expected but his slightly monotone reaction broke my heart.

Thankfully, I've recovered since then and I don't mind that it happened that way.

Still, imagine how suffocating it must've been for Riley. That idea was what made me so uncomfortable and I think that's what they were going for. They wanted to make it as straightforward and awkward as possible.

But it doesn't end there. It's followed by Mac revealing the ring to Desi (and Riley). Mac's in "fuck it" mood and Desi kinda panics.

Little side note here, using GUM and a DIAMOND to break a bullet proof glass... BIG YES. That's an intrinsic MacGyverism.

~~~~

4. BIG SECRET REVEAL 2.

Then we get a breather from this drama by introducing another drama, Leanna's death.

Bozer's reaction to the news was heartbreaking for my already heartbroken heart.

I have my suspicions as to why they decided to kill her... The other episode completely made by the new team was the Quarantine one (5x06). During that episode Mac and Bozer bond over Bozer's pain. After learning about Bozer's mom, Mac chooses to share a piece of his own pain with him.

So, hear me out, I think they writers are planning to help Mac process his own grief THROUGH Bozer's grief. Keep in mind that we still have a Bozer centered episode coming up.

This is just a theory. I may be wrong, but I think it may be right too.

Back to the episode.

Once again we see a three dimensional Russ. He does something accordingly to his own judgement thinking it's the right decision [hiding Leanna's death], he realizes he screwed up, he gives Bozer a very heartfelt apology about it.

Henry's acting talent shone with this narrative. Actually, most of the actors had the chance to shine THANKS to the NARRATIVE. Murdoc, Andrews, Desi, Mac, Russ and Bozer... they all had their highlight moments (I'll talk about Riley later).

Parenthesis here... THE NARRATIVE HAS RETURNED THEIR SOULS TO OUR DEAR CHARACTERS!

WOW, they aren't brooding, angry, sad or whiny ALL THE EFFIN TIME. ABOUT TIME!

~~~~

5. LAST ACT.

For the third or fouth time in this episode my heart broke again when Mac was friendly towards Riley, after she explained herself. It really felt like he was friendzoning her.

But here's something to point out. Riley visibly relaxed when he reacted that way. What does that tell us?

> She had been so tense up until that point. Imo, she's on the defensive now. You can even see it in her wardrobe, make up and hairstyle choices. They're very contrasting to Riley's most vulnerable moments in this show (like when Audrey broke up with her).

Riley has had a year to sort out her feelings. We see in this episode that she spoke about them in a past tense. Whether she achieved it or not is unknown. We just know that she has at least tried to move on.

> She was mostly afraid of ruining her close relationship with Mac (who's her only family, along with Bozer) and her friendship (?) with Desi. We've seen it over and over again: Riley DID NOT WANT to get in the middle of them.

Keep that in mind as we go in the last scene.

It took me a while to figure out a possible thread of thought inside Mac's mind. Why did he look at the ring and decided to go to Riley's house? It really didn't make sense to me.

One moment he was thinking about his proposal and somehow that lead to him having the necessity to know if Riley still had feelings for him? Why??

My theory is that he went to her apartment for permission.

His question was a way of asking Riley for permission to propose to Desi. It was a way of reassuring himself that proposing was still the right decision.

In a way, he could also be fishing for an excuse to not do it [the proposal].

Because now he has doubts. He's confused, unsure.

Mac asks:

Mac: Hiding your emotions and letting it pass. Did it go away?

What could her answer have been? Here I wanna go back again to Riley being emotionally defensive, added her strong desire of not wanting to be in the middle of Mac and Desi's relationship.

I think she would've said "Yes, it worked."

Because it also lines up with my idea that the love triangle has changed from "Riley's a better match for Mac" to "Mac needs to win Riley's heart".

Riley's done her job. She worked out her feelings. Now it's time for Mac to sort out his humongously messed up internal self and reignite her spark. That's what I think.

Also, if anyone has any idea on how the song that played in that scene relates with the moment please share it with me because I don't really understand the song choice lol.

~~~~

6. ADDITIONAL COMMENTS

Desi. I'm not sure what's going on in her mind. She seemed stressed out by the ring, very serious about Riley, lenient with Mac... I'm really not sure.

My guess would be that she doesn't want that type of commitment but she wants to be with Mac yet she can't ignore Riley so does that mean she has to end it with Mac? That's the thought process she may have had? Idk...

I'm glad they let her be mature about it, with no overreactions, no whining, no blaming, nothing of that style that we're used to see in her.

I'm also glad about that moment when she defeats Murdoc and Andrews. THAT'S HOW YOU WRITE A TOUGH DESI. It was filmed with such a gracefulness and elegance. I liked it.

From a MacDesi point of view, she's probably being open minded and giving him space and waiting for him to come back to her... but somehow I got the vibe that she's actually... running away?

Lastly but no less important.

THE HISPANIC REPRESANTION OMG. RUSS SPEAKING SPANISH AND THAT CUMBIA MUSIC FILLED MY HEART WITH SO MUCH PRIDE!!! :')

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 39)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25  Lewis POV 3,  Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5, Mystery POV 2, Lewis POV 6, Vivi POV 5

Part 40: here

...

LEWIS POV

Lewis comes to welcome the dark interludes which provide a brief reprieve from the parade of fake-Arthur-memories. The cold, empty silence is preferable to the increasingly dour scenes depicting the day-to-day struggles of fake-Arthur and fake-Vivi as they fail at dealing with fake-Lewis’s death. Not that either of them know about his death. Arthur doesn’t remember the cliff or the body snatcher, thinking fake-Lewis is alive and lost somewhere. Vivi doesn’t remember him at all. He’s been erased completely from her mind, leaving her confused and Arthur distraught.  Lewis has no idea how long he’s spent watching them struggle. The scenes come and go at varying lengths and changing levels of detail.  He must have lived through several weeks’ worth of fake-memories now. Months of Arthur’s life flit by, broken up into chunks. 

...

A conversation with Vivi, trying and failing to convince her that the other-Lewis had existed at all.

“Lewis…you know, Lewis. Please remember.”

“I’m sorry, I blanked out for a second there…what were you saying?” 

“Nothing. It’s nothing…”

“Oh shit…I was...how long was I out for this time?”

“An hour...You were gone for an hour.”

 “I’m sorry Arthur.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Was my fault…Mentioned something I shouldn’t have.”

Fights with Lance when the older man attempts to intervene and stop Arthur’s increasingly destructive behaviour.   

“This behaviour isn’t healthy.”

“What am I supposed to do!”

“Maybe, stop and actually think about this…” 

“Lewis is out there somewhere, and you want me to just give up!”

Hours spend online and in police stations trying to convince people to look for the other-Lewis. 

“Kid. You’re friend is listed as missing. We have alerts out in the neighbouring states and so far there’s been no word. Search parties, caving experts, were combing those old mine shafts for six days after you came in. There was nothing there.”

“Something happened there...something bad...if you would just...”

“The cave is just a regular cave. Those old mines are old mines. Nothing weird or spooky about them, just very easy to get lost in. There’s nothing more to be done so go home, eat a hot meal, get some sleep. If your friend shows up you’ll be one of the first to know. ” 

...

 It’s like watching a highlight real, only nothing about these memories is a highlight. He’s almost sure the fake-memories are selected and purposefully skewed towards negative experiences. Surely, even if this were real-it’s not real, it can’t be real-Arthur’s life wouldn’t be this bad without Lewis there.  

When the darkness falls away, transitioning into another memory, Lewis wants to yell out in frustration.

…

…

…

Lewis’s eyes open of their own accord and he’s looking out at the world, experiencing life from his friend’s perspective.

…

…

This memory starts with Arthur staring as a door handle, hesitating to pull it open. Lewis recognises it of course, he’s seen this door serval times, scattered in amongst the most recent lot of fake-memories. It’s the door to Vivi and Arthur’s apartment in Milton, faded green in colour and rusted around the hinges.

Arthur lets out a long breath which tranistions into a yawn, fiddling around with a set of keys with his one, good arm. Lewis tries not to worry when his friend drops the keys to the ground, hand slightly shakier than usual. Arthur probably hasn’t been sleeping properly. Not-sleeping is a running theme for this fake-memory-Arthur.

When the door does finally swing open, it is to reveal an irate Vivi. She is blocking the flat’s narrow entryway, her hands on her hips, expression creased into a scowl.

“In what universe does ‘I’ll be back early’ mean 11:30 pm?”

Arthur winces. Lewis can’t see his expression but his friend is probably grimacing. Most memories that feature both Vivi and Arthur involved an argument of some sort. Another form of torture for him no doubt. Seeing them struggle to come to terms with his disappearance was always a painful viewing experience. Lewis braces himself for some sort of emotionally charged argument, wishing he had the power to intervein. These fake-memories are some of the hardest to sit through.

“A lot of the guys in the lab work late hours.”

Vivi looks unimpressed, “And I suppose they’re all recovering from a recent amputation as well are they?”

“It’s been four months …It’s healed plenty.”

Lewis feels the echo sensation of pain as Arthur drops his bag to the floor, freeing up his remaining arm. Arthur lying to Vivi about his wellbeing is another common theme in these fake-memories. Vivi knows it too, Lewis can already see the tension in her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Arthur tries to reassure, skirting around Vivi, avoiding eye contact. “The prototype for the new arm is almost done, we’re just waiting on the guys in programming to double-check some of the coding….”

“This new arm isn’t going to be worth much if you’re too exhausted to do anything with it.” Vivi interrupts angrily, following Arthur as he slinks past the small kitchen towards bedrooms at the back of the apartment.  

Lewis feels her grabs the back of Arthur’s shirts, pulling the other up short.

“I said I’m fin….wait.”

 Vivi drags Arthur to the narrow kitchen bench just big enough to fit two bar-chairs, ignoring his objections.

“Sit.” She orders, stopping over to the frig, pulling out a bowl and thrusting it into the microwave. The hum of the microwave makes the following quiet twice as uncomfortable. Even Lewis feels it.

Arthur clears his throat to speak and is cut off when the microwave lets off a loud ping.

Vivi all but slams the streaming bowl down in front of Arthur.

“You really don’t have to…” Arthur tries.

“Oh yeah? What did you eat for dinner?”

Silence.

“Lunch?”

“…”

“Because I only know you ate breakfast because I was there for it.”

More silence hangs between them.  

“Eat.” She instructs and glares until Arthur picks up the spoon. Lewis can feel Arthur shift in awkward discomfort as he starts eating. After living through so many of these fake-memories, Lewis is becoming an Arthur body language expert. 

“How was work?” Arthur breaks the silence, glancing at Vivi. She is sitting with her arms crossed, still upset, still annoyed. Lewis can read the worry fuelling her frustration clear as day. 

Her expression clears as she deliberately puts the issue of Arthur arriving late to one side, “Work was good. Duet is a real character but they’re nice and super knowledgeable when it comes to the occult and other supernatural stuff. They’re helping me research memory-related curses and whatnot. The first person, apart from you, who doesn’t think I’m crazy. So that’s a plus.”

“When my arm is fixed, we can hit the road and follow up on any leads you hear,” Arthur murmurs between mouthfuls and Lewis wishes he could face-palm because that is the exact wrong thing to say. Not for the first time, Lewis longs to be physically present so he can smooth over the sudden tension which spikes in the room.  “Or we could go before that…I mean…I don’t really need two arms.”

“It’s not urgent or anything,” Vivi responds with the forced cheer of someone holding back on speaking their mind. “I bleary notice that the memories are gone most days. Your arm is more important.”

 “Don’t say that,” Arthur stops eating to frown.

“Don’t say what? That I’m fine postponing the search for my memories for however long it takes you to get better?”

“That’s not…what I mean is that your memories are important.”

Vivi’s expression hardens, becoming terse, “Not more important than your health.”

Arthur tenses.

“My missing memories can wait,” She insists. “I’ve been doing fine without them. Especially now we live here and not in Tempo. I haven’t had a blackout since we moved.”

“It’s not just that…” Arthur retorts, frustrated.

“Then what.” Vivi snaps, almost yelling now, “Do you hear yourself speak?  ‘I don’t really need two arms,’…are you kidding me!  What could possibly be more important than your health.”

“You know I can’t tell you.”

Vivi lets out a long, frustrated breath, standing. “You promised, when we moved closer to the hospital labs, you promised that you’d make an effort to actually look after yourself.”

Arthur doesn’t respond as Vivi continues.  “When your arm is finished. When you look like an actual person and not a zombie. When we don’t have to have this conversation every day. Then we’ll go searching.”

The bar stool squeaks on the floor as Vivi pushes it back, “I’m going to bed. I’ve got work early tomorrow. You should sleep as well…when you’ve finished.”

A long silence stretches between his two friends, all the heat gone from the argument. Lewis can’t see Vivi anymore, Arthur’s vision is now fixed on his spoon which is resting on the lip of the bowl.

“I would tell you everything…if I could…” Arthur doesn’t look up. His voice is strained.

Vivi pauses in the doorway. “I know.” She sounds tired. Lewis’s heart aches. “That doesn’t change anything.” 

Arthur flinches.

A sigh and Vivi adds, “I better not find you awake in an hour because I’m going to set my alarm to check.”

“What?” Arthur finally looks up. “You can’t do that.”

“I can and will.”

“…but you just said you have work in the morning.”

“If you’re not gonna sleep then I’m not gonna sleep.”

“But….”

“Just the way it’s gotta be apparently,” Vivi finishes, strolling out of the room, leaving Arthur- and, through him, Lewis- to stare after her.

Arthur slumps, “God…damnit…” rubbing his eyes. There’s no anger to the word.

No matter how many times he’s seen Arthur and Vivi argue in the weeks and months following his counterpart’s death, it never got any easier.  They were both too stubborn for their own good. Arthur’s got a quiet, methodical stubbornness about him while Vivi is loud and abrasive. Mix that with emotional stress and an obvious concern for one another and the result was a whole load of tension. Lewis knows Arthur has low self-esteem and tendency to beat himself up and blame himself for stuff that definitely wasn’t his fault, but he’s never seen him this bad. It never seemed like that big a deal when both him and Vivi had been around to help.  Vivi too, he’s never see her so stressed and angry at seemingly everything.  Or maybe Lewis doesn’t know Vivi or Arthur as well as he thought he did. 

There is movement in the corner of the room and Lewis notices Mystery for the first time. The not-a-dog had been lying in the corner.

“What.”

Mystery just cocks his head to the side.

“I know you can understand me,” Arthur mutters, shifting with discomfort. Mystery doesn’t speak or do much of anything, trotting out of the room after Vivi. Not too surprising. Another trend in these illusions was that Mystery tended to just sit and watch.

Sometimes, Lewis wonders if he just imagined the whole ‘giant fox’ thing. His memories for the car park confrontation are fuzzy, he’d been in a lot of pain at the time and probably suffering a bit of blood loss. He’s lived through so many of these memories that the real would seams so far away. Then he remembers those shinning teeth biting into him, and very real physical pain. That was real. 

The real world was still out there. 

None of these memories were real. He had almost forgotten. 

“I’m not crazy,” Arthur murmurs, eyeing the dog uneasily before turning back to finish what’s left in his bowl. Lewis can’t read Arthur’s thoughts, but he suspects that his friend might be having similar doubts about Mystery’s true identity as well.

“I’ll find you, Lewis…”

For a second, Lewis thinks Arthur is addressing him directly before remembering that that’s impossible. This fake-memory-Arthur is addressing the ghost of a best friend he doesn’t know is dead. Lewis is only a passenger, watching life through Arthur’s eyes, invisible and stranded.

“I’ll find you …no matter what it takes. I’ll find you. And everything will go back to normal…”

…

…

…

The memory fades, darkening and Lewis is once again back in the dark.

...

...

...

“DAMNIT!”

He slams both fists into the ground, watching the darkness ripple under the impact. His yell doesn’t echo, swallowed by the nothing.

“Damnit…DAMNIT…DAMN IT ALL!”

Feelings of frustration and anger smother his hurt and sorrow. He growls, smashing his fist into the ground again. If this were the real world, he’d have to worry about bruising his knuckles or breaking his fingers. The void offers little in the way of resistance. 

“I GET IT, ALL RIGHT! They’re miserable…they’re struggling…I get the point!”

Nothing responds to his shouting. He’s alone. He shouts again, screaming into the void. He’s stopped questioning the motive behind what he was seeing long ago. They were illusions masquerading as his friend’s memories. Designed to hurt him as much as you can hurt a person without touching them.

“Just stop already!” He rages. Nothing responds.

 Fury, white-hot, is better than the creeping sadness threatening to drown him. Sure, being angry about things had never worked well for him in the past. He’d been a very angry child and it was only thanks to his adopted patents and then Vivi and Arthur that he’d put the unpleasant emotion behind him.

None of that mattered here. Here, in the dark, the anger is his only defence against the green bastard’s torture.

Lewis regrets not punching the asshole when he had the chance. He wishes he’d done a lot of things differently. Lewis continues yelling right up until the dark once again fades into another memory.

..

NOTE: Resurrecting this fic in anticipation for a possible new video maybe? One can only dream. Sorry if it reads slightly different, i’m a bit rusty.  

Part 40: here

[javisjeanjacket]

Moon Song (poe dameron x fem!reader)

A/N: I really went buck wild with this one i’m sorry to those with short attention spans. Phoebe Bridgers' new record, Punisher, came out a few days ago and it broke my heart just like I knew it would. Moon Song really got me so I had to write a fic about it. I put the lyrics of hers that I used in bold. 🌙🥺

“So I will wait for the next time you want me Like a dog with a bird at your door”

Genre: emo, sad boi hours 

Warnings: get ready for some intense pining, drinking / a lil bit of drunk poe, feeling like you don’t belong, straight up simping, cursing as well :)

Word count: 4178 oops

(If i used your gif, please let me know so it can add your tag!!)

-hai 

GIF by @captain-flint​

The Resistance hangar was a-buzz as X-Wings began to return to base from their latest mission. Resistance operatives scurried throughout the hangar, giddy to welcome the brave pilots back to base.

Trying to keep your expression light, your eyes casually scanned over the chaotic hangar for the black mop of Poe's hair or the whirring of BB-8 on the metal floor. Anxiety began to build inside you when you didn't see your friend's black and orange fighter emerge from the cloud of descending jets.

Determined to remain optimistic, you grabbed a sweat-drenched Wexley as he passed by you on the way to the hangar door. "Hey, Snap." You said, smiling tightly.

The bearded man turned to you with an accomplished grin. "Hey, Y/N! How goes it?"

"Have, uh, have you seen Poe? I can't find him." Your bottom lip snuck into your mouth.

"Uh, no. He was the one who ordered us to jump to light speed and come home, I figured he would be right behind us." Wexley's dark eyebrows furrowed and his gaze glided across the busy hangar.

"Cool, cool. Thanks." You said, refusing to allow worry to overtake you.

"I'm sure he's fine. At least he was the last time I saw him." The tall man shrugged and turned back towards a smiling Jess waiting for him in the hallway.

Your fingers began to intertwine themselves together and your heels pushed you to rock back and forth on your toes gently.

Long, drawn out moments passed without seeing the Yavinite pilot.

"Goddamnit." You cursed under your breath. Frustration began to build in your fingertips as your thoughts began to spiral.

'Is it weird that I'm still waiting for him? His squadron believes that he's fine, they're already on their way to the Mess Hall. Should I follow them? What if he's not fine and I'm the only one who notices? Would that even happen? He is the best pilot in the Resistance after all...'  Your mind ricocheted aimlessly between hypotheticals.

In a desperate attempt to save a bit of your dignity, you took quiet steps back towards the hallway outside of the hangar and let your eyes drift to your boots moving under you.

Turning the corner out of the hangar, your shoulder collided with another. Your eyes whipped up from their home on your feet and your mind pulled itself out of the reverie. Your gaze met that of Leia Organa's.

"Lieutenant Y/L/N," General Organa said tersely, a power simmering behind her stare.

Struggling to comprehend what level of treason you had just committed, you began to apologize, "General, I am so sorry. I wasn't paying-"

Softly, her withered hand found a home atop your shoulder. She smiled gently and rubbed a thumb across the tense line of your shoulder.

"You look sick, Y/N. Do you feel alright?" She asked, her head cocked to the side with concern.

"Oh, no, General. I'm just, uh-"

"He'll be here." Leia interrupted, a knowing smile spreading on her face.

Your mouth opened a bit in shock and embarrassment. 'Get yourself out of this moment.'  Your brain was throwing a tantrum inside you, pleading for you to just take it out and put in a drawer to rest.

"Who do you mean?" You scrunched your eyebrows in feign curiosity. You knew exactly who she was talking about, and she knew that you knew.

Putting your comfort before her own desire to tease you, the General ignored your question and continued with her previous train of thought. "We would have heard about it if he wasn't coming back. You would have felt it." She assured you. She smiled softly, moved her hand back down to her side, and walked past you towards the hangar bay.

You shifted your weight in frustration. The spasming in your heart pleaded with you to turn around and follow Leia back to the hangar. To ask her how she knew about you and Poe.

Did he tell her about you? Did he tell anyone about you? Your mind floated towards the muffled laughs and singing coming from the Mess Hall. You could steel yourself, build a fortress around your heart, and go to dinner and pretend like seeing Poe come home safely was of little interest to you.

Knocking you from your thoughts, an orange and white ball droid came barreling through the hallway, stopping to beep and boop in circles around you.

"BB-8!" You exclaimed. You kneeled down to be eye level with him. You scratched his sides happily. "Where is he, buddy?"

BB-8 rolled his eye in a 360 and beeped sarcastically as his head dome motioned towards the hangar.

You turned to look back towards the bustling hangar.

Poe was jumping out of his X-Wing. He wiggled his head out of his helmet and handed it off to the ship tech assisting him.

Your heart swelled with relief. You could feel the adrenaline of worry zipping through your arms and legs. Taking a deep breath, you took unsure steps towards the newly returned pilot.

Poe's suit had several burn marks across the chest and a piece of his sleeve clung to him by a thread. His angular face was covered in dirt and rubble collected in his thick hair.

Your steps began to quicken, seeing him so close to you now and imagining the pain of each of the new burns that he had been given so far away. Your heart flickered with desideratum at the thought of being able to take care of him. Of him trusting you to heal him. A twinge of pain shot across your chest and caught on a hook in your throat.

BB-8 rolled closely behind you as Poe's eyes finally fell upon you.

You smiled brightly, so easily overwhelmed by the pilot's attention.

A soft smile fell across Poe's face and he held out his arm towards you.

Finally reaching him, you pressed your face into the thick of his flight suit and wrapped your arms around his shoulder blades to rest your hands on the tops of his shoulders.

"Good to see you." You whispered. The words seemed to be stuck to the roof of your mouth, forcing you to overchew them on their way out.

Poe held you tight to his body, one hand gripping your neck and the other pressed against your back. His mouth sat buried in your hair, dangerously close to your skin. His breath sent ripples across your cheek as he replied, "You know I had to come back to see you."

You chuckled into the must of his burnt suit.

For this moment, things were as they should be. You had Poe in your grasp and he had you in his. He was safe and victorious and happy to see you.

So that it was too quick to mean too much, Poe pushed away from your rapturous touch.

Your heart burning in your throat, you smiled softly at him. A shaking breath coerced your chest into trembling. You let him go and realized that the two of you had suddenly become a sizable horde of Resistance fighters gathering around the returned pilot.

"Dameron!" Finn's voice boomed from across the room.

You both looked towards your friend's voice as pats on the back and the phrase, "Great job! You're a hell of a pilot!" echoed throughout the hub of people.

Finn pushed past you to gush about Poe to Poe.

"Buddy!" Poe exclaimed as Finn fell into his arms.

Without a chance to fight against it, you suddenly found yourself and the twittering BB unit standing on the outside of a collection of excited Rebels.

You sighed, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and looked down at the confused orange and white droid. "You tired?"

BB-8 twittered in a pattern that could be mistaken for a 'Hell yes' and without warning, the little droid began to roll towards Poe's quarters.

Taking one last look at the Captain, cracks began to splinter down your chest. So entrenched in the love and adoration of his admirers, his mind had wandered from you. You took a deep breath and turned to follow BB-8 back through the hanger, down the hall, and out of the main building to the Captain's quarters.

BB-8 made it to the door before you did and exclaimed happily when you typed in the code, allowing the door to slide open. The small droid zoomed quickly towards his charging pad tucked against a relatively empty bookcase.

This time, entering Poe's quarters felt like walking on eggshells. The memories of his bedsheets on your bare skin, your fingers curling around his bedframe in pleasure, and your clothes scattered across his floor pulled such emotion out of the depths. Your heart seemed to crawl up into itself thinking of how much you wanted to be with him. You wanted people to see you and wonder where Poe was. The mornings when you woke up next to him remained holy in your thoughts and haunted your days.

Beeping loudly in annoyance, BB-8 drew you into the present.

You looked towards him, embarrassed and guilty for forgetting about him.

The droid moved back and forth next to his charging pad, excited to finally get some rest.  

You snickered as you sat up the charging station for him. "Okay, buddy. You ready?" You asked as three blue squares appeared on the pad, ready to charge.

BB-8 whirred onto the metal plate. He twittered a small thank you and then powered down, forcing the charging bar on the plate below him to turn green.

You smiled at the lifeless droid and took a final look around Poe's room. Jackets and partner-less boots littered the floor of his quarters. A curled-up X-Wing manual sat on his nightstand beside a half-drunk cup of water and a broken ear communicator.

Trusting that Poe Dameron would stay true to his personality and want nothing more after a mission than a big meal and a drink, you locked his bedroom door behind you and headed to the Mess Hall, your boots clacking on the floor.

The Hall was sparse, only occupied by those still awake at this time of night and in need of a cup of coffee, as well as the celebrating Black Squadron.

Catching Jess's eye as you walked past the group of chatting fighter pilots, you flashed her a smile.

The warm woman smiled back at you and tapped the table top beside her. "Y/N! Come sit with us." She said.

You laughed and moved around the table to sit beside her.

Helmets and trays of food cluttered the table top under the lieu of conversation between the pilots.

"Man, that high side gun pass..." Wexley stated, shaking his head and shoving another bite into his mouth.

Kare laughed and leaned back in her seat. "Snap, I don't think that would have worked without Poe there to save your ass."

The squadron laughed softly and you pulled the meat of your lip in between your teeth.

Jess elbowed your side softly. "Why don't you get some food?"

You cheeks grew red and you said sheepishly, "Oh, yeah, food."

Standing from the table, you went to the serving line and waited patiently for the Resistance cook, Zeno, to make his appearance behind the line.

Zeno scurried out from behind a huge floating refrigerator, a crate of giant eggs in his arms, and caught a glimpse of you.

"Lieutenant Y/L/N! Uh, just one second, ma'am." The Bothan said anxiously.

You smiled. "Take your time, Zeno."

The man smiled graciously and put away the eggs, wiped beading sweat from his brow and then raked his hands down his spattered apron. Taking his place at the beginning of the line, he asked, "What would you like?"

Your eyes flitted over the tray of steaming Nuna legs, the rack of portion bread, and the assortment of fruit piled up at the end of the line.

"Uh, just a little of everything." You smirked.

Zeno nodded and began the task of fishing Nuna legs out of a pan with tongs. "I saw Finn run out of here with a bunch of other people earlier...the X-Wings make it back okay?"

You nodded heartily and put your hands in your pockets. "Yeah, I think they did."

"Good, good." The Bothan said. His eyebrow raised and his large eyes flicked up to yours momentarily.

A shiver of anxiety ran through you. 'Did Zeno know about you and Poe? How could he know? Would it matter if he knew?'  

You forced your mind to re-center itself by taking the full tray out of Zeno's hands.

"Thanks." You said, a touch of suspicion in your voice. Turning from the man, you had the inclination to run. To run from the Bothan's wandering eyes and the sly looks from Jess and the bubbling excitement of talking about Poe Dameron, the best pilot in the Resistance. Your lungs feeling rickety, you took your seat alongside Jess.

She smiled at you when you sat back down, but kept her attention on the conversation heating up between the other pilots.

"Y/N, does Poe snore?" Kare asked, pulling you into a foreign conversation. Her arm reached across Jess and her fingers extended towards you, throwing the group's attention to your blank face.

You blushed, "What do you mean?"

"When he's asleep, does he snore?" The pilot pressed again, a smirk plastered across her face.

"I-"

Suddenly, a crowd of people burst through the doors of the Mess Hall. The glow of conversation and laughter cast light across the relatively empty dining room.

Finn's head bobbed up and down in the center of it all, his pride for his friends seemingly emitting from his body.

You let out a breath of relief and caught a glimpse of Poe as he was pulled into the Mess Hall by Finn's determined arm.

Poe was laughing and his eyes were shining, even from here you could see them. His eyes were focused on returning high fives and patting backs. He said something unintelligible to the crowd of adorers and they seemed to disperse a bit. Space was created around him and you could see his chest let out a deep breath. His eyes scanned the hall and landed on your face.

You beamed at him, flecks of passion twinkling on your face.

He smiled softly and then waved to his squad. He exclaimed and the pilots around you shouted back in celebration.

Poe was still in his burnt suit, not being able to change out of it yet because of his admirers. He walked quickly towards your table, Finn jogging along loyally. Poe reached out to give Wexley a handshake and Snap wiped his hands on a napkin before returning the gesture.

Finn swung into the seat on your other side, greeting you somewhat gruffly, "Y/N, hey."

"Hey, have you heard from Rey-" You asked, thankful for something to divert your attention from Kare's line of questioning moments before.

Finn answered without diverting his attention from Poe, "No, I haven't heard from her. Poe, what happened next?"

The smiling Captain took a seat next to Wexley and pulled off his tattered gloves. "So, we didn't know what had happened to Blue Squadron, hadn't heard from them at all. We got TIEs coming at us from all directions. So, I-" Poe paused mid-story. "Wait, where's BB-8?"

Your heart began to thump against your dry throat. Unsure of what to say, you shoved a piece of Nuna leg in your mouth.

The pilots of his squad fell silent, looking to the others with raised eyebrows.

Chewing your food aggressively, you tried to work out what, if anything, you could say that would let Poe know his droid was already asleep in his room, but that would still keep the secret of your relationship hidden from his co-workers.  

Kare broke the tension, "Poe, do you snore?"

"What?" Poe exclaimed, irritated that Kare had brushed away his concern for his friend in such a cavalier move.

"We have a bet going and we need to know. Y/N wouldn't tell us." Kare's dark eyes jumped to meet yours.

Finn jumped back from you in confusion.

You swallowed your bite of meat and said defiantly, "I didn't tell you because I don't know."

Poe's gaze met yours. The crinkles around his eyes lay flat and the stars in his eyes seemed to burn a touch too hot. He stood from his seat, "No, Kare, I don't snore. I gotta find my droid."

That was a lie, he snored like a rocket launching.

"I think I saw him rolling towards your quarters, Poe." You offered, keeping your tone casual.

The Captain sent you a cautious glare and retreated back to his seat. "He must have been tired." Poe shrugged, his shoulders shaking off any hint that the two of you were somehow connected.

The rest of his squadron allowed the momentary awkwardness to wash over them.

Snap added a period to the end of the sentence. "Drinks?" He asked.

The pilots around you exclaimed and you nodded yes, your mouth full of portion bread.

The burly man stood from his seat and went back to the serving line to gather the liquor.

Finn snuck a really crunchy piece of fried Nuna skin from your tray and you smirked at him.

Instinctively, your eyes looked to the exhausted Poe Dameron. His fingers rubbed up and down his helmet and the rain of melancholy seemed to cloud his face.

Knowing there was no one else on Base who could see Poe as clearly as you did sat like a curse upon your head. Knowing how fully you would collapse into him almost made you glad he wouldn't let you. Knowing that you could take his pain away, but that he wouldn't let you, gave you the feeling of floating, or falling maybe.

Snap returned with the overflowing metal steins of beer, the contents sloshing over the sides as he sat them on the table in front of him.

Jess slid one to you and you gratefully took a full swig. The liquid burned the back of your throat and tickled the nerves in your teeth.

~~~~

"Can I walk you home?" Poe slurred, his finger drawing abstract designs on your cheek.

You blushed, whether from the alcohol or the pilot, you were too happy to tell. You nodded softly. The tops of your teeth pressed into your bottom lip and your hand wandered underneath Poe's flight suit to graze his bare chest.

The man's body was slumped into his chair beside the empty Mess Hall table. All the harsh lines and scattered regimentation of his job had faded. Poe beamed at you and kissed the inside of your wrist. His smile lines seemed to fill up his face and the strength of his umber eyes seemed to tear at the cracks in your chest.

"Lesss go." The Captain slurred. His strong hand gripped your wrist and pulled you towards the door of the dining hall.

Thinking that he would miss them, you snatched his flight gloves from where they had fallen on the floor of the hall after Snap and Poe had started a game of Sabacc.

Poe pulled you through the door of the Hall and, after looking both ways down the long deserted hallway, threw an arm around your waist. He buried his face in the nape of your neck and took in a long breath.

The feeling of him so close to you punctured your sweet bubble of drunkenness. You wrapped an arm around his back and you walked like this through the sleeping Resistance base.

Poe found it difficult to move without dragging his feet and with every misstep, more of his weight fell upon you.

Finally, the both of you arrived in front of his bedroom door.

"Y/N," Poe slurred, his face still nesting in your neck.

"Hmm?" You responded. You ran a hand lightly through his mess of curls.

"I gotta tell you something." He said quietly.

"What is it?" The beating of your heart seemed to emit from your palms.

"Can I kiss you?" His face moved away from your neck now, but his grip stayed firm around your side.

You turned to him and smiled.

Of course he could kiss you. Of course he could call you in the middle of the night to come over and just lay with him. Of course he could keep you a secret as long as he needed to. Of course, he could.

A fracture of pain struck a chord in your heart as you wrapped your arms around the drunken pilot's neck. "Of course." You whispered, afraid that if you said it any louder he would be able to hear what you wanted to say.

Poe smiled deviously and moved your neck so that he could reach your lips easier. His mouth was kind to yours, pulling gently and tugging with passion.

Your body rested like water in his hands. Making sure to note every texture, you let your fingers wander to the bottoms of his thick curls. Pulling and twisting around them.

Poe's hands gripped your sides and with one last squeeze, he pulled away from you. He smiled softly at you and put in his bedroom door passcode. The door slid open to reveal a darkened bedroom and a sleeping BB-8.

You took in a shaking breath, jealous of the moon light shining thorough his windows. What an honor to spend your life shining across Poe's skin.

For a moment, you waited to hear those words. You waited for him to tell you he wanted you. But, only silence permeated the dark hallway.

"See you tomorrow, Dameron." You conceded, turning on your heel back towards your barracks. Determined to make it to your bed before you started crying.

"I know what you're doing, Y/N." He accused loudly, soberness seeming to return to him in bits and pieces.

You could feel the rush of blood rising in your cheeks. "What am I doing?"

"The answer is still no." He said with an authoritative tone, his head bent down to look out from his eyebrows at you.

You swallowed the ball of fire in your throat. "I'm just making sure you got home safe."

Poe smirked and started to untie his boots already. "You think that doing this stuff will change things," He paused to chuck a grimy boot through his bedroom door. "But it won't. There's things that neither of us can change." He began to untie the other one.

"Well..." You started. The stark reality and the casual way in which he stated it shoved a stake down the canyons in your heart. "I just..want to be here for the next time you want me." Quivering tears threatened to draw trails down your cheeks.

Poe stood up straight and shifted his weight. He placed hands on his hips and the movement reminded you of him hunched around the holopads in the command center. "Y/N, you knew what this would be when we started. You know the rules. There's nothing you can do or say that will change things. I'm not the bad guy here."

You nodded and blinked back emotion. "I know you're not. I just..."

A tug of war began in your mind as you contemplated what you wanted to say and what you should say. The trembling in your chest compelled you and without more than a whisper of forethought you said, "I feel lonely when you're gone and I feel lonely when you're here. I am jealous of your squadron because they get to see you every day and hear your voice for most of their day and...I don't know. I just..."

You cut yourself short and your gaze fell to your boots. The alcohol still in your system threw everything spinning. Taking brazen steps back to Poe, you grabbed one of his hands in yours.

"If I could give you every moon in every single system, I would. I'm sorry if that's hard to hear, but it's how I feel. You're worth it to me, Poe. Whatever we would have to do to be together, you would be worth it to me." Your voice shook and drifted through the hallway in snaggled shards.

Poe's eyes were wide and borrowing into yours. His strong hands turned limp in your grasp.

Desperately, you searched his face for a response. The only thing to be found there was a blank look and deep, mahogany colored eyes combing over your face.

Gritting your teeth, you pulled his flying gloves from your back pocket and placed them in his hands.

"You'll need these." You ended, turning from him and walking as steady as you could back towards your bedroom. Every step carving out more and more of a rift between the two of you.

The promise that the same moon kissing Poe's skin would be kissing yours, gave you just enough comfort to persuade you to fall asleep.

What did you think? I really hope you enjoyed reading my work. Just your liking / re-blogging it means a lot. If you have a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts! Tell me what you think via my ask box or a comment always warms my heart!! Thank you again for reading!

Need more reading material? You can visit my Masterlist for more Poe Dameron content, as well as my other works.

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Thanks again for reading! Sending love! -hai

[snarkwrites]

six sexy words | reggie mantle; let me take care of you.

Notes:

Oh hello, hi. Guess whose inspiration has finally come back from the war? A while back, I was linked this really neat prompt list by a dear friend of mine and it.. Sparked a few things. So… I guess this is me, starting a new one shots collection?

All of these come from my own mind and I don’t take requests for one shots / prompts, btw.

This is the prelude to my Riverdale fic Gangsta. It kind of... explains how Alyssa wound up getting with Reggie in the first place. Events have been moved around / misplaced, etc.. Anyway.. yeah. I know nobody asked for this but here ya go.

Prompts:

taken from either [ HERE ] or [ HERE ] give or take. It could be one or the other or a mix of both at my own choosing.

catching his gaze lingering on you, i still remember everything about you, let me take care of you were the prompts used here.

Fandom / Character:

Riverdale | Reggie Mantle x Andrews!Sibling OFC, Alyssa

Fic Alyssa Appears In:

[ here ] - read at your own risk. looose af canon compliance and some kind of dark themes are present (kind of an older guy manipulating a younger girl then stalking her sitch so be warned) and are hinted at here.

Warnings:

This one is kind of.. angsty. And there are some dark hints that people reading the fic linked above will pick up on. They're only vaguely hinted at here, btw, so... yeah.

A backstory literally no one asked for, lmaoooo.

Tagging:

@BRITHEDEMONSPAWN is the only one currently on my Riverdale tag list, so…

** if you want to be tagged in my Riverdale stuff, lmk!!**

Other Stuff:

[ ABOUT MY WRITING | TAG LIST DOC - IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, THAT IS. | FANDOMS I WRITE FOR]

I looked up just as Reggie looked down. I could feel the weight of his stare every single time he shifted his gaze towards where I sat in the back booth of the diner.

A strawberry milkshake sat in front of me, untouched. I wasn’t even sure why I was at Pop’s. It’s pretty much the only place for all the lovey-dovey couples of Riverdale to come out on a Friday night anymore and I had to be a glutton for punishment because I knew that this meant the odds of me having a Valentine’s solo date in public, where people would look at me and judge or feel sorry for me for whatever reason, were high.

Not that it bothered me, but when you can feel everyone around you watching you like you’re a landmine or something, it gets old real quick.

A chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor of the diner as it was dragged over drew me out of my own thoughts and I braced myself. Preparing myself to look up from my phone and Snapchats that I had open to find Cheryl or Veronica or Betty sitting there, a sympathetic look in their eyes.

Instead, I looked up from a Snap my friend back in Chicago had sent me and my mouth opened in surprise a little because Reggie sat there, the backwards facing chair pressing into his chest.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“It’s just another Friday.” I muttered, shrugging as I took a few noisy slurps of my milkshake and eyed him. “No hot female company tonight?” I gave him a mocked look of shock as I said it, laughing softly when his response was to pout right back at me.

“I mean, if you count the red-head I’m currently lookin at and I’ve been tryin to talk to all night, then yeah.” Reggie answered.

His answer caught me off guard and as a result, some of the strawberry milkshake went down the wrong way and I choked a little. Reggie chuckled, reaching over to lightly pop me between the shoulder a few times as he gazed at me in concern and amusement. “You good, princess?”

“Super. That would’ve been one hell of an obit though. Girl dies on Valentine’s Day while drinking a milkshake alone and nearly choking to death on strawberry bits.” I laughed and Reggie raised a brow.

“Guess dark humor isn’t your forte, huh?” I teased gently and Reggie gave a quiet chuckle.

“So… How are you feeling about being back in Riverdale?”

“It is what it is.” I answered, shrugging as my eyes wandered around the diner, taking in all the happy couples of Riverdale High.

My gaze settled on Reggie again and I struggled to come up with something even halfway passing as a conversation starter. Maybe that wouldn’t have been such a struggle for me if I’d stop getting lost in the depths of dark brown eyes… Or the way his tongue trailed ever so slowly over the outline of his mouth.

I found myself wondering why he was even over here talking to me to begin with. There was a booth full of River Vixens further towards the back, all laughing and whispering, and yes, occasionally calling his name.

I locked eyes with one of them and the sour look she gave me had me rolling my eyes.

“Hey, it’s gettin late. I doubt Andrews would want his sister walkin home alone…” Reggie trailed off under my amused gaze. I gave a soft laugh, finishing the last of my milkshake.

“Are you asking permission to walk me home, Reggie?”

“What if I am, baby girl?”

“First of all, it’s Alyssa…” I reminded him knowing fully well that it’d go in one ear and out the other, because it always has with him. Reggie’s been a nickname kind of guy for as long as I’ve known him and been friends with him. It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed, even if at times that can be a little bit grating.

Baby girl just… has negative ties to it for me at the moment.

I winced at the thought and Reggie chuckled. “Okay, princess. Gotcha.” he muttered, leaning in a little. Reaching out and swiping his thumb over my bottom lip. I tried so hard not to tense up or flinch and I found myself hoping against hope that the little bit I did tense up went unnoticed.

I didn’t feel like answering questions and I didn’t want Reggie thinking I was weird or he’d offended me or something because honestly, he hadn’t. The whole thing was a me problem and it was one I was trying not to think about because I just wanted it all completely behind me. Forgotten about.

“You okay?” he asked, a brow raised as he eyed me in concern.

Crap. He noticed.

Apparently, the fact that he’s observant as hell hasn’t changed either.

I gave a soft laugh and nodded. “I just wasn’t expecting that. But it’s okay.” I quickly offered.

Deeper down, I have to admit… If so much hadn’t happened to me in Chicago, I’d definitely be falling hard and fast for Reggie Mantle all over again right now.

I did feel something. A sliver of a spark.

,, Don’t even think about it. The last time you felt sparks, you wound up getting in way over your head. Look where that got you, Alyssa…” that nagging little voice in the back of my mind spoke up, drowning out any and all other thoughts.

He’s my friend. Walking home with a friend isn’t a bad thing.

,, as long as it stops at friendship. Do you really think he’s just going to settle for you? He’s one of the big men on campus. Every girl wants him. Why would he choose you with all your current issues and that big nasty past of yours hanging over your head, threatening to ruin everything?” - and with that thought acknowledged, I smiled and cleared my throat. Breaking through his thoughtful daze with a soft laugh. “Earth to Mantle… You in there?”

“Yeah, yeah. I was just thinkin.”

“About?” I asked the question before I could stop myself.

“About how nice it is havin you back in Riverdale, Alyssa. You were always one of my favorite people.”

I smiled fondly.

Sitting down the styrofoam cup I’d drained of it’s contents, I rose up from my spot on the booth and held out my hand. “C’mon, lug.. If you insist on walking me home, we should probably get going… Stupid town curfew.”

“It is kind of dumb, huh? I mean, it’s not like we actually have a serial killer here.”

“It’s not like we don’t either. Sorry. I watch too many true crime documentaries.”

“No, you just lived in that big city too long. You forgot how safe and isolated it really is here.” Reggie chuckled. He slipped an arm around me and I tensed a little before I could stop myself.

I know he noticed it again, but he lowered his arm. Gave me an apologetic smile.

“Hey… do they still have those swings out behind the elementary?” I asked as we stepped out of the diner. He eyed me and smiled. “Yeah, why?”

“Well, since we do have a little bit of time left before I absolutely must be walking in my father’s door, I thought maybe we could go sit on them and talk? Like we used to? For old times sake?”

Reggie gave a soft grin. “I’d like that.”

“Just don’t try to send me into orbit like the last time I let you push me, okay?”

Reggie chuckled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he stared down at me.

I snapped my fingers in his face. “Hey…”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, I make no promises.” Reggie teased. I pouted up at him and we started to walk across the parking lot.

“You’re a lot quieter now, Alyssa. Skittish.. Are you sure you’re okay? I still remember everything about you and you weren’t skittish at all… If you wanna talk about it, you know you can talk to me, right?” Reggie asked as we walked towards the playground down the block. I sighed quietly.

“I’m not!” I spoke up, glancing up at him. Hoping he’d buy it and not keep pushing. Because I’m just not ready to talk about what I managed to get myself caught up in. And you just don’t want to see the disgusted look in his eyes when you do talk about it and he realizes just how stupid and pathetic you really are, the thought came but I shoved it out quickly. For the next minute or two, that heavy silence settled between us. I didn’t address the fact that he said I could talk to him. I know I could but… I just can’t right now. I need time. I need to get my head around everything.

And I don’t want to deal with the disgust I know he’ll probably feel. I know he will because I feel it, every single time I look at myself in the mirror. My parents and Archie keep insisting it’s not my fault, but all I can see is that I was the one who willingly got involved with the people I got involved with in the first place. I’m not stupid. I had to know that Dave didn’t really give a shit. That he was probably using me to stroke his own massive ego. That he purposely picked me when he sensed some deep hidden vulnerability. But I’m the one who let it happen. And I’m the one who let it go on for as long as it did and I allowed it to get to the scary point that it got to…

So yeah.. Pretty sure I don’t want to dump all this on Reggie Mantle and then see him look at me differently. I just… can’t.

I want to, but I can’t.

I hugged myself when the wind picked up, wishing I’d had the common sense to grab a thicker jacket before I left my dad’s house earlier. Reggie stopped our walk and slipped off his letterman’s jacket, holding it out. I eyed it and then him.

“Oh no. No. I’m not about to get my ass kicked by your fanclub.” I teased gently.

In reality, I knew that having the scent of his cologne so close to me would probably stick with me. It’d be too much temptation. Taking his jacket was a slippery slope.

“C’mon. Stop being so stubborn, woman. Look at you, shivering right now… You always took care of me back then. Let me take care of you, okay?”

He stepped closer. Not too close. Close enough that I knew if things were different, I’d totally be pouting right now because I’d want him closer. Before I could answer him, he slipped the jacket around my shoulders and I gave a soft and amused laugh. “Better, Reggie?”

“Yeah.” he answered. I tried not to notice it, but I couldn’t help myself. His eyes darted down and settled on my lips. His gaze lingered.

My heart hammered just a little harder against my chest.

I swallowed hard and cleared my throat, trying not to think about the way he was looking at me currently and the way it made me feel. Because someone’s made me feel that way before but they turned out to be the most toxic person I’ve ever known.

I just.. I don’t know if I can trust myself or anyone else right now.

But I want to. God, I want to.