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whirlybirbs · 4 years ago

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( another gif by @unearthlydust from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 3/?

summary: you find out about bucky’s past, he finds out about yours.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.4k, va va voom

a/n: oh look out here comes the plot, charactization, and growth between to pals who are maybe starting to feel a little something begin to take shape. but ignore that, there’s danger afoot. no spoilers for tfatws here!

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“You know I have to ask these questions. It’s part of the check-in.”

“Yeah,” you fire back, flat enough to warrant Dr. Hart’s scowl to grow. You can’t see it over the phone, but you know the way her words whip around you means she’s upset, “I know.”

“If you’re not following the action plan set out by the judge,” she begins, leaning forward as her tone drops into a scalding hot sort of seriousness on the other end, “You will go to prison. You know this. So, do you want to spend ten years of your life behind bars? Are you trying to get yourself locked up? Come on.”

You can’t look up from your computer’s screen. Or maybe you can, but right now, there’s a dangerous mixture of anger and guilt and frustration boiling under your skin.

“I’m trying.”

“Trying isn’t good enough for the GRC,” Dr. Hart snaps, “You know this. They’re giving you a chance — they know you’re talented. You have the ability here to go straight, to earn a living, to finally make up for those years of blackhat work.”

“Everything I did,” you fire back, ripping your eyes up to meet Dr. Hart’s, “Was for others. I didn’t get a fucking penny.”

“You’re not Robin Hood,” she shakes her head as her tone softens, “We all make mistakes. But, everything has a consequence. You know this. And this conversation isn’t even considering the other charges.”

“You know the extortion case would never hold up in court.”

Dr. Hart sighs raggedly. “And I don’t intend on ever seeing it play out in court, because you’re going to follow the conditions of your pardon.”

“The GRC is a bunch of fascists—”

“Enough,” she snaps, “If you want to go and appeal your case with the judge, be my guest, but I can almost guarantee you’ll be perp-walked out of that Federal courtroom in cuffs.”

She’s right.

Dr. Hart is right.

Your knee is bouncing, up and down and up and down. You’re wound up around yourself, arms crossed tight, brows knotted. With a shaky exhale, you just nod. You breathe, and you remind yourself that she’s right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. It’s not worth it. Dipping yourself back into that world, the layer of the web beneath the surface, isn’t worth it.

The GRC is your way out.

Just be a good little girl and do as you're told.

“So, I’m going to ask you again,” Dr. Hart begins, pen clicking alive on the other end of the phone call, “...Have you engaged in any illegal activities online in the last seven days?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Inessa Sidrova’s photo stares up at him from its place on the speckled marble counter, stacked neatly next to his notebook where her name is scrawled in chicken scratch — between two other names: Zemo and Henrikson.

His laptop, technically on loan from the FBI, sits beside both.

(When Barnes had agreed in that closed doors meeting to the conditions of his pardon, a certain FBI agent by the name of Jimmy Woo had been rather insistent that Barnes needed a personal computer in order to carry out his portion of the conditions insofar as tracking down the remaining HYDRA pawns in the States. Woo had also insisted, to the agreement of Dr. Raynor, that a personal computer would help better acclimate Barnes to the new world he’d been dropped into.

Woo was even nice enough to take an hour of his own time to show Bucky enough to get started — but was whisked away for some investigation out in New Jersey.)

Bucky rubs the cold vibranium of his left palm into his eye, then exhales long and slow.

He’s done all he can. And still, no leads on the woman.

Rounding the kitchen island, he digs his cell from his pocket. He goes back to staring at that text — the one he’d laughed out loud at the moment it lit up his phone — and he can feel that ol’ bite of anxiousness creep into his arms. His fingertips tingle.

On the television, a laugh track plays over a clip of The Three Stooges. Blue eyes flick upward, and he partially wishes a ladder would put him out of his own self-induced misery.

Outside, the antics of a Saturday night in Brooklyn roll on.

In the last few days he’s parsed through his thoughts enough to realize it’s not telling you that scares him — no, it’s telling you the truth. The whole truth. All of it. After all, the good comes with a lot of bad; the sort of bad you chain in a chest and sink in the ocean. And Bucky finds that, even still, the good is questionable at best. The good is… small. Microscopic. Completely and totally tainted by the fuckin’ decades of brainwashed, war dog bullshit.

He groans and drops his head back against the wall.

He tries, for the next twenty minutes, to formulate some sort of reply to your text message. But, half the battle is figuring out what to say, and the other half is actually typing it out. This whole flip phone purchase was really starting to sting like regret — and as much as Bucky loved technology back before the war, and all the magical possibilities it held, he can’t help but feel like an ornery old man now.

It’s the change. Steve was right. Too much change.

He can’t find the space button and he can’t figure out how to delete the random 3 he’d accidentally punched in — so, with a grumpy huff of disapproval, Bucky simply dials your number.

You pick up on the third ring.

“Don’t you know it’s Saturday?” your voice is a welcomed sound, “The History Channel is running a bunch of old war documentaries you might enjoy, grandpa.”

Bucky snorts, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie. “What makes you think I’d wanna watch that shit?”

“Everyone knows that old men like two things,” your voice is light, half-distracted from the sounds of it, “World War Two, or grilling. And honestly, you don’t strike me as the grilling type.”

“I like a good burger.”

“Yeah?” you snort, and Bucky can hear you shift your phone from one ear to the other, “Is that why you called? To hint at being hungry?”

“No,” he exhales, looking out the window, “No, I was trying to reply to your text but I can’t find the fuckin’ space button. Calling is easier.”

“Oh my god—”

“Shut up,” he barks with a laugh, sitting up, “Don’t even start — are you hungry?”

“Almost always, why?”

“Got any plans tonight?”

“... You do know who you’re asking, right?”

Bucky grins, a little boyish and a little tired. “Good point. Loser.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re the one calling me to hangout,” you snort, leaning to prop your feet up on your desk and lean back. Your chair wheels backwards, far enough for you to get a good look down the street. It’s a nice night, cool enough, and it seems like the whole borough is awake, “But, I’m only hanging out if you tell me what the fuck is up with court mandated therapy. I can’t wait another three days.”

Your anxiety has been pricked the last few days over it.

“... Do I get to pick the place?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine.”

“Great,” he exhales tightly, “I hope you’re in the mood for sushi.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

Izzy’s is busy, but there’s privacy in the bustle.

Bucky had buzzed your apartment’s ringer and you’d flown down the stairs, looking… alive. The sort of alive that was new — like a fresh bud beginning to bloom in spring. It had made him grin, and he’d watched you push a tress of hair behind your ear as you decided it was warm enough for no jacket tonight. The light of the crosswalk sign lit you up like a star.

He was sweating.

Dr. Raynor was right — that was it, of course it was — that it was getting too warm for his usual outfit. So, he’d settled on the next best thing: a sweatshirt that was big enough and black enough that he could bury himself in it. His hands are tucked neatly into the pockets.

No gloves tonight.

He feels naked.

He shoulders the door and holds it open with the toe of his boot as you duck towards the back of the restaurant. There’s a booth in the back by a large bamboo plant — you weave through the place with a new found confidence. There’s anxiousness in your shoulders but it melts when you look back at Bucky. Like a watchful guard dog, he nods.

You settle into the booth, toss your jacket in the corner, and smirk.

“I get out sometimes,” Bucky remarks before you can even say anything. He shifts in the booth and reaches up to scratch his cheek with his right hand, “Not often, but I do.”

“I didn’t say anything...”

“You were going to,” he nearly smirks back, his brows raised as he adjusts the chopsticks on the table, “I know that look.”

You snort, nudging his boot under the table. That works a huffed little laugh out the man across from you. Almost immediately you can sense anxiousness rolling off him — it’s the tightness in his mouth that gives him away, the way he’s fussing with the soy sauce dish and trying to get it to line up perfectly with the marbling on the table. Worry flashes in your eyes.

“Bucky.”

He raises his head.

“You alright?” you ask quietly.

“You have to promise not to flip out.”

Your brows knot tightly — but before you can even question what the fuck he means, he’s casually dropping his other hand onto the table.

And you almost don’t notice at first. Your brain fills the gaps in, figuring it’s his glove. But, then you blink and his hand catches the light and you realize it’s not leather. It’s glittering obsidian, garnished with gold, and it’s moving. Flexing. Seams bending and warping and there’s a gentle hum coming from the appendages and you squint because he’s tapping his fingers on the table and there’s a metallic tik-tik-tik that meets your ears.

Then, your eyes jump to his face.

He looks pained.

You’re confused.

And then you’re not.

“You’re —”

You slap a hand over your own mouth. You have to promise not to flip out. Your eyes are eighty miles wide and your jaw is falling open and you’re leaning forward, whispering in a rushed tone because what the fuck.

“You’re that Bucky?!”

Oh, you feel stupid.

The hostess appears, suddenly. You snap backwards in the booth, Bucky tucks his hand away, and you both muster forced smiles to the waitress. She’s young. Pretty. Her name-tag says Sarah.

She asks about drinks.

Bucky gets a beer.

Slowly, you knock your knuckles against the table and drop your head into your hand. The look on your face is exhausted. “Do you guys have Mai Tais?”

The answer is yes. And you’re glad. Because you’re going to fucking need it.

The two of you are quiet until the drinks come — avoiding one anothers gazes for completely different reasons. Bucky is sheepish, a bit mortified, like he always is when people recognize him. It’s why he shaved his fuckin’ head. It worked well enough but… the arm was usually a dead giveaway.

Meanwhile, you’re wondering if you could shave your own head and disappear. Because there’s no easy way to explain the weird elation swirling in your chest right now.

Bucky’s first to speak. His beer is in his good hand. He inhales quickly, eyes darting to you as he leans forward and whispers incredulously. He speaks quickly and his words are pointed with an edge of curiosity.

“...What do you mean ‘that Bucky’?”

“Y’know, I knew there was a reason you acted like you needed a senior citizen discount. And you know exactly what I mean,” you rush out all while waving your Mai Tai and jabbing the side with the umbrella towards him, “Listen, this is a lot to take in, Mr. Avenger.”

“I am not an Avenger—”

“You helped reverse the Snap. You’re the Winter Soldier. That makes you an Avenger—”

Bucky’s shaking his head, eye screwed shut tightly because the sudden equation to his past self being considered a hero is like being socked in the mouth. He stutters over his words and shakes his head more vigorously, like he’s trying not to hear what you’re saying.

“I am not the Winter Soldier. Not anymore. And it’s not like I’m not on the fuckin’ roster, doll—”

You hold a finger up, stopping him there, and take a long sip of your sunset colored drink. You swallow. You exhale. Bucky swigs his beer.

“One, don’t call me doll,” you say curtly, then raise a second finger. You lean in and squint, “Two… Christ, the haircut really makes a big difference, doesn’t it?”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” he sighs raggedly, dismissing your scrutiny.

You puff your cheeks out and exhale. Leaning back in the booth, you try not to feel so fucking insane.

“...I can never have you over now.”

Bucky’s brows narrow quickly and his eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“I can’t have you over,” you explain slower with your eyes rooted to the soy sauce in the corner, “Because I don’t think I could ever handle you seeing my signed and framed Captain America poster from his USO tour in 1943.”

Bucky’s face is deadpan. “You’re kidding.”

“I really wish I was,” you gripe, “It’s an original.”

“...You’re a Cap girl,” he says suddenly, leaning back with this look in his eye. It’s less of a question. You can’t pin it down. It looks like he's damn near traumatized.

Bucky thinks — honestly — that this is the cherry on top. Every girl back then was a Cap girl, too. It figures, now, in this new century where he’s making new friends that… as per usual, Steve gets the cake. That fuckin’ pint sized bastard.

He’ll have to tell him about this.

You yank your eyes up to Bucky’s face. His mortification is shifting to surprise to amusement. You’re fast to sit up, mouth opening to fire a retort — but Bucky’s suddenly really enjoying the look of pure horror on your face at the insinuation. He’s smirking. Plain as day. He swigs his beer.

“No, no—” you raise a finger, “No, stop it. Don’t make it fuckin’ weird, Bucky, it’s not like I have his name tattoo’d on my ass. And I knew a girl in college who did.”

His brows rise sharply and you’re finding you’re regretting everything that’s coming out of your mouth.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you guffaw, gesturing for him to show you his hand again, “I wanna see.”

Bucky sighs and plucks his hand from his hoodie pocket.

With a sort of tenderness Bucky wasn’t prepared to handle, you take his metallic hand into your own. There’s an immediate twinge — one that’s procured by flashes of violence from years of being a walking weapon. He breathes, and he reminds himself that this arm is not the same that tethered him to HYDRA all those years ago.

This arm is his, it is not him.

The sensation is different. He isn’t used to anyone touching him like this; he’s used to the feeling of flesh on the other end of a punch, or a throat caught in his palm. Not the gentle pass of your fingers, delicate and purposeful, over his knuckles.

You turn over his hand, eyes alight with curiosity — and Bucky, desperate to stamp out the hotness growing in his gut, moves quickly to flick your nose.

“Ow—”

“Don’t stare,” he says coyly, “It’s rude.”

The waitress is back. His hand is tucked away, and you wrestle the stupid expression off your face long enough to order a plate of assorted maki rolls and some fried tofu. Bucky orders what seems like his usual — shrimp tempura and spicy tuna rolls.

The waitress, Sarah, disappears with a smile.

You’re grinning.

“So… Does this make me the sidekick?” you whisper playfully.

“Shut up,” Bucky laughs, his lips almost darting into a smile.

You cock your head, pushing your chopsticks across the table with a horribly coy look on your face. It’s comical. “...I think this makes me the sidekick.”

“It — stop it — it does not make you the sidekick,” Bucky says slowly as he sips his beer and pins you in the booth across from him, “I’m not a hero. You’d have better luck asking Cap on that one.”

You grow silent. There’s a question hanging on your tongue. You’re wrestling with yourself — Bucky can see that much. He frowns.

“Spit it out, Goose.”

You blink. “Was that a Top Gun reference?”

“You wanted to be the sidekick.”

You wave it off, blinking into your Mai Tai. Your voice is quiet. Even as you speak, there’s a hesitancy akin to walking on eggshells. “What happened to Cap? Is he… alive? He’s gone off the grid. It’s, like, this massive conspiracy theory online.”

“He’s upstate.”

You blink.

“That’s ominous.”

Bucky shrugs. “Someday I’ll take you. It’s… nice.”

You go quiet. You freeze, drink halfway to your mouth. Bucky can’t help but smirk at that. His laugh is more of a scoff than anything.

“Relax, Miss America.”

“Shut up — do you mean that?”

“What, that I think you’re in love with Captain America?”

“No, you bastard, that you’ll take me. To meet him.”

Bucky’s words are easy. They roll off his tongue without a second thought. He feels… okay. Like this part is okay. Not as bad as he thought it could be. His anxiousness isn’t as heavy now. He feels like he isn’t losing you. But then again, he hasn’t gotten to the bad part yet.

“He’s my best friend,” Bucky explains plainly, “And so are you.”

The admission is warm. As easy as breathing. Two months in the making.

“Your only friend,” you say quietly, offering the joke as a cover for the softening tone that dances over your words. It’s affection, you realize, as you mimic his shrug, “But, go on.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Bucky chirps, “But, yea, I mean it. He’d like you.”

You raise your chin, wiggling a bit in the booth. It’s pride — and as much as Bucky likes the look of it, he can’t handle the ridiculousness that comes along with it. But, it’s sort of comforting. He knows this playfulness, this easiness, it’s all because he’s him. You trust him. In.a way, it strikes Bucky with guilt. There are wall of his still built up high. Maybe they’re slowly coming down, but… he’s like a stray dog, slow to trust.

“Safe to say,” you breathe, “I have a few questions.”

“I figured as much.”

You sip your drink and swallow. You raise a hand. “But — I wanna know the boundaries. I don’t want to… I don’t want to pry about shit I have no business knowing, alright? It’s your life and even if we are friends, I don’t need to know everything.”

The relief is almost immediate. He thumbs the label of his beer.

“Ask anything. But I can’t promise I’ll be able to give you the answers.”

“And I’ll leave it at that,” you say sternly, propping your elbow up on the table and offering your pinky finger, “Until you want to talk about it. Promise.”

He crooks his pinky in yours, squeezing gently. You smile.

Sarah comes back with the food, and then Bucky offers his usual half-exhausted, half-amused smirk.

“You get three questions now. Then, we shut up and eat.”

You fold your hands neatly over themselves, eyeing your food as you try your best to sort out what questions come up with the most urgency. There’s… a lot. I mean, everyone knew about the Avengers — and everyone had their opinions. The Sokovia Accords, Lagos, the Blip… and SHIELD. Years of bullshit culminating around those who were considered the heroes. The kickback usually ended up on everyday citizens like you. After the initial amazement, the reality of it all set in.

But, to Bucky’s point, he wasn’t really an Avenger.

Nowadays, there really wasn’t a team at all. No up-state compound, no leader, no Stark and no Rogers.

You’re sure the GRC will try — that the military will try. Morale and hope and blah, blah, blah.

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

It’s quick. “One hundred and six.”

“How’d they keep you alive that long?”

There’s a wince that flashes across his face like he’s been stabbed with a white hot poker in the ribs. You see a twitch of irritation bubble across his lips. Not with you. No, it’s that this question is still hard for him to answer. Bucky exhales sharply.

“Next question.”

You feel a pang of guilt flare in your chest. You move along.

“Who kept you alive that long?”

“The Russians. HYDRA, if you wanna get specific.”

You exhale and settle on the fact you now have more questions than answers. But, you nod and snatch up your chopsticks. Enough of the twenty questions game.

In all honesty, it’s not like Bucky’s existence was common knowledge. The Winter Soldier was known mostly, sure, to those who had floated in the same circles as him when he was nothing but a rabid cur on a choke chain. He can’t help but be a bit thankful for the minor erasure of his new self — sure, in the eyes of the U.S. government he was a high-level threat to be reintegrated as soon as possible and surveyed at all times. But, to the average New Yorker, he was just another person. Everyone was so used to seeing the heroes in their costumes with their bigger than life personas and…

Bucky was just Bucky.

Even he didn’t really know who that was. He was starting to.

His pardon had come with some flak from some of the more political news outlets but… somehow, the details of the Winter Soldier’s exact crimes were being kept silent. Probably to avoid panic. And, even then, the connection between the newly alive James Buchanan Barnes and The Winter Soldier hadn’t been made yet in the public eye. He was glad.

The haircut definitely helped.

It’s like he was a walking classified redaction.

Bucky has a sushi roll in his mouth when he finally speaks. “For such a Captain American fan, I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh, you’re really not gonna let that go, huh?” you say as you chew, covering your mouth. You swallow and waggle your chopsticks at him, “Listen, it’s been a while since I’ve… y’know, had my Avengers phase. That was years ago. It was at its peak when I worked for SHIELD. And besides, you’re kinda new to the whole superhero scene.”

Bucky frowns. “You worked for SHIELD...?”

“For a year,” you say tightly, “Back before the collapse.”

“Only a year?”

“It was for my graduate program,” you wave it off, “I won out on the most competitive internship NYU had to offer. I was working within their cybersecurity division. I will say I spent more time trying to sort of email phishing scams than anything else, though. I’m sure they saw my record and wanted to keep me away from the juicy stuff.”

Bucky squints.

You offer a sheepish shrug.

“I got into trouble when I was younger,” you sip your drink and sigh, “I always liked computers. I used to spend all my time on forum sites just… reading and talking to people and figuring out how these sites actually worked, so learning how to write my own code was just the next step. When I was fifteen, I learned how to tap phones. At sixteen, I was hijacking my neighbor’s internet conenctions and remotely controlling his laptop.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

“Yea, well, he was a sitting Senator who was having an affair with the nanny,” you mutter, “And I was stupid enough to try and blackmail him for cash. I wish I could say I learned my lesson.”

Bucky exhales long and hard at that, like he knows where that snap of misguided judgement goes. It’s not like he’s passing judgement onto you, but… like he knows the feeling. And you manage to not feel so small, then — telling him this is easy. It’s not your favorite part of your life by any means, but Bucky is listening. Really listening.

He fiddles with the paper wrapper of the chopsticks.

“So, less a Goose and more a Kevin Poulsen type, huh?”

You snort. “For an old man, I’m surprised you know who that is. But, I wasn’t hacking into the Pentagon at seventeen. I was too busy doing community service.”

“HYDRA had their eyes on him in the 90s,” Bucky mumbles through a bite of spicy tuna, the memory popping into his mind and flying out before he can stop it, “I remember… I thought his username was stupid.”

“Oh, you didn’t like Dark Dante?”

“Like I said,” Bucky chortles, “Stupid.”

“You wouldn’t have liked mine, then,” you smirk lightly, “It’s worse.”

Bucky raises his brows, somehow doubting that entirely. “Really?”

“...I was hackrabb1t for a long time. Y’know, with a ‘one’ for the ‘i’,” you cringe, “People kept thinking I was a furry.”

There’s a pause. Bucky’s face is set in an unreadable emotion. It’s confusion mixed with amusement mixed with… something else. When he speaks, he clears his throat and tilts his head.

“It’s clever. But,” a pause, “What is a furry? I’ve been seeing that word all over PlentyOfFish.”

Your jaw flies open. You raise your hands as your head reels around. Bucky has a look on his face like he knows, he knows he shouldn’t have asked and he definitely shouldn’t have given you enough context to know where he’s seen that phrase before, because now you’re looking at him like he has seventeen heads and they’re all on fire.

“Y’know what, nevermind—”

“—Oh, no, no, there’s way too much to unpack here,” you lean forward, “You’re on PlentyOfFish?”

“ChristianMingle wasn’t really my speed — stop laughing.”

“Shut up — stop it, stop — this is too much,” you say with a high voice, “If you get catfished, I’m not helping you track the person down…”

“—What the hell is a catfish?” he nearly cries, raising both hands in a desperate shrug, “I don’t even know what any of these words mean.”

“Oh, you sweet, naive, innocent, man—”

“No, no, no, no,” he chirps, raising a finger with a deadly look of seriousness on his face, “No, I am not naive or sweet or any of the above. I’ll take ‘cute’, sure, but none a’ those.”

“Is that what the furries call you on PlentyOfFish? Cute?”

He drops his head back against the booth and stares at the ceiling.

“Our friendship was a mistake, rabbit.”

You choke out a laugh. “Shut up, you walking claw machine.”

You’re both laughing now — quieter but sustained and everytime you think you’ve calmed down enough to sip your Mai Tai, you just have to look at the distraught, scruffy man across from you to break into another fit of muffled laughter. Finally, after what feels like forever, you both manage to calm down enough to finish the plates in front of you.

There’s a warmth that’s settled in Bucky’s chest — it’s eaten away at the usual jitter in his legs, the anxious twitch of his fingers. It’s a different emotion. Acceptance, maybe. Comfort. Affection.

Then, while you’re piling the last bit of sushi rice into your mouth when your phone, set on the side of the table, begins to go off. It hums erratically, dancing in a circle, and all you do is stare at the name flashing across the screen. You’re smiling, hugging her. It’s from Jaimie’s wedding — out in some big, wide open orchard with the sun setting behind you. The picture there is old; you were both different people then.

Before… everything.

MOM Morristown, NJ

You scowl and stare.

Bucky blinks.

“You gonna get that?”

Quickly, you snap out of it. You reach and silence the buzzing with two quick taps. Quietly, you offer up a somber sigh.

“I never do.”

Bucky frowns again, this time with a worried look that digs deep into his eyebrows. You ignore it on purpose, pushing your plate away and leaning back in the booth. He knows what you’re doing — you’re avoiding his gaze, and therefore his own questions.

“Rabbit.”

“Oh, is that my new nickname, then?”

“It fits,” he chirps before crossing his arms, strategically hiding his metallic hand, “What’s up?”

You grow quiet — then it spills out.

“I can’t talk to her.”

“Why?”

You chew your lip. You bite your tongue and you hold back on the finer points of your anger — ones dredged up by the still present sting of your check-in with Dr. Hart this afternoon.

Here it comes.

“As a part of my pardon, I was ordered no-contact with my family,” you exhale, controlling the level of your voice, reciting the court papers you’d read over and over and over, “It was deemed that further contact would impact my progress towards reformed behavior and judgment.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide. His jaw is tight.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘pardon’?”

It’s your turn to cross your arms now, to ignore the sting of his look. It’s the kind that screams disappointment more than anything. You hate that you’re getting it from Bucky of all people.

“Like I said, I didn’t learn my lesson when I was a kid,” you shirk, “Last year I was arrested on a number of counts — I’d been evading the FBI, CIA, all of them, for years. I was doing it all for people like me. The ones who got left behind.”

Bucky’s tone is flat. It’s serious. His next sentence is less of a question, more of an order. The cadence is rhythmic and it reminds you of your brother the night he found out about the first time you’d been arrested; you decide, then, that Jaimie and Bucky would have gotten along.

“What did you do?”

“Whatever I could,” you wave your hands, “Identity theft, falsified documents, insurance fraud. Anything. There were people, like me, that in a blink, lost everything. Accidents, deaths, evictions and no one did anything for us. The insurance agencies wouldn’t cover damages related to The Snap. Life insurance policies, social security… It all got snatched up by people at the top while the system collapsed around us. I had to pay for my brother’s funeral out of pocket. And there were hundreds of thousands of people just like me, just trying to get by. And everything failed us.”

Bucky is stuck in silence. It’s like mud, dragging him to the bottom of a pond — the sort that’s dredged with misery. In an instant, his veins are on fire with an anger he hadn’t felt in a while. It manifests itself in the tightening of his jaw. He rubs his face and props his elbows up on the table.

“Why won’t they let you see your family?”

You fiddle with your napkin.

“My brother… His wife was on maternity leave when she disappeared in the Blip,” you mutter, “She came back to no job, a dead husband, and no home. Their apartment complex had been abandoned. She’s trying her best to make ends meet. She lives with my Mom in our old home. Neither of them can find work. They… The court thought that I’d be influenced to do something if I was around them.”

“What, like help?”

“They see me as a criminal,” you manage, “But I’m useful, so they’re keeping me around.”

Silence falls between the two of you once more — and the sad look on your face makes Bucky’s chest tight. He can see anxiety beginning to spill over; you’re wringing the napkin, fiddling with the edges. Suddenly, Bucky realizes you’re feeling exactly how he was an hour or so ago.

Your voice is soft. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you.”

“Looks like we’re two birds of a feather,” he says, knocking the toe of your sneaker with his boot, “Listen, we all do stupid shit. I’ve got a lot worse weighing me down. I get it.”

You look up, sadness glistening in your expression like sun off a lake. It’s harsh. He wants to look away.

He doesn’t.

“... So, that means you’re good with computers?”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

That’s how you find yourself in Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment at almost midnight, wandering behind him in the long halls and watching curiously as he digs his key from his pocket and shoulders the door open.

It’s a small apartment. One bed, one bath, a kitchenette and that’s really it.

For its size, it’s hardly lived in.

You suppose it makes sense — Bucky didn’t have a lot of personal belongings, and with the hints he’d dropped about his life before The Blip, you were beginning to understand that he may have never really had that much to begin with.

There’s a blanket on the floor by the television and a single couch pillow. It’s tucked in the corner, behind a small sofa. There’s a chair in the living room, one from an old dining set. At the kitchen counter, there’s a stack of papers and a single laptop. Even though all the kitchen’s wares are older models, the bones of the apartment are good. Bare, but good.

You stop in the doorway to the bedroom and stare at the untouched bed. The sheets are tucked tightly in the corners — there’s something militaristic about it. Across the hall is the bathroom. It’s small. You can see a few amenities scattered across the sink’s top.

Being in here feels something like an open wound.

It was lonely. Quiet. Cold.

“We need to make a trip to HomeGoods,” you mumble as Bucky flicks on the lights, “I get the whole minimalist thing, but sheesh.”

“I don’t have a lot,” he says, kicking off his boots by the door and shrugging off his jacket, “And I don’t need a lot either.”

You watch as his shoulders sag a bit, like he can finally let down his guard just a little in his own space. It’s endearing. You perch yourself up on the kitchen counter as your eyes follow him; he moves to fling open a cabinet and grabs a mug. Then, he hesitates.

“You want tea?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Tea?”

“Dr. Raynor said,” Bucky reaches for a container of tea bags from the top shelf. His henley lifts enough to flash a bit of skin along his lower back and you swear you see a scar, “It would help with my anxiety.”

You swing your legs a little. “Then sure.”

“You can use my Captain America mug,” he chirps, laughing a little to himself, “Seeing as you’re such a big fan…”

“God, I regret even saying anything to you,” you spit as you hop down and lean around him to get a look at the mug, “Did you seriously buy that?”

“It was a gift.”

“Bullshit.”

Bucky snorts as you shake your head and wander backwards, eyeing the rest of his apartment with a bit of astonishment. It’s really nothing impressive — but, you suppose it makes sense. Whatever meager disbursement that the government was willing to give Bucky for his efforts in fixing the Snap was better than nothing.

Your gaze hangs on the blanket in the corner.

He watches you; and he notes the sore sadness that dissolves your posture at the sight of the nest in the corner. A bit of shame colors his cheeks as he heats up the water. When Bucky speaks, it’s slow.

“The bed was too soft. I couldn’t sleep on it,” he shifts from foot to foot and focuses on taking the tea bags out and methodically wrapping the strings around the handles, “Dr. Raynor said that’s a typical thing for soldiers to experience when they come home from war.”

You’re quiet for a while after that, only speaking when he rounds the counter with your tea. He offers it up with a tilt of the head.

“You never got to come home, though, right?”

“No,” comes the short reply as you both watch the lights outside the window, “No, I didn’t. Not until now.”

You nudge his arm with yours. You lean a bit. Bucky leans back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he manages after a sigh and sip of the tea, “I can’t just feel sorry for myself anymore. I’m trying to fix the wrongs I did — and that’s why I need your help.”

You quirk a brow. He reaches around you and grabs the stack of papers on the counter. With a steady grip, Bucky presents the photo of a woman who looks strikingly familiar. You can’t place her face, but there’s something about her that feels like a slap across the cheek. She’s young here, in a faded photo with tattered edges. Beside her is a man who is laughing. The photo is candid, and they’re both beautiful. They’re both wearing a uniform — but you can’t place the era or location.

You turn to Bucky for answers.

“Back in the 70s, at the height of the Cold War, HYDRA was working in tandem with the Russians to spy on American forces,” he offers easily, staring out the window, “The American HYDRA cell hadn’t yet been planted. This man, Andrei Kuznetzov, was a spy. He was feeding the Americans information on the Russian nuclear program. His wife, the one in the photo, was ordered to kill him. She refused.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch.

His words are soaked through with pain.

“I,” he continues, “killed him.”

You hold your breath. Then you spare him a mournful look.

“Inessa Sidrova went on to help form the same HYDRA cell that ended up taking over SHIELD here in America,” Bucky mumbles, “She’s dangerous. There’s others like her, ones who I helped create, all over the world. But, she’s my top priority. I just haven’t had much luck tracking her down.”

“That’s why you need my help.”

“I’m 106 years old,” Bucky deadpans, “The microfiches at the library were getting a little tedious.”

“But,” you chirp with a sly smirk, “You figured out how to set up a PlentyOfFish account?”

He shoulders you again as you sip your tea and laugh.

“Shoulda never said anything,” Bucky grumbles, “Dr. Raynor thought it was a good idea. Y’know, to get back out in the world.”

“I can promise you,” you say with a stern shake of the head, “The metal arm will get you plenty of chicks and dudes in due time.”

“Good to know,” Bucky replies as his words lilt with a playful sort of questioning that you purposefully ignore. You’re not feeding his ego today. Maybe tomorrow, after you take a crack at figuring out where this woman is.

It’s going to be a long night.

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #bucky barnes #marvel imagine #bucky x reader

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house-of-no-regrets · 4 years ago

Text

No Regrets [in the wee hours]

Took a bit longer than expected, but I’ve finished the next little story! Hopefully I’ll be able to keep a decent pace on these. No overarching plot, just little stories in the same universe with the same characters. Warning for ~*murder*~ in this one!

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I've been all-too-easy to wake up since I was a child; I'd often needed to go from dead asleep to functional, if groggy, as soon as I heard my father demanding action or attention. While I no longer need that reaction time, the old man long since locked up to rot, my brain is set in its ways and very convinced that I need to be able to bolt out of bed and fight God if a dust bunny moves too quickly in my vicinity.

Which is how I found myself waking up in the middle of the night, the sudden shift in the atmosphere bringing on consciousness with all the subtlety of a foghorn.

My room was silent, still, but I knew without opening my eyes that there was a spirit somewhere, and I didn't even give them a chance to speak before I pointed at the sign posted on my wall, barely shifting from my comfortable snuggle in my blanket and not even opening my eyes. Yes, this happens more often than I care to admit. No, I do not enjoy it. At all.

"Resurrection hours are noon to eight. I'm still alive and still need sleep to function."

There was silence, but the presence didn't leave, so I groaned and raised my head, finally opening my eyes to see the translucent, vaguely glowing, and unfortunately blurry spirit at the foot of my bed.

It did finally speak in a bewildered voice.

"Um, I'm being murdered."

Ah, fuck.

I grabbed my glasses from the bedside table and put them on. The spirit at the foot of my bed was tallish -- I've always been bad at estimating height, maybe half a foot shorter than Yvette? Five-nine... ish? -- and seemed to be in his twenties. There was a considerable dark stain on his chest and belly; likely blood, and the cause of his death. The newly-dead tend to show things like that, as they haven't had the time to get used to modifying their form.

I really hate it when brand new ones find me. I'm not sure how it started, but it seems like more and more often, now, the dead are drawn to No Regrets before they even realize they're dead, at least if they're the type to need my help. Wish I wasn't the one who had to break it to him. I'm not great with people.

"Sorry, bro, but I'm afraid they succeeded. Where was it? I'll get the police over there."

"Uhh... my house. I think. It's a little..."

I sighed. Right.

"You're probably a little out of it still... fresh dead usually are. C'mon, I'll take you around until things look familiar."

Climbing out of bed, I headed over to grab my hoodie from the back of the chair. I learned the hard way that sleeping is not a tits out sort of occasion when you're liable to get the dead dropping in at all hours of the night, so I sleep in pajama pants and a tank top. Little too chilly for tank tops outside, though. I shoved my phone in my hoodie and my feet into loafers, then started heading out of my room and down the hall.

"You remember your name?" I asked, trying to make conversation and learn what I could.

"Uh, Davis. Craig? Craig Davis."

"Well, Craig Davis, I'm sorry to hear about your passing. You're gonna need to possess me for this little adventure, by the way, but I'll walk you through it once we're outside."

"I- what?"

Considering how often I find myself lost in normal conversations, dealing with confused new spirits is especially difficult. Still shaking off my body's angry demands for More Sleep was not helping matters in the slightest, either.

"Possession. I'll explain it in just a minute." I rubbed an eye and yawned as I stopped in the foyer to pull a set of keys off one of the hooks on the wall.

Usually, I've got a driver. Not for vanity reasons, but after three or four near-misses caused by Sudden Spirits appearing in the car with me, I elected to hire someone to drive me into and around town as needed. But it was Fuck-This-Shit O'Clock in the morning, and Graves deserved their rest. The dead don't need to sleep, but they can if they so choose -- and it does, after all, conserve energy. The same goes for Yvette and Ashby; it was too early in the morning for most people to be out and searching for a necromancer to kill, so I wasn't gonna disturb them. I could handle a simple spirit chauffeur and 911 call on my own.

The keys were to the motor scooter; it was the better choice in this situation, allowing for more mobility and no passenger seat for any extra ghosts to drop into. That did, though, mean that Craig would need to ride shotgun in my body.

When I got out to the green scooter in the driveway, I paused and looked over at Craig.

"Hey, I know you're probably still a little out of it, so Possession 101." Script time. At least having this stuff memorized made it easier to do while dozy. "Our bodies need to take up the same space, so c'mere." I beckoned Craig over.

"So like… step into you?" He asked. Good, seemed like his head was clearing up some.

"Yeah, that's part 1."

He nodded and complied, crossing the space between us and settling in the same location, the two of us clipped into each other like bugged NPCs. It always felt so weird, those moments before a spirit actually possesses you. A sort of wobbly, in-and-out feeling like physics is trying to crush you and the spirit together, or, failing that, just kick your ass to the ground so you're not both in the same place at the same time.

"A'ight, now turn around and face the direction I’m facing, and overlay your hands onto mine as best you can." It was just a moment for him to obey, and I continued. "I'm not resisting, so you're gonna start feeling like you're being pulled in and pushed out at the same time. Space is trying to equalize. Let yourself be pulled in. It's gonna feel a bit like-"

The whirlpool effect kicked in before I could finish, the sudden snap and release of tension as Craig's spirit sank into my body. I wobbled a bit and grabbed the handlebar in front of me, then shivered at the sudden chill and dizziness. I'm pretty good at taking on passengers like this, but that didn't make it any more pleasant.

"You in there, buddy?" I asked out loud. Especially with new spirits, trying to think at each other was more trouble than it was worth. My lips moved to answer, though it wasn't my voice coming out.

"Uh- yeah. Yeah I'm here."

I grabbed the helmet hanging on the other handlebar and snapped it on, kicking the stand up and plopping heavily onto the seat.

"Great. Let's go."

"Wait, why am I not in control?" came Craig's confused voice. He felt almost frustrated, an undercurrent of emotion that wasn't mine despite being in my mind and body.

"Because this is my body, and I let you in willingly. Easier to keep control when you're letting someone in. Plus," I gave a little snort. "You just died, dude. I've been letting spirits possess me since middle school."

I felt his frustration turn to grumpiness, and then the pressure in my head, like a storm rolling in, that I knew from experience was him trying to take control. I froze and let out an irritated huff.

"You stop that. I'm not dealing with you doing some dumb shit with my body. Either chill out or get out."

"Oh- uh. Just wanted to see if I could…"

"Uh-huh. Anyhow, now that you're together enough to try joyriding, do you remember much about where you were before you were killed?"

I started up the scooter as emotions rolled through my mind, detached and distant, almost like the muffled dissociation I was used to mid-shutdown. Possessing spirits' emotions always felt weird like that, both mine and not mine, held at arm's length. Craig's was especially turbulent for a new death, but given that he had been murdered… I didn't fault him for being a little confused and angry. Even if it did put me a little on edge.

"Uh- South Pine Street, Dogwood Acres housing development."

"Baller. That's not far from here. Once we get close to your body, you should be able to feel where it is, so I'll have a house number for the police. Don't want to have them scream in all blue lights and loud sirens and have your killer go to ground before they know which house, y'know?"

The muffled flare of anger that I felt was definitely not my own. I took a deep breath, hoped that the killer had panicked and tried to clean up instead of get rid of the body first, and puttered off towards Dogwood.

The housing development was quiet, lines upon lines of identical suburban boxes lit by flickering street lights that cast the sidewalks and yards in harsh white light. The occasional house had the glow of yellow within, but most of them were dormant. Weaving my way through the maze of streets, each one absolutely indistinguishable from the one before and the one to come, I felt terribly exposed -- and alone despite the spirit currently hitching along in my body.

I turned onto South Pine and brought my scooter to a puttering stop, stabilizing it with both feet on the ground. I couldn't help but bounce my legs to replace the vibration of driving; the sudden lack of sensation would ratchet my anxiety up even if I wasn't currently letting a frustrated dead man hang out in my head to catch his murderer.

...I should be more than a little anxious, really, but half-asleep Tabby once again wrote a check that more-awake Tabby is having to cash, and more-awake Tabby is very used to having to deal with the consequences of her idiot decisions. It occurred to me that normal peoples' consequences didn't usually involve murder, but when you live with the dead, you're bound to meet a few killers.

Two houses down, I could feel- not a tug so much as a presence, an echo of Craig's spirit reacting to his body. It was the only one on the street with its lights on and its garage, while not lit, was open. There was a car in the garage, another in the driveway, and a pickup at the curb in front.

"258?" I asked Craig, though I knew the answer already. His anger flared and I felt the oncoming storm again. I snapped at him. "That's two strikes, Craig. I'm sorry for your death, but if you end up driving my body into a crime scene or, god forbid, getting me killed next, I will kick your ass to whatever afterlife you're headed for and stay there to keep kicking it for eternity."

Big words for a short fat lady, but this is, in fact, my body on the line right now. I probably wouldn't be able to follow through on any ass-kicking, but dammit, I would try.

Craig was silent, and I could feel him steaming, petulant like a child denied a toy but with the power of a grown man behind it. With my stomach tying itself in knots and my hands starting to tremble, I dialed 911, hoping it would help quell the rising panic.

"258 South Pine Street. I think there's been a murder. I don't know the state of the crime scene or if the perp is still there, but you might be able to catch them if you hurry. The victim is Craig Davis, white adult male, either shot or stabbed in the chest, likely multiple times-"

"Wait, is this Tabby? The necro girl?"

Oh god I hope that isn't what the operators call me regularly-- I know I'm a bit of a 911 cryptid, since the usual intruder calls are to the non-emergency line, but if I get known as the necro girl I might have to move to a different state.

"Yeah, uh, necromancer, yeah-" I couldn't help but stumble over my words, now, with my train of thought derailed by the interruption. "-uh, murder?"

"Right! I'll send someone."

I murmured a thanks and hung up before she could ask me to stay on the line. I already had to stay around for the cops so Craig could give a statement, and making small talk with the 911 operator was not in the spoons tonight.

I don't like cops much, but in my line of work, they're kind of a necessity. I need to stay on the police force's good side because I need them to remove attempted murderers from my property on the regular. ...and also because graverobbing is still technically illegal, even if I do have the body owner's permission to dig them up.

At least most of the locals who know of me and my employees are chill about it. It took a bit of effort to get to that point, but now at least people don't run screaming from the less-presentable of my employees…

The blue lights of the police showed up fairly quickly, followed almost immediately by the red flashing of EMS. I puttered up slowly and parked my scooter just out of range as the officers set to work surrounding the house, then hung my helmet on a handlebar and walked up the rest of the way to watch the impending train wreck. I could feel Craig's anger boiling higher and tried my best to ignore it; Craig himself seemed to have fallen silent and sullen after I called him out.

"Tabby!"

I was standing just off to the side of the ambulance when someone stepped up behind me and called my name, making me jump and cringe.

"Oh- oh dear, I'm sorry, Tabs. I thought I heard you were the one who called this in!"

I straightened up immediately, face burning. I recognized that voice, bright and smooth and kind and--

"J-Jenna!" My voice was barely a squeak as I turned to face her, looking up at the round, dark face of one of the EMTs. She was a good six feet tall, maybe more, towering above me even in her uniform flats, with a brilliant smile and full lips and gorgeous natural hair pulled through the back of her uniform cap, the streetlight illuminating her from behind like a halogen angel.

Jenna had shown up to one of my early calls for assistance at No Regrets, and then she kept turning up, not every time I was in a situation where I'd be around EMTs, but often.

Concern showed on her face as she leaned to look me over.

"Are you okay? Did you see it happen, or-"

I shook my head, buying time to sort out words by tapping my temple with a finger.

"N-no, I uh- the victim woke me up, he's in here, uh, in case the cops need somethin' from him."

"Oh… are you getting enough sleep, dear? You sound exhausted. Do you want to sit in the back of the truck?"

It took me a second or two to recover from the way she called me dear, my face burning bright red. I couldn't make eye contact even for the second or two I can usually manage so that people don't immediately think I'm being dishonest.

"I- uh- um- w-well, it's, uh, it is like 4am--" I stammered, trying desperately to find words. "I-I guess 'm sleepin' okay, uh, how're… you doing??"

I have never been a great orator and the list of why that is gets a bit longer with every um and stutter.

Jenna's face bloomed into a gorgeous, open grin.

"I'm on 12-hour overnights right now, so I'm basically at least 60 percent Red Bull at any given time. Everyone okay up there at the House? Last I heard y'all were digging up half the lawn.”

I nodded, unable to keep from grinning. At least this was a subject I could talk to her about without making an absolute ass of myself--

"Yeah! The new girl, Chris, she's gotten Daryl and Roy to help her get the vegetable garden going! It's plenty big enough to take care of all of us, and I worked out a deal with the soup kitchen so that they get any of our excess, once things are running smoothly, and I can use their account to buy from that bulk food program that's usually only open to chari- oop-!" I bit my tongue and cringed. Right. I'm pretty sure that's technically fraud and I just admitted to it in front of-

There was a commotion from the house that snapped me back to attention, and the cops were leading a man out in handcuffs. He looked pale and shaken, spattered in blood, and not quite… present, like he had just checked out of reality for his own good. That… was a familiar look. I furrowed my brow. He certainly didn't look like a maniacal killer-

"He caught me with his wife," I said. Well. Craig said. I jumped. Jenna jumped. I flushed and covered my mouth reflexively.

"N-no that was him! The victim!" I squeaked. Jenna laughed, a hearty belly laugh, and covered her own mouth, though she was doing a terrible job of hiding her grin.

"I figured! If he caught you with his wife, it would be an upgrade!"

At this point, you could probably fry an egg on my face. Hell, my glasses were starting to fog up-- I stammered for a few moments, trying desperately to find something to say, and it was Craig who saved me, if you could call it that. I was too caught up in my embarrassment and awkwardness to realize how much anger and frustration he was radiating.

"Motherfucker told me he'd have my job! Son of a bitch thinks he can get away with doing this to me, he's gonna fucking pay--"

The oncoming storm crashed over me before I could get a grip on it, and all of a sudden I was lumbering forward, snarling words that weren't my own, and dragging a gardening pickaxe out of my truck -- Craig's truck -- on my way to the man and the cops--

I let out a shriek, in my own voice, feeling the sound cutting my throat raw. I wrested control of my body back with a lurch, falling on my ass in the yard with the force of it while the silvery-blue form of Craig was ejected from my body, screaming obscenities.

I threw my hand forward, fighting for whatever thoughts and words I could find to fix this. I saw Craig right himself and move back towards me, and the first incantation -- if you could call it that -- that my brain grasped left my lips in a single desperate breath, with a dizzying rush of power--

"INTHENAMEOFTHEMOONIBANISHYOU--!!"

The force of the hurried exorcism rushed outward like a sonic boom, strong enough for even the mundanes around me to feel, and Craig's spirit let out a yowl of rage for a brief second before twisting around itself and collapsing in with a sickening crunch, crushing smaller and smaller until it was gone.

I winced -- not my best exorcism. At all.

As the flare of adrenaline dropped almost immediately and I came back to myself properly, I realized -- blurrily, as my glasses had gotten thrown off somewhere -- at least two officers had their weapons half-drawn at me, though they were looking over at where Craig's spirit had disappeared.

I collapsed the rest of the way onto the grass, shaking, and covered my face with my hands, trying with everything within me not to start crying. I should have realized he'd try something like that, why hadn't I been paying attention- I could have been attacked, I could have been arrested, I could have had to watch myself beat a man to death and I- fuck--

The sob that came out was squeaky and pained, and I pressed my hands harder against my face, like that would stop anything else from going wrong. I should have brought someone-- I shouldn't have let him possess me-- I should have been paying more attention--

Warm tears ran from the corners of my eyes, down my cheeks, to pool in my ears, making my already-trembling body shiver harder with the unpleasant sensation. I'd let myself get complacent, hadn't lost control of a possession like that in years, and- I'd almost- fuck--

"Honey, honey, sit up for me. Tabby? C'mon, let's get you up--"

Numbly, I let Jenna help me into a sitting position, where she wrapped a blanket around me and pressed an open bottle of water into my hands.

"Take slow sips. Are you okay? Just shaken?"

I nodded, some part of me grateful that I couldn't quite see her face properly without my glasses, because I didn't want to see what she thought about me after that. She sighed, though, and sounded relieved when she murmured "Good."

My whole body felt like jelly, trembling so hard I could feel the water in the bottle sloshing around, and I kept flashing from too hot to too cold to too hot again, and I couldn't even sort out my thoughts--

Jenna sat down beside me and rubbed my back. If I wasn't having a complete breakdown, I might have enjoyed it.

I don't know how long it took for me to calm down and clear my head, but the car with the other man had left, and the other EMTs had loaded Craig's body into the ambulance while Jenna sat next to me and made sure I was doing okay.

After a while, though, I blinked and shifted my torso, then opened the blanket more and cursed at the bloom of red on my hoodie.

I heard Jenna curse as well as she stood up, but I grabbed her pants leg.

"N-no, 'm okay," I mumbled, and instead of trying to speak more, I reached to pull my hoodie and tank up my stomach to show bruised, but completely unbroken skin, covered in blood, rivulets following my stretch marks and making it look even worse despite my being otherwise completely uninjured. "See, 'm okay." This was not the first time I've had a possession lead to the dead's cause of death showing on my own body. It wasn't even the bloodiest.

Jenna sat back down, and I could see her leaning in a bit.

"Well damn. Magic ghost stuff, huh?"

I nodded.

"Magic ghost stuff."

I could see the flash of white against dark skin as she grinned.

"So that exorcism… Artemis or Usagi?"

It took me a moment to parse her.question, but all of a sudden I was completely back to myself, just in time to absolutely die of embarrassment.

"L-listen, I- y-you can exorcise i-in anyone's name, i-it's the power and conviction that counts--!!"

"Usagi, then." I could hear the laughter in her voice, laughter that bubbled out moments later. I wanted to crawl in a hole in embarrassment, but- it didn't feel like condescending laughter. I knew what that felt like. She seemed just genuinely amused. "I grew up with Sailor Moon, too."

I couldn't stop the squeak that eaked out, and I covered my face again.

"G-god I hope word about this doesn't get out, people already think I-I'm weird enough, and to- to fall back on anime for magic i-in a pinch is just--"

"Cute," Jenna finished.

I squeaked.

Jenna moved away for a moment, and then she settled my glasses on my nose. I couldn't make eye contact, but I did glance over at her and sheepishly murmur my thanks.

"The officers still want a statement from you, since you made the call and tried to go after the perp, but I don't think they're looking at any charges, given…" Jenna trailed off and looked over at where Craig had disappeared. "...yeah."

I nodded, slowly, and then found myself yawning, the adrenaline drop setting in especially hard.

"...d'you think it can wait 'til tomorrow… 've kinda had a rough night."

"I think they'll be okay with that."

#house of no regrets #no regrets #tabby #jenna #writing #ethical necromancy #necromancer #paranormal #fantasy #magic #writeblr #story #useless lesbian tabby has A Night

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after-witch · 4 years ago

Text

Office Hours [Yandere Shigaraki Tomura x Secretary!Reader]

Title: Office Hours [Yandere Shigaraki Tomura x Secretary!Reader]

Synopsis: He gave you the outfit. The blouse, the skirt, the nylons--the heels. A secretary’s unofficial uniform. You can’t help but feel mocked, in a way. Hurt. Was he being cruel on purpose, to make you think about your life before all this?

Word Count: 2000ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, some secretary adjacent kink material (tickling, spanking)

The mirror is streaked and dirty and you can only assume that it’s never been washed. Your captor certainly hasn’t washed it since you were taken, which was… weeks? Months? He doesn’t keep track of time, and he doesn’t do a lot of cleaning, or tidying, or much of anything in the way of keeping this room (his room, your room, he says) decently habitable. Even your occasional sweep of old food wrappers and cans stuffed into stray plastic bags earns you a sarcastic comment or shut-down; but if you’re going to be held captain by some rough villain, you decided, then the least he could do is keep the room from being rock-bottom filthy.

At least you’re not streaked with dirt. He does let you shower. Alone--sometimes. He likes to watch, so you’ve learned to shower at lightning speed. It all depends on his mood, and his mood is always volatile, shifting, unsure. Which brings you to your present predicament, staring in a dirty mirror in the bathroom of your kidnapper, dressed in an outfit that is both familiar and strange.

You pull your hair back and watch yourself silently as you pin it with a black clip. You don’t look like yourself anymore. At least not any version of yourself you conceived seeing before. Your eyes and lips are painted up--cheap stuff, you assume, given the quality and lack of a label. At least it wasn’t used.

But your face--it’s different now. You’re anxious and tired all the time, no matter how much you sleep when he’s gone or how much he tells you he won’t hurt you (sometimes even as he’s hurting you). And it shows in your eyes and face and the way your shoulders slump, making the thin white fabric of your blouse wrinkle.

He gave you the outfit. The blouse, the skirt, the nylons--the heels. A secretary’s unofficial uniform. You can’t help but feel mocked, in a way. Hurt. Was he being cruel on purpose, to make you think about your life before all this?

All of the motions of the morning were familiar… sitting on the toilet lid and slipping on the nylons, ever so slowly so they don’t get a run. Buttoning up each button, retracing your fingers when you button up the wrong hole. Slipping into the skirt and wiggling your hips before sliding your feet into the heels--a size too small, they pinch--and appraising yourself in the mirror.

But you’re not getting ready to stride into your office; you’re not getting ready to prep your boss, a Hero that you are slowly realizing will likely never find you, on today’s meetings and missteps and PR campaigns.

You’re about to walk out of a dingy bathroom into a dingy room and indulge in some sick fantasy for your captor, and the very thought of it makes you want to vomit. But vomiting would ruin your makeup, and you’ve already taken long enough in the bathroom. He’ll think you’re stalling on purpose (you are, sort of) and that won’t end well.

So you look in the mirror one last time and take a deep breath and turn away, leaving the minor sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty of the bedroom.

Your eyes are immediately drawn to Shigaraki, who has--unusually--cleared off the old sofa pushed against the wall. It's normally covered in dirty clothes and trash, things he tosses and never throws away unless you spring into action; but it's clear now, save for Shigaraki, sitting on one end with his palms spread out on both thighs. Casual. Waiting. And for what?

"Come here," he says, voice low and scratchy.

You don't want to--your body feels like lead. But you see his fingers twitch and you feel a surge of adrenaline thrum through you, like a lightning bolt that forces your legs to move. They feel heavy, and it's a wonder that they don't drag. The heels are hard to walk in, he probably grabbed (stole) the first pair he saw at the store.

You stand in front of him and it's awkward and humiliating and the lead feeling has gone from your legs to your stomach, heavy and foreboding.

"Sit next to me," he orders.

And you do. Wooden. Stiff. You shift just an inch, so your thighs don't touch his.

He sighs and you feel yourself cringe. "Not like that."

It's hard, really, to know exactly what he wants all the time. It feels like you're walking a tightrope, miles high, unable to look down to see where your next step should be. And there's no net underneath to catch you, either.

"I... don't know how you want me to sit." You keep your voice even and neutral. It's better than protesting, better than whining. It keeps him calmer.

"Get--get comfortable." He huffs, but it's not mean. It’s just annoyed. You can work with that. You lean back against the couch and force your posture to relax. You uncurl your fingers and let them rest in your lap, a bit primly, but no longer white knuckled. You glance down at his hands, glance up at his face. It's hard to keep eye contact, so you focus on his hair. You wish he'd wash it.

"Now put your feet in my lap."

"What?" You do make eye contact now, incredulous. He's looking away from you, which is... something new. He likes to stare you down and threaten you with looks or twitches of his hands, but now, he almost looks embarrassed.

You don’t want to make him mad, so you slowly lift your legs and shift on the sofa, making it easier to slide your feet into his lap. You keep staring at his face, his cheeks now tinged a slight pink, if only to avoid looking down at your feet cradled in his lap. What if he's hard. It wouldn't be the first time you saw him sporting an erection. At least you weren't in the shower this time.

He suddenly slides a finger into the side of your heels and you force yourself to stay still as he pulls them off and tosses them on the ground. So much for the complete look, you think. He stares down at your nylon-clad feet for so long that you wonder if you did something wrong.

"What are you--"

Shigaraki slides his rough fingers haphazardly down your feet, and your breath hitches the second they make contact. Instantly, instinctively, you jerk your feet away from him. But he must have known it was coming, because he holds your foot firm in a nearly bruising grip while removing all but one finger trailing down your sole.

"I bet..." You breathe steady, in-out-in-out, watching as he drags his teeth on his too-chapped lips. "I bet this--" he digs in deeper with his nail as he says it, and you gasp--"is why that shitty Hero wanted you to wear stuff like this, huh? Sicko..."

You bite back a snarky reply, half because you know calling him a hypocrite will piss him off--and half because you know that if you try to say something, anything, right now that you'll end up breaking the very thin dam that's holding back your desire to laugh. He's gently scratching towards your toes now and it's killing you--it really, really, really fucking tickles.

"Tomu--" you start, then stop, because you can feel the laughter bubbling up inside you. It makes you feel helpless. You close your eyes and will the feeling of his finger to go away, but it doesn’t; it’s maddening, and you can feel your breath get faster and faster and it hitches--the dam bursting is a small cry at first, nearly a hiccup, and suddenly you’re kicking at him with your other foot and laughing, hard and low.

You thrash and mindlessly throw your weight around, kicking and flailing, but it doesn’t stop. It goes on and on and it’s horrible and it tickles until finally Shigaraki stops to grab your free flailing leg and hold it tight.

It’s over, mercifully--or maybe not, as you feel the breath practically knocked out of you as he suddenly grabs you by the waist and flips you onto your stomach. You try to move--all thoughts of appeasing your captor thrown out in the last seconds--but he presses his thighs hard against your hips and you’re pinned in place.

You breathe, hard, and you feel sweat from exertion beginning to bead at your temples. For his part, Shigaraki reflects your own exhaustion, slightly panting, cheeks flushed but--you think, you feel, actually--not for the same reasons.

“What--what are you doing?” You say, blinking away tears that are now just as much from the cheap mascara as they are from Shigaraki’s previous ministrations. You keep your face angled to the side to avoid having your nose pressed into the sofa--and into a highly questionable old stain.

Shigaraki’s stares at your face for a minute, before reaching down with a finger and brushing away flecks of streaky mascara.

“You’re a bad secretary,” he says, his voice lilting with a strangely humorous tone that you’ve never heard before.

“What?” Should you be… insulted? Was he stalking you at work and criticizing you? You weren’t perfect--who was?--but you’d manage to boost your Hero’s presence in the media and never missed a deadline for submitting sneaky PR-laden editorials to the local paper.

His hand trails down, softly tracing against the back of your neck with two fingers. You shiver as he continues downward, gently tickling as slowly makes his way down your thin, slightly sweaty blouse.

“I said you’re a bad secretary.” He’s got two hands--two fingers, actually--of your hips and you’re briefly horrified at the thought that he might tickle you there before he yanks down your skirt zipper and pulls it down instead.

“Don’t!” You try to squirm, but he keeps you firmly set in place even as your skirt fabric bunches against him.

He ignores you, and instead shifts his weight so that he’s facing your legs and--you realize with increasing stress--your nylon-covered ass.

“To--Tomura!” You say, throwing out the name he’s forced you to call him, the name that sometimes gets him to take a step back when he’s crossing lines you want to keep secure as long as possible. “Let’s just... watch a movie or something!”

He tsks. It’s a firm, decisive sound that threatens to bring bile to your throat. “That’s Boss to you, sweetheart. You know better than that.” No, you don’t know--what is he getting at? You squirm again but you know it’s fruitless, you know you’re not going anywhere.

A fact that is made even more clear when you feel Shigaraki rolling down your nylons at the waist, revealing your soft skin, your bare ass, underneath.

“I told you what would happen if you didn’t--” he clears his throat, a gesture that makes you far more aware of the hardness pressing against you from under his pants--”If you didn’t finish your paperwork.”

“Tomu--” There’s pain, suddenly--he spanked you, firm and fast, and the knot in your stomach feels like it’s being pulled in a thousand different directions. “Boss,” you self-correct, feeling breathless. It’s a game, you think, a twisted game and you’re an unwilling player.

“Good girl,” he praises, and it does nothing but make you wish you could sink into the sofa, stains and all. “But it doesn’t make up for a sloppy job. You have a punishment coming.”

He slaps your ass again in a swift, hard motion, the tips of his four fingers striking your skin with a decisive pain. Then again. And again. And again. You’re sniffling now--it hurts and more than that, it’s humiliating. The weight of your embarrassment seems to settle on your waist along with Shigaraki, who seems content with making your cheeks--both sets--hot with shame.

“Boss… Boss,” you say, desperate, wiggling, thinking of anything to redirect him. “Can’t--Can’t I make up for it some other way?” It comes out before you can think about it, a cliché ingrained in your brain from porn and pop culture, and you wish you could take it back. You definitely--definitely--don’t want to follow up on that request.

You swear you can feel him get harder as the words leave your lips. He shifts on your waist and there’s a slight wetness there, sticking to your blouse and your back. He’s breathing heavy and if you were to look--you can’t, you won’t--you would see his face is just as disheveled as yours.

“Maybe,” he pants, “Maybe later. For now…”

You brace yourself in anticipation of the next strike. And the many more to come.

#yandere shigaraki #yandere tomura shigaraki #yandere bnha #yandere #afterwitch writes

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bokettochild · 3 years ago

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Hey Ketto, I'm not sure if you are taking any requests rn, but I've had a rough time of it recently and if it's no bother or hassle, could I request a fic where Time gets comforted by Warriors? Something with cuddles and hair petting, and Time getting to be held. Only if it's no bother. - Nick @thesacredtwink

Of course, Nick!

Sorry I didn't see this until just recently, but I whipped up something for you as soon as I could. I hope it helps, luv, and if you want more please do not hesitate to ask!

Time has been acting strange since the last switch.

At first, none of them questioned it, after all, leaving the ranch made them all a bit down, Time especially however, their leader usually sprung back to himself within a few days of travel time, going back to making jokes that made the others groan and offering advice and aid to their younger heroes. This time however, Time had only gotten worse, the shadows under his eyes growing nightly, the older hero falling silent and stern and very nearly snappish with the others. Only this evening, Warriors had seen Time lose his temper with Wind when the kid had been bubbling around him all day, and while the sailor took the scolding and tired ‘you’re just too much, Wind’ like a soldier, Wars had seen how the kid had retreated to Twilight and Legend during dinner, clinging to the both of them with misty eyes and keeping himself strangely silent while Time brooded on the other side of the fire.

The captain sighed to himself. If his boys were having trouble getting along, not just adjusting to being on the road again, then it was his place as a father (brother?) to step up and see what the problem was. After all, Time would tear himself up about this later, so he needed to nip it in the bud now before the man did something that would make the following guilt later even worse.

Time was seated on the far edge of camp that evening, and unlike most nights on the road, the man had left his sword in its sheath, himself still clad in his armor as the others shed their excess layers, and a blue ocarina was cradled in his hands, eyes distant and brows pulled low as he stared off into the forest. Not brooding then, sulking, and he wasn’t quite sure if that was better or worse in the moment.

“Room for one more?”

Time’s blue eye flickered to him for a moment with a dark scowl, the man shaking his head tiredly and pulling himself up.

Oh shoot, a royal sulk! Time was usually fine to let someone sit next to him, even when he was brooding, but if it was so bad that he didn’t even want anyone nearby? Oh goddesses, Warriors had his work cut out for him.

Dinner that night was a cold affair, the younger ones trying to prompt Wind into anything resembling conversation as Legend poked the sailor’s side, and the older ones exchanging worried glances as they looked from their sulking leader to each other. Usually, someone would break the stillness with a joke or a tease, but Legend’s snark only made things worse when Time shot the vet a look after he had made a jab at Warriors, and while the captain appreciated the defense of his honor, it was reminding him much too much of the war when Time had been a gremlin ready to wreak havoc on anyone at the nearest hint of insult to his father-figure. And while he rather doubted that Time could pants Legend (no pants, and their leader hopefully knew better now that he was older) it was an uncomfortable reminder of the kid’s worse days when nothing could get through to him and Warriors had to be very careful to hide his flask where the kid wouldn’t find it.

When arranging watches, Time had just grunted and moved to the edges of camp and Warriors found himself wincing.

“I’ll take second watch.” He told the others. “Time’s claimed first- don't ask, that’s what that huff usually means. Wind, you’re on Twilight duty, make sure the rancher doesn’t wander off again this evening, alright?” That earned a smile from the kid however hesitant, and while Twilight looked mildly offended, Warriors mentally blessed the rancher for not protesting the comment.

“Yessir, Cap’n.” Wind offered a sharp little salute, and he couldn’t help but reach over and ruffle the kid’s hair as his chest had swelled with pride. They’d worked on that salute a thousand times and now it was as clipped and smooth as any officer’s, even better than many of his men. Maybe he should have the sailor give his soldiers a few tips he chuckled to himself as the others sorted out watches; Legend taking the one directly after his and Hyrule the one after. Wild was on morning cooking duty, so the kid was ordered to rest for the night to avoid any sort of unfortunate mishaps. Usually, it wasn’t a problem to let the wild Champion take final watch, but if his plans (of course he had plans, did you doubt him?) were going to work out, the kid would need to be well rested to prepare the breakfast he’d asked for in the morning.

Knowing glances were shot his way by the others, Sky and Twilight both clapping his back and Legend tugging his scarf with an impish smirk as the others headed to bed, silent wishes of good luck ringing clear across the camp as he was left alone with their leader while the others settled in for bed.

He waited until the sun had set properly and the snoring of the others had begun rumbling around the camp, Twilight’s throaty snorts and Wind’s rumbling ones mixing with Four and Legend’s more soft snuffling ones. Hyrule and Wild lay silent and curled up, each snuggled into one side of the cuddle pile that had formed with Wind in the center, the sailor clinging to Twilight and Legend both in his sleep and dooming them to be smushed in by the other heroes. Sky, at the head of the pile, drooled slightly in his sleep, apparently uncaring that the others were using him as a pillow, and with one hand lost in Twilight’s dark hair. It made him smile as he took them in, pulling himself up to go and ensure they were all tucked in warmly before he turned his attention to the brooding warrior on the edge of their camp.

Time was still fiddling with his ocarina, eyes downcast and almost misty as the older man sat on the edge of camp, and he had to stop for a moment to collect himself before confronting him; Time looked miserable.

“Guilt hitting you yet for yelling at Wind?” He drawled, coming to sit next to the other and carefully arranging his scarf where time could grab it if needed. The man was no longer a child, but even so the blue fabric was a comfort to most of their odd little family, and scoldings or long talks were always made easier when it was available to hide under.

“A bit.”

“If it helps, he knows you didn’t mean it.”

Time slumped in place. “I still said it. Wind looks up to me now, I-” The other cut off with a sigh, tired eyes and weary heart both dimming as he watched.

“Right then, what’s eating you?” At Time’s startled expression he offered a knowing frown. “I helped raise you, Sap, I know when you’re taring yourself up over something and I’d half to be as blind as you to not tell when somethings hurting you. So, what is it?”

Royal blue blinked slowly, a match for his own and so terribly distant as Time turned back to the forest, thumbs trailing over the smooth porcelain of the ocarina. “I’m worried.”

“For?”

“For Malon.” Oh shit. “She wasn’t feeling too good when we left and-” Time’s face twisted up, eye glimmering as the man stared up at the stars, pain twisting his expression and straining his voice as one hand had wound into the prepared scarf. “I’m not there. Talon’s getting on in years and if something happens when we’re gone-” Time’s voice hitched, not quite a sob but broken all the same, and like a trigger was hit Warriors was already pulling the other man into his arms, holding tight as Time’s shoulders shuddered under his grasp. “I’m worried, Pops.” Came the broken whisper. “What if-”

“Shhhh.” Like a million times before his hands were running through short blonde hair. It had been ages since he’d trimmed either of his boys and Time was getting shaggy again, something he was grateful for. Running his hands through the kid’s hair had always helped him calm, and it seemed to still be effective even ow, Time melting further into his embrace as he hummed softly, rocking ever so slightly in place. “Malon’s a strong woman, she’ll be fine. People get sick all the time, Sapling, this isn’t anything to fuss over.”

“She couldn’t get out of bed the other morning.” Time breathed against his chest, the ocarina falling to the ground as both of the man’s hands had wound into the blue scarf instead.

Warriors tried to steady the stutter of his heart as he clutched the other a but tighter. “Is that so?”

“She’s been awful nauseas too.” Time choked out. “Wars, I-”

“Has she had random dizzy spells and weird cravings? Maybe gets sickened at the mere idea of certain foods but also likes eating things that even a pig would turn away from?” Oh, goddesses let this be right.

Time’s blue eye stared up at him curiously. “Y-yeah, how’d-”

The captain choked back a snort. “She’ll be fine, Time. Ladies get that way sometimes. My own beloved was that way for a while too, it passes in time, and there's few ill effects.”

“What ill effects?” Time shifted uneasily, pulling away to stare at him better.

“Exhaustion mostly, some pain, and loss of sleep, but,” He tilted his head with a knowing grin. “It’s well worth it in the end when she’s okay again. You’ll want to talk to her about it next time we get there,” if the bulge of Malon’s stomach didn’t give her away first. “But she’ll be alright.” Time stared at him in disbelief, brows pulling together in a doubtful frown that had him huffing in mock offence. “Wat, you don’t believe me?”

“Battlefield experience as a medic-”

Wars cut Time off with a snort. “Battlefield nothing! I was fighting my loves illness before the war even started. It’s not something that catches, I’ll have you know, and as long as she takes it easy, something I trust Malon knows as well as the next woman, she’ll be fine.” He reached over to tig Time’s ears making the other shy away with a strained laugh, only earning a hair ruffle “Stop fussing, Sapling, your lady love will live just fine.”

Time actually outed at him for a moment, something which quite frankly looked ridiculous on the man’s face and made him bust up laughing as the other flopped against him. Absently, his hands drifted back into Time’s shaggy hair, humming softly as Time continued to lay in silence, eyes staring up at the stars and ears twitching slowly.

“Tomorrow,” He tugged one flickering ear pointedly. “You need to apologize to Wind.”

“Trust me, I intend to.”

“Good.” He grinned, flopping his scarf across the other’s face. “But for now, rest, kiddo, you’re a right grouch when you're tired and I don’t mind pulling double shift for a night.”

“I’m-”

“Not fine, and not staying up. Past your bed-time squirt.” He tugged the ear again, earning a soft growl from his adult kid as Time shifted.

“I’m still in my armor.”

“Then change.”

Time pulled himself up with a huff, shucking his armor and letting Wars help him with the buckles and belts before the both of them settled down again. Tomorrow night, the leader’s metal shell would need cleaning, but for now, he’d let himself out to be seen and held, head nestled in Warriors’ lap as the captain played with his hair.

Time’s breathes evened out to join the cacophony of rumbling snores of the others. Warriors smiled, ruffling his son’s hair fondly and turning his eyes towards the moon.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #dad warriors #lu warriors #lu time #lu malon #mentioned #mamalon #more so than usual #time gets grouchy when he worries #hints at #pregnant malon #time is a good husband #warriors is married #feel free to insert your own ship there if you like #for #thesacredtwink my beloved #fluffics

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crispyjenkins · 4 years ago

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Crown prince of Stewjon obi and Ven’Alor jango childhood sweethearts

(JangObi Ao3: *congested with dark and possessive and stockholm aus* me: me: anyways here's wholesome JangObi in love

also for @ironhoshi because i just. i love hosh. and their soulmate fic Drarulam. i’m sorry i keep missing your messages, lovely T0T)

"Please at least pretend to be concerned about your own safety," Jango begs as they move quickly through the castle halls, and his charge has the gall to laugh at him.

"I surely don't know what you mean, a mhuirnín," Obi-Wan says lightly, as if they didn't in fact have a mob of pissed-off Gardulla the Hutt supporters and slavers storming the castle as they speak.

Jango levels him with a glare, and Obi-Wan at the very least winces. "One of these days, I'm not going to be around to stop you mouthing off to the wrong person, and they're going to decapitate you."

"That's hardly fair," Obi-Wan says, letting Jango tug him into a smaller corridor and down a short flight of stairs. "After all, it's not as if you've ever not been there."

"Then you are a fool as well as an idiot."

"I'm not sure how your father would feel knowing you call your employer an idiot."

"Don't you kriffing dare tell Jaster about this, or I'll decapitate you."

Obi-Wan laughs and slips Jango's grip on his wrist to his hand instead. "Another secret between us, then."

“This isn't part of my contract."

Obi-Wan looks up from the blaster rifle he's trying to unjam with the remains of a droid antenna, as Jango pops up and fires his own blaster out the shattered window, releasing a volley of bolts before ducking back down under the sill.

"Isn't your contract to protect me?" Obi-Wan smiles benignly, jamming the antenna into the rifle's entry chamber until he feels a soft click, and the entire rifle starts to hum as it powers up again.

"No, my contract is to protect the entire royal family, not just your hyperactive shebs."

He scoffs and scoots along the floor until he's close enough to slip his hand into the front of Jango's jacket and relieve him of a blaster cartridge, Jango angling himself so Obi-Wan has easier access as he shoots another volley out the window. Obi-Wan actually feels sort of bad for whoever owns the house they've barricaded themselves in, when another window shatters under the blasterfire from the slave runners that they hadn’t been able to lose after escaping the castle. He’ll have to find the owner and pay for the damages, whenever they get out of this mess.

"I'm not hyperactive." Locking in the cartridge, Obi-Wan slams the safety off and twists in place to rock to his feet, crouched as he sets the barrel of his rifle onto the sill. Making sure to keep his head down, he lets the Force gently guide his hands until he has Gardulla's lackeys in his scope. "I simply think it's ludicrous that I have to pretend to tolerate that slimy bastard's even slimier followers." He fires twice, then dips back down to let the rifle cool down; not for the first time, Obi-Wan envies Jango's Westars.

Jango growls. “Where the kriff is Myles?”

With a snort, Obi-Wan takes out two more human slavers. “Probably trying to get into Cerasi’s pants.”

“Please don’t make me imagine your sister’s pants.”

“Weren’t you in love with her when we were ten?”

“Your highness, please focus on the task at hand.”

“Oh, we’re pulling out titles, now? Well then, trooper, the one in the blue hat is their leader, and the rest are probably too stupid to make decisions without them.”

Jango glances down at him, face twisted unhappily, but easily takes out the human with the blue hat; their body jolts and then tips off the roof to hit the stone road in a heap, and the blasterfire abruptly stops. Cowards.

Settling the rifle muzzle at the corner of the sill to make a mental map of the remaining shooters, Obi-Wan feels Jango shift to pull out his comm, before cursing softly in Mando’a. At his raised brow, Jango holds up the comm.

“No kriffing signal. Not just a weak one, it can’t find a connection anywhere.”

“They haven’t had the time to take out the comm towers,” Obi-Wan says, and Jango grunts his agreement.

“Not since you mouthed off to them in the throne room, no. They must have set something up before their audience with you.”

Which has more implications than Obi-Wan really has the status to do anything about with Cerasi still off-world for another cycle, but something like glee fills his chest. “So I could have said anything to them?” he asks innocently, “They were going to attack no matter what I did?” and Jango drags a hand down his face.

“You’ll be unbearable after this,” he sighs, clipping his comm back onto his vambrace so he can carefully switch to the other side of the window. “How many Twi’lek were there?”

“Three, not including the one you shot in the hangar bay. I count four humans,” Obi-Wan answers, still smiling because he’ll be holding this over Jango for kriffing weeks.

“I count five.” Jango checks his blaster cartridge while Obi-Wan quickly finds the last human slaver that he’d missed in the furthest alley. “You have the rooftops?”

“And the fifth, he’s too far for your Westars.”

When Jango had first started coming to Stewjon with Jaster, Obi-Wan wasn’t even allowed to know blasters existed, much less know how to fire one. He still isn’t sure how Jaster had weaseled a teaching contract out of the King on top of the first guard contracts, and Jango knows intimately how far Obi-Wan has come in terms of defending himself, having spectated his lessons with Jaster since Obi-Wan was ten. Even a year younger, Jango could wipe the floor with him then, just by virtue of being the Mand’alor’s foundling.

So the half-smitten look Jango shoots him from across the window has two decades of understanding behind it; even after this long, Obi-Wan flusters under the praise.

“If we didn’t have people to kill, I’d kiss you,” Jango announces, smile set back into a frown, but his eyes glint in amusement.

Obi-Wan brushes up against him in the Force instead, because even though Jango can’t respond, he can still feel it. “There will be time later, a mhuirnín,” Obi-Wan murmurs, just to see his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Cerasi is already in the throne room when they finally make it back to the castle the next morning, looking up from where she stands by the war table and immediately closing her eyes in search of patience. Her personal guard, Nield, straightens at her side and turns quickly to hide his sudden guffaw.

And Obi-Wan knows they look quite the sight, half-drowned from their escape through the mote with Jango’s helmet conspicuously missing; the sleeved-cloak wrapped around Obi-Wan clearly wasn’t made for him. Soot somehow still smears their faces even after their impromptu swim, and it really doesn’t paint the prettiest picture of their afternoon.

“Brother dear,” Cerasi says, her tone dangerous as Obi-Wan hops forward to plant a quick kiss on her cheek, “I thought I told you you weren’t to start a war with the Hutts while I was gone.”

He winces, but still tries to charm his twin with a smile. “This time it really wasn’t my fault, ‘Rasi: Gardulla has been planning this for years.”

“Mhm,” she pretends to humor him, before turning a raised brow to Jango. “And you, you were supposed to keep him out of trouble.”

“The only way to do that would be to muzzle him,” Jango says, completely serious, and Nield nearly chokes on his tongue.

Obi-Wan sniffs in offense, turning to lean against the table and careless of any buttons he might sit on. “I do wish you’d save such discussions for behind closed doors, love.”

Jango and Cerasi release a sigh in tandem, that exhausted sort of resignation the only thing his sister and his partner can agree on.

“You could always tie him down,” Nield offers, voice strangled as his shoulders shake, his humor nearly vibrating him out of his beskar’gam.

“This isn’t part of my contract,” Jango growls — even though any Mando that takes a Stewjoni contract knows that the royal family are almost violently wont to adopt them, if the Mand’alor doesn’t negotiate the terms himself.

(Although, sometimes they aren’t safe, even then.)

A mhuirnín — “my dear”, Irish Gaelic (Google is telling me a different spelling than I grew up with so (ノ*゜▽゜*)?? ) shebs — “ass” or “rear end”, Mando’a beskar’gam — Armour made of beskar, “Mandalorian Iron” that was actually probably a steel alloy Ver’alor — “lieutenant”, Mando’a

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doyumacy · 4 years ago

Text

FALLOUT |LH| THREE

gif not mine

PAIRING: donghyuck x reader bodyguard!donghyuck

WARNINGS: mentions of taeyong. swearing, blood (i’ll let you know when there are parts with blood mentions), smut (let you know), violence, angst

WORD COUNT: 2,7K

ONE TWO THREE FOUR

“Thank you for meeting me at a late hour,” said the man in front of Donghyuck.

“Sure, no problem,” Donghyuck nodded. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I saw you’re getting along with my daughter, and before you say something I saw you two getting along pretty girl this morning,” he looked at him.” And to be honest, I don't care how you do your work, but I needed to remind you why I hired you,” your father stared at him.

“I haven’t forgotten it, sir. I’m going at my own pace, besides it would be very suspicious to kill her right after I spend 12 hours with her a day,” Donghyuck let him know. “I’ll get the job done. You don't have to worry.”

“I do worry though,” your father placed a hand on his chin. “She’s supposed to meet with the Prime Minister in 2 months. I’m sure he’ll work with her, I mean, the UN is doing so, why wouldn't he as well?

“I don’t care what you have to do. I want her dead. She’s getting bigger and bigger and stealing my best clients,” he groaned. “This is my business and she suddenly thinks she can come over and take what’s mine? No. Get fucking rid of her.”

Donghyuck nodded. “I will.”

…

After another long week, you decided to meet with Taeyong and Lena and have dinner with them since it had been so long since you saw them.

When you arrived at the restaurant, you turned to Donghyuck and smiled kindly to him, “you can go now. Take the night off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I don’t think I should leave you here alone,” Donghyuck said to you.

“I’m not alone, Taeyong’s bodyguards are here and Lena’s security team will stay as well,” You informed him. “I’m well secured.”

“I still don’t feel comfortable by leaving you,” he confessed.

You grinned and put a hand on Donghyuck’s shoulder, “I’ll be fine, Donghyuck. Really.”

Donghyuck looked at you directly in the eye for a couple of seconds and wished he could kiss you. He nodded, “fine, I’ll have my phone with me all night in case you need something.”

“Noted,” you smirked, “goodnight, Hyuck.”

“Hyuck?” Donghyuck beamed.

“Well, since you won't stop calling me ‘ma’am’ I decided to give you a nickname as well,” you shrugged.

“But ma’am is not a nickname…” Donghyuck looked at you.

“You don't want me to call you Hyuck?” you pouted.

“You can call me whatever you want, (Y/N)” He winked at you.

You bit your lip and smiled at him. “Maybe I will.”

Donghyuck smirked and turned, but before he started to walk, he turned again to you, “let me stay. I don't feel good leaving you here all alone.”

You pressed your lips for a moment and then nodded. “But you’re staying as my friend, not my bodyguard.”

“Deal.”

You didn't remember when was the last time you had fun and even got tipsy. A year ago maybe? You were not a bad drinker and you could take some shots with Lena, but not with Taeyong. His alcohol tolerance was so low.

By almost 1 am, you hugged your friends goodbye and Donghyuck had one arm around you as he half-carried, half-guided you to the car. Maybe you had more shots than the ones you could take.

"I signed up to be your bodyguard, not your designated driver." Donghyuck joked as he looked for the car keys inside his suit jacket.

"You could be both," You said slowly, having to put more effort into your words than usual since you were sloshed.

Donghyuck laughed. "Maybe so, but I preferred just doing one."

"Heeeey, you could do the partner thing soon."

"I don't remember mentioning a partner thing."

You licked your lips as you tried to remember what the phrase he'd first used was. "Designated driver. Only, instead of just dragging me to a car, we'd be getting sloshed together."

"That does sound more fun,” he said as he helped you to get in the car and fasten the seat belt.

You smiled dumbly and looked at him. “Have I told you you’re gorgeous? God, I love your skin and oh! Your moles in your cheeks are beautiful, I wanna plant some kisses on them.”

"Thanks," he said, trying to hide his smile. "It's nice to be appreciated."

"In all my life, I've never met someone that made me feel like you do," You said, speaking a foreing language.

"I don't know what you just said, but I'm going to assume it was complimentary."

You nodded. You kissed Donghyuck's left cheek because it was there. "The prettiest thing I've ever seen."

Donghyuck swallowed thickly. He didn't need to understand the language to know that whatever you said was something he would appreciate. The kiss sent tingles down his spine, and your mouth was still resting close enough to him that you could feel his breath hot against your skin. "As much as we would enjoy that, we need to stop. It’s not correct.”

"You're right. But you're just so pretty," you whined. "It's really not fair. You should try to be less pretty; it would make my life easier."

"You can live with it," Donghyuck said.

The ride to your place wasn't long. He finally found the keycard and put it in the door for him. He unlocked it and pushed the door open. You looked pretty comfy where you were, and it made shuffling him inside your big modern flat roof house. "C'mon baby, you've got to get in bed."

"But you're not there," You said, sounding awfully petulant about it.

Donghyuck chuckled. "No, but you'll get to sleep just fine without it."

"That's what you think."

"Love, you're drunk enough that you'll definitely pass out before the night's through."

"Aww, you called me 'love'. No ma'am."

Donghyuck was still right next to you though, so he was able to keep you from falling over. "My last boyfriend, well, Yuta was never my boyfriend, but he called me 'doll' but I sort of hated it."

"You do seem like you'd prefer the sweeter pet names. Sweetheart, things like that."

"Feel free to call me sweetheart as much as you want. Sounds beautiful coming out of your mouth."

"I think I will. After I stop working on protecting you, that is."

"Boring." You yawned. "You sure I can't convince you to stay?"

"Not while I'm working for you, and definitely not while you're sloshed." Donghyuck brought you to your room and took off your shoes when you collapsed back on the bed. "If you want to get undressed more, you're going to have to do it yourself, sweetheart," he said, then kissed your forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."

“I’m coming!” You groaned, walking to the front door where someone was ringing the doorbell. You opened it and you found a smiley Taeyong holding a kraft delivery bag. How did he look all shiny after leaving the restaurant in the same state as you?

“Good morning, sunshine,” he greeted you. “You look terrible this morning.”

“I was looking forward to hearing that, ass,” you grunted. “Come on in, the sunlight is killing me.”

“I’m not gonna find a naked Donghyuck, am I?” Taeyong looked at you.

You rolled your eyes and he entered your house. You shut the door behind him. “By the way, where is he? I didn’t see him in the entrance.”

“He has the day off,” you said, walking to the kitchen.

“So, you fucked with him?” Taeyong placed the food bag on the counter and he took off his jacket.

“No… but I did try to seduce him,” you grimaced.

“You did what?” His mouth gaped open.

“I told him he has the prettiest man I’ve ever seen and kissed his cheek,” you laughed a little. “Not that I lied. And then I invited him to stay over and he said it was not correct.”

Taeyong chuckled. “Oh my, God, this is so good. And then what happened?”

“Nothing, he left!” You sighed and then goggled. “What if he sues me? Did I harass him?”

“Woah, woah,” Taeyong shook his hands in the air, “he likes you, I can tell by the way he looked at you all night and he would’ve totally fucked you if he wasn't your bodyguard.”

“I don't even know how to look at him now,” you ran a hand through your hair. “He’s so hot that it makes me mad. All I want is him to pin me to a wall and fu-”

“I don't need the details, thanks,” Taeyong shut you down, “but what I can tell you is that you will end up pinned to a wall, any day now.”

You giggled. “Hopefully.”

Monday. Long day at the office. You barely had seen Donghyuck since you spent all day inside your office and he stayed right outside the door. You felt… sad? You missed his voice that day and his gorgeous face. You suddenly hated Mondays.

Lia knocked at your door right before the lunch break and left some papers for you to read and sign and some correspondence as well. When you finished reading and signing the papers, you opened a few envelopes where some people and companies were inviting you to some events. The last envelope was different from the rest since it was red and had a black stamp on it. You frowned and pursued to open it.

Inside the envelope there was a note written with letters clippings from a magazine and said:

IF I WERE YOU, I WOULD SLEEP WITH ONE EYE OPEN AT NIGHT.

YOU’RE DEAD.

You put the letter on the desk and swallowed. You weren't usually scared of hate comments, but this wasn't a hate comment. It was a letter. Threatening you.

You felt dizzy and your entire body started shaking. Who had sent you that? And why? You took a deep breath and stood up trying to walk to your bathroom in your office but failed. You tripped on your heels and hit the ground.

Then it hit you. They were inside the building. You weren't even safe in your own office. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to cry.

You tried to stand up but couldn't. Your legs weren’t responding and seconds later, you bursted into tears. You were scared. So scared.

Donghyuck had been replaying Friday’s night in his head during the whole weekend. He couldn't stop thinking about you and how good your lips felt against his skin. He hated himself so much for not being able to forget it.

On Monday he barely saw you and he hated it. He got you were busy but Donghyuck needed, at least, to talk to you and hear your voice and he didn't get that.

After he ate lunch, he returned and stood in the same place he had been standing all morning, hoping you’d get out of your office and going somewhere where you two could talk but didn't happen.

Donghyuck checked his watch on his left wrist and frowned. It was almost 2 pm and you hadn't had lunch yet. He turned and knocked at the door twice and he didn't get any response. He knocked one more time and decided to open it when you didn't respond again.

And that's when he saw you on the floor, crying and shaking. Donghyuck almost ran to you and kneeled in front of you cupping your face. “(Y/N)? What happened? Are you hurt?”

You choked on your words and got closer to him, holding him tight. He held you instantly and placed a hand on your head. “Talk to me, what happened, baby?” Donghyuck whispered in your ear.

The letter still sat on your desk.

Sungho was on the phone to the police while you sat with your arms wrapped around Donghyuck who was simply staring at the offensive stationary. Less than twenty minutes later the entire apartment was invaded by police, looking for clues to who had left it for you.

“Miss (Y/LN)” the Captain took the seat across from you, “Are you okay?”

You lifted your chin slightly, “I’m better, Captain. Just angry and scared at whoever sent this.”

He didn’t miss the way you kept your eyes averted from the piece of paper.

“They didn’t send it, (Y/L/N),” he stated, “It was an inside job"

You took in a sharp breath and Donghyuck held you tighter.

“I suggest you hire more security. My men will be here as well,” he told you, “But I can’t leave them here indefinitely.”

You nodded. "Thanks, captain."

When the police left, Donghyuck and Sungho decided it was the best to leave the office and you obeyed them. When you got home, Donghyuck told you to change the passcodes of every door in your house and he’d stay there until they knew who had sent the letter. You agreed since you didn't want to be alone in your house.

When you got home you did what Donghyuck told you and changed every passcode. You sighed and hugged yourself. You felt exhausted.

Donghyuck approached you and looked at you. “You feel better?”

“Kinda,” you admitted. “My head is killing me.”

“Why don’t you go and take a bath while I make something for you to eat?” He caressed your cheek with his right thumb. “You need to eat something.”

You nodded. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” he placed a kiss on your forehead and you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Is there a chance you could come with me?”

“Not even the slightest,” he now kissed your cheek.

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror and furrowed. Did you deserve this? Maybe. Was he maybe behind the letter? You didn't think so.

When you sold Kim Doyoung that powerful software one year back he was clear he wouldn't even bother you. Did he maybe hear about your meeting with the Prime Minister? Did he know you were about to sell him off so you could do business with the government?

Donghyuck was chopping some vegetables and couldn't stop thinking who could be behind the letter. It was not certainly your father since he had hired him to kill you, but who was it?

You were clean. Way too clean.

Unless… you werent.

You came back downstairs and smiled when you found Doyoung in your kitchen. You could get used to that.

"What am I protecting you from (Y/N)?" he asked softly after you two finished eating, trying to meet your gaze as you looked at him over the brim of your glass. "What is it that you're not telling me?"

You blinked a few times. "What do you mean?"

Donghycuk sighed and repeated his question.

You didn't reply. You just stood up, placing your glass down silently before you walked towards the kitchen.

Donghyuck followed you without second thought, cornering you again in the hallway leading towards the kitchen. "What are you hiding from me?" he demanded, his hand pushing against your chest and pressing you against the wall. "I want the truth."

"It's... nothing," you came in the response and it only served to infuriate him more.

Donghyuck wanted to scream at you until you told him the truth, but as you stood there, staring into his eyes and standing close enough to feel your breath on his face... Instead, he did something that surprised both of you.

Lee Donghyuck kissed you.

It was impulsive and it was reckless. It took you a second to come to terms with what was happening but your lips were moving against Donghyuck in perfect synchronisation, your lips slotting together like they’ve always meant to be like that.

Donghyuck felt like his entire body was doused in gasoline and you had the match, every inch of him ready to combust. His heart raced as the adrenaline ran through his veins and he couldn't help but note that this feeling was so addictive he didn't think he would ever be able to stop if he didn't right now.

Donghyuck loved how heavenly his lips felt against yours, how warm your touch was and how it sent electricity coursing through his vein each time your soft fingers explored a new part of his body.

You were the one to pull apart and as much as Donghyuck hated it, he felt a pang of disappointment. "Trust me."

Donghyuck swallowed and looked at your swollen red lips. "I would never forgive myself if something happens to you."

"I'm gonna be fine. You're with me." You looked at him.

#donghyuck x reader #donghyuck imagine #donghyuck smut #haechan imagines #haechan x reader #haechan smut #NCT #nct imagines #nct x reader

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likeiwishiknew · 4 years ago

Text

Azriel x Gwyn - The Ways of Old

Read on AO3 from the beginning

The training was terrible.

Not because it was tougher than anything Azriel or Cassian put them through.

But because everyone did their best to ignore them.

No one wanted to spar, only throwing them irritated glances in passing and making backward comments.

The fact that she was so glaringly on outsider likely did not help.

They were learning next to nothing. Azriel was not allowed to teach them here, only observe. That was the agreement. While she was here, she and Emerie were to play by the rules Devlon and the other leaders.

She and Emerie were allowed to watch the demonstrations for various techniques with everyone else. But other than that they were left to their own devices. Only sparring with each other.

Not that she did not enjoy honing her skills with Emerie, but it defeated the point of why they were here in the first place.

Which was to prove that they were just as capable as any of the males here. To show these arrogant assholes that gender did not determine capability. Gwyn did not much care what they thought of her. But Emerie was was one of them, and they needed to treat her as such. Gwyn did not want to hear of any more instances of her sister having to deal with their mistreatment and ridicule.

Emerie was a warrior in her own right, had earned the title, and for not a single one of them, aside from Balthazar, to have the decency to give her a chance was outrageous.

Gwyn wouldn’t dare to say they could compete with the seasoned warriors.

Not yet.

But level the playing field and she was confident they could perform as well as any of the young warriors here.

Across the distance, she hears Devlon call for some sort of division.

Looking that way, she found Azriel speaking to two younger males. She almost always made sure to keep track of where he was, even during her bouts with Emerie. But he must’ve slipped away at some point.

Devlon eyed the trio in question, suspiciously. Shortly after, the two unknown males begin walking their way. Gwyn meets Azriel’s gaze, across the distance. She quietly wonders what he is up to.

Before she has any chance to ask, the males stand before her and Emerie.

“Can we help you?” Emerie says, her arms crossed over her chest defensively.

The two males share a look.

“We thought you two could use a change of partners,” the taller of the two said, his eyes focused on Emerie.

Gwyn shot Azriel a glare, certain this had everything to do with the fact that he’d spoken to the males. His meddling would get them nowhere. Honest respect could not be demanded, it had to be earned. Having him pressure others into accepting them was not the way.

He shrugged in response, making no attempt to look the least bit apologetic.

“My name is Zander,” the one closest to her said, before gesturing to his friend, “This is Tobias.”

Gwyn eyed them both, sensing Emerie doing the same, “Why come now when you’ve been avoiding us for days?”

“We haven’t been,” Zander defended.

The lie seemed to come easy to him.

Her disbelief must’ve been rather evident because the male felt the need to continue, “Devlon told us only to speak to you if you deigned to speak with us.”

She did not like the sound of that. It had her thinking that Devlon made them out to be arrogant, putting the burden on them rather than voice his own obvious prejudice.

Only a willful fool would believe his words. But people believed what they wanted to, what was easier.

Tobias nodded, “He made it clear that there would be consequences for disobeying his order.”

“So, why did you come over here?” Emerie questioned, her wings flaring slightly in irritation.

“Because the Shadowsinger told us too,” Tobias admitted. He looked not the least bit put off by Emerie’s tone, which was a tad surprising.

Gwyn wasn’t surprised to hear she was right though.

She felt Emerie bristle beside her, “So you’re only deigning to speak to us because you were forced to.”

“We were never against speaking to you,” Tobias corrected, tone remaining neutral.

“Do you not fear Devlon threat?” Gwyn found herself asking, her question directed at them both.

"The Shadowsinger is far more of something to fear,” Zander insisted, glancing over his shoulder at where Azriel still remained standing in the distance.

A moment later, Zander’s returned his eyes to Gwyn, “But we know his word is good. He asked us to spar with you and made it clear he would handle any repercussions.”

Gwyn played Zander’s words back in her heard. Azriel had asked them. Not demanded or commanded. It was not much, but it was something. At least she knew now that the males had not to been forced to engage with them.

“And it just so happens that we’re curious as to what you might have learned in all your training sessions with the General and the Spymaster,” he finished with an almost teasing smile.

His good humor was infectious and almost had her smiling back. But she shoved it down. Gwyn would not be won over by the charm of a male who had not even had the courage to defy a ludicrous order from his superior.

She turned to Emerie, the two of them having a silent exchange. While the circumstances were less than ideal, it would benefit them to practice against others aside from each other. To pick up new tricks and hone in on different tells.

Emerie looked to agree.

“Alright,” her sister voiced, eyes meeting with the taller male standing in front of her, “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she challenged.

Gwyn saw a spark of something in Tobias’ eyes. She could not tell if it were interest or the mere delight at being challenged, and she did not get much chance to consider because in no time at all he and Emerie were walking off. Far enough that she could not clearly make out the words exchanged between them.

Decision made, she turned her focus back to Zander. Only to find him already waiting.

“Ready?” he asked, challenge clear in his tone.

In response, she got into a fighting stance.

The male grinned and followed suit.

“Until the first strike?” she asked, needing to establish how far they’d take things.

Cassian and Azriel tended to take their fights much further until one was face down.

But that required a level of trust she did not have with the male in front of her.

Thus, she was relieved when Zander nodded in agreement.

On the third count, they launched into their attacks. Both managing to maneuver out of the path of each other’s strikes.

And so the dance began.

Fists and kicks shooting outward but never landing. Their movements smooth and practiced.

He was fast. His muscular but lean build working to his advantage.

In between it all, Gwyn found herself questioning him, “Don’t you find it strange that the females that live among you do not train with you?”

Zander’s fist shot out and she narrowly avoided it.

“Females have been allowed to train with us for a while now, they simply have chosen not to,” he said, all matter-of-fact, ducking beneath her flying fist.

Gwyn shook her head as she pulled back, “There’s a big difference between being allowed and being welcomed.”

Those who had never been denied anything likely had no idea of the distinction.

She witnessed Zander’s hesitation. He was uncertain, and so his defense was weak, “It’s the way it’s always been.”

Her fist shot out. He blocked it with his forearm.

“Just because it’s always been that way doesn’t make it right,” she said with a swift kick.

She aimed for his side, but he grabbed hold of her leg and shoved her back.

It took a second for her to re-steady herself.

“Do you have sister Zander?” she questioned, as they circled each other.

He kept his eyes trained on her as he answered, “Two.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger,” he replied.

She gave a short nod of acknowledgment.

“And how does it make you feel that once upon a time you might’ve had to watch as their wings were clipped?”

Her words struck him, and she saw him grimace. The first real sign of regret she’d seen from him.

“It was a terrible practice. I’m glad it was done away with it,” he admitted, and she could tell from the tone of his voice, from the look in his eyes, that he meant it.

She could not agree more. Gwyn only wished they’d done so sooner. So that Emerie could have known the joy of flying with her own set of wings.

“And they did so only because the High Lord and General Cassian demanded it,” she pointed out, “Because, although it was a traditional practice, it was wrong and needed changing.”

She waited for him to speak up with some sort of excuse or defense. But instead, he merely nods in agreement. There might be hope for him yet.

“So you see, just because something has always been done does not make it right,” she declared, as she did, Gwyn ducked beneath the male’s swing and managed to land a blow directly in Zander’s gut.

She cracked a bright smile. It was her win.

As promised, the male stepped back graciously admitting his defeat. Something Gwyn would admit she had not expected.

He watched her carefully now.

If she did not know any better she might even say he was eyeing her with appreciation. But it was a silly thought. One she quickly abandoned.

So focused on studying the male in front of her, Gwyn almost missed Azriel approaching.

Almost.

Something always alerted her to his presence. She turned her gaze toward him.

He approached with a look of pride on his face.

At the same time he neared, Gwyn heard a set of retreating footsteps. Zander must’ve decided to head off, perhaps to join Emerie and Tobias.

Azriel stopped narrowly a foot from her.

“Careful, Gwyn people might think you’re trying to start a revolution here,” Azriel said.

Leave it to him to be able to overhear her conversation despite being well out of normal hearing range. Though she supposed he wasn’t the Night Court’s spymaster for nothing. Still, his comment got her thinking.

She eyed him, “Would that be so bad?”

His gaze softened. His eyes growing almost wistful.

“No, I can’t say it would,” he remarked.

Gwyn was just about to ask him a question when she detected another male presence at her back. Their sent was familiar, causing her to turn.

She found Balthazar standing behind there with a sizable bouquet of flowers. Scarlet Avens.

Gwyn looked up at the male in surprise. He had told her yesterday that he would be missing training today.

His sister had not been feeling well, and he wanted to be close in case she needed him.

“Amelia said you mentioned to her that you liked flowers,” he gave by way of explanation.

She had said that. But it had been mostly an off-handed comment. One she hadn’t considered that the child would even remember.

Gwyn stared at the bouquet, a bright riot of orange, and then back and him, “I’ve...no one had ever given me flowers before.”

Balthazar's brows furrowed in confusion as he gazed down at her, before looking somewhere over her shoulder.

“Really?” he asked, focus shifting back to her, looking genuinely shocked.

She felt a bit embarrassed to admit it aloud, but it was too late to take it back.

Gwyn nodded in confirmation. She slowly reached to take them from his hands, their fingers brushing in the process, “Really.”

He let them go into her grasp.

Balthazar briefly gazed between her and the flowers in her hands, “Do you like them?”

Gwyn smiled fondly at the bouquet, then, meeting his eyes once more, she nodded, “Yes.”

He gave a single nod in return, “Then good.”

She caught the sound of familiar footsteps.

“No flowers for me?” Emerie said, coming up to beside Balthazar who glanced over at her questioningly. Based on her good mood, she must’ve landed the first blow as well.

“Would you like some?” the male asked Emerie.

“Pfft no,” she answered with a laugh, “Save your charm for Gwyn.”

“Emerie!” she shouted, flushing with embarrassment now.

“What?” her friend replied, “Balthazar doesn’t mind, right?”

Balthazar turned his head toward the female at his side and shrugged, “I’ve grown used to her heckling.”

Gwyn couldn’t help laugh at that, “You’re like siblings.”

“He’s the brother I never wanted,” Emerie remarked.

Balthazar then shot Emerie some major side-eye, “The feeling is mutual. One sister is plenty.”

She laughed again at that. Her entire mood lifted.

- - -

Azriel remained silent, watching the entire exchange that took place before him. In those moments, he felt like an outsider. Only allowed to quietly observe as Gwyn’s eyes widened in surprise, as her expression brightened at the gift Balthazar had given.

Her admission to having never before received flowers from anyone had him angry at himself for not thinking to do so. But at the same time, there had been no occasion for him to give Gwyn flowers.

It wasn’t a holiday or her birthday, as far as he knew. And giving her gifts for no good reason would appear strange, would it not?

Yet here was Balthazar giving her a gift for no reason at all. Except maybe that he wanted to.

Azriel could not explain why that made him feel so lousy.

Had he missed something?

Was there something between them that he didn’t know about?

The thought had his stomach-turning. As the girls continued to talk amongst themselves, he made eye contact with Balthazar.

“May I speak with you?” he said, so quiet the girls did not seem to notice. Too caught up in the own discussion about their individual fights.

Gwyn had done well, despite the unnecessary chatter. She did not seem to realize it, but Azriel had seen the interest she’d piqued in Zander with her victory over him.

But he would address one issue at a time. Balthazar was the one in front of him now.

The other male stared at him for a long moment before nodding in response. He walked off and trusted that Balthazar to follow. They did not go too far, just far enough that they would not be overheard.

“So what’s up?” Balthazar asked once they came to a stop.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Azriel regarded.

“Why did you give Gwyn flowers?” he asked, watching the other male’s expression.

His question appeared to surprise Balthazar, as the other male took to studying him and taking his sweet time before replying, “Because I saw them and thought she might like them.”

Azriel narrowed his gaze, not quite believing it was that simple.

To his credit, the other male was not the least bit intimidated.

Balthazar shrugged not seeming to care at all that Azriel didn’t believe his words.

“She’s stuck living in this camp filled with misogynistic assholes that no doubt do everything in their power to ruin her day,” he stated, “I wanted to give her something to brighten it up.”

Azriel had those same thoughts. Every time he was forced to watch from the sidelines as she and Emerie showed up, day after day, only to be ignored by the others. Each day she awoke eager, hoping that things would be different, that her plan would work. That somehow the males would see how hard she and Emerie worked and would change their minds.

But Azriel knew that those prejudices were ingrained in them. They would not be so easily changed if they could even be changed at all. Regardless, he was not sure it was worth the effort. Gwyn and Emerie shouldn’t have to prove their worth to anyone.

He had all these thoughts yet not once did he think to bring her anything to cheer her up.

But he had shown up. Everyday.

Watched over her, observed, noted her strengths and weakness, and then went over them with her in the privacy of the cabin they currently shared. Offering her his advice and his ear.

Was that the right-thinking?

Should he be doing something different? Should he have offered her comfort over critique?

He had no idea.

Azriel was used to acting on instinct, trusting his gut.

Yet when it came to Gwyn he always worried about doing the wrong thing. Feared he would see her face fall as he had that night many months ago.

They were in a good place. He wanted it to stay that way.

“It always seems to work with my sister,” he heard Balthazar say, the other male’s voiced intruding in on his thoughts.

He paused, “You give your sister flowers?”

Balthazar eyed him, “It sounds weird when you say it, but yes I do.”

If Balthazar was simply treating Gwyn as he would his own sister, then perhaps, Azriel had nothing to worry about. Maybe, he was overthinking things.

“I get them for my niece sometimes too. Who, by the way, adores Gwyn.”

He caught Balthazar smiling, a look he had never before seen on the male, “You might even say the flowers are a thank you gift.”

Azriel waited for him to continue.

“For making my niece happy,” the male elaborated, “Amelia loved playing with Gwyn, loved the stories she had to tell.”

Azriel could imagine that. Gwyn had probably read more than her fair share of stories in her short time.

“When you care about someone you want to see them happy. At least, that’s just how I see it,” Balthazar spoke frankly.

The other male’s words struck him. Balthazar was admitting he cared about Gwyn. Azriel couldn’t begrudge him that, but it did leave him with questions.

“Do you love her?” he spoke in a low tone.

“Who? Gwyn?” the male asked, sounding surprised.

Azriel nodded.

Balthazar shook his head, “Shadowsinger, it ain’t that deep.”

Azriel waited, certain that wasn’t all it.

“I like her sure, and maybe with time, it could turn into something more. She seems like she’d be easy to love. But that’s not where my head is at right now.”

He held in his sigh of relief. Though it might have been a bit premature. Because not a moment later, the other male’s eyes narrowed at him.

“Is there a reason you’re asking me this?” Balthazar questioned.

Azriel felt himself grow defensive, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what is she to you?”

It was a question he should have anticipated. In fact, he had. And yet, he still wasn’t so sure of his answer.

“I...” he hesitated, before going with the safe answer, “She’s a friend.”

The other male raised his brow, “You don’t sound like a concerned friend.”

When Azriel did not answer the other male shrugged it off.

“Look, it’s none of my business what you’re feeling. But know that as a friend you can’t really stop me if I decide I want to pursue her.”

He tensed.

“Are you saying you intend to?”

Balthazar glanced sideways at him, “That’s my business now, isn’t it?”

Saying nothing else, the male stalked away.

- - -

Gwyn was arranging the flowers Balthazar had given her, into a vase she borrowed from Emerie, when Azriel finally returned.

For some reason, he paused at the door.

She turned her attention away from the bright blooms to meet his eye.

“Welcome back,” she greeted.

He stared at her a moment longer, only to nod in response. And though he'd technically said nothing, that in of itself spoke volumes. Azriel was not one for many words. But lately, he'd been spoken to her more and more. Spent time discussing with her about her day and relayed his own, all the things he did outside watching over her and Emerie's training.

Something was wrong. She’d already thought so when he’d randomly asked to speak to Balthazar earlier. The two were not close. Civil certainly but not particularly friendly. Azriel rarely bothered speaking to others unless there was a need. He had a distaste for most Illyrians, Rhys and Cassian being the main exceptions.

“Is something wrong Azriel?” she worried.

His face was calm, neutral, as it tended to be. But she detected tension radiating off of him. His shadows moved about erratically behind him as if trying to clue her in on whatever turmoil was going on inside him. She waited patiently for him to continue. Moments passed with neither of them saying anything. And she was beginning to think he would say nothing at all. He proved her wrong.

“How do you feel about Balthazar?” he asked.

She tilted her head somewhat curiously, “What you do mean?”

“I mean he is a good male. So I was wondering what do you think of him?”

It wasn't that she did not understand his initial question. It was more so that she did not understand why he was asking. Still, she answered him honestly.

“He was good and kind.”

Like Azriel and Cassian were, which gave her hope for the Illyrian male population. Even Zander and Tobias had not been too bad. Azriel must've thought the same if he'd spent them to spar with her and Emerie.

Still, she was quite certain that was not the answer Azriel was looking for. There was something loaded about his question.

“Why do you ask?” she inquired. Because it was clear he would not reveal his reasons himself, if at all.

He avoided meeting her gaze.

“Nothing, he just feels like the sort of male any female would want.”

Was he including her?

She was not sure where this was even coming from.

While Balthazar had given her flowers, she did not think they had any special meaning behind them. She’d assumed it was a thank you gift for watching over Amelia the other day. Not that Gwyn needed to be given anything to do so, she adored the little one.

But from the look on Azriel’s face, he was serious. It had her chest aching in response.

“Has he said something to you?” she asked, before adding, “Are you saying you want me to give him a chance?

Although she’d asked, Gwyn was already dreading his answer. Because if he said yes...

“No. That’s not what I’m saying,” he immediately answered and for an instant, she felt a glimmer of hope.

Until he continued.

“But if that’s what you want I won’t stand in your way.”

Him saying that. It hurt more than it should. Gwyn should be used to it by now. His rejection shouldn’t hurt so much anymore. Her eyes fell closed briefly in response as she collected herself.

“You deserve happiness, Gwyn. You deserve to get everything you could ever want.”

Except you.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she chased it away. She’d already decided to accept that they could only ever be friends. Thinking otherwise would only turn her bitter, and she refused to spoil the friendship they had.

Their eyes met again, but she did not trust her voice not to give her away.

And so, she said nothing.

- - -

Notes: I know we’re all a mixed bag with the recent news about the TV show, but I’m just over hearing trying to enjoy some peace as I live in my fantasy world of Azriel and Gwyn happiness. So cheers to that!

- - -

@azrielsshadowsdanceforgwyn @bittermuire @ofstarsanddreams @corrdolium

@brucexselina @inejjg @rhysmoira @gwynnight @fairytamy @bluegold08 @amandapearls @highqueentaey @lioness-says @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @princessofmerchants-reads @cantkeepmyeyesoffofyou-x

@my-fan-side @spookylightkidranch @velaaaris @keramzinskies @itswrongsong @mirubyjane

@lovelywordsandwine @ladygwynriel @parisakamali @mirubyai

#a court of thorns and roses #a court of silver flames #acotar #acosf #gwynriel #fanfiction #azriel x gwyn #gwyneth berdara #azwyn #read on ao3 #ao3 update

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dholwrites · 4 years ago

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How would the boys react to a WoL, who used to have long hair, cutting their hair?

Ao3 Link

Aymeric

He runs his fingers through your short hair, combing through the strands, brushing against your bare neck. Aymeric jostles back as if touching you hurt him, a startled look on his face told you all you need. “My apologies, I...” Aymeric’s gaze pulls itself away from you to dart across the room, but within moments they would come trailing back. He whispers a compliment; endearing, soft, hopeful. Before long his fingers were back in your hair, twisting and curling the strands as you have done for him before. Aymeric can’t stop marveling at the back of your neck, an enticing thought worms into his mind to see what you would do if he were to kiss it.

Estinien

Estinien didn’t care about your sudden short hair; until he found out how much he benefited from it. All the hickeys and love bites that you have been hiding are now exposed for everyone to see. He can see their gazes fall on the red marks dragging down your neck to your collar. Nothing strokes his ego more than the look in their eyes as they spot the marks he left, the horror painted on their faces keeping him in a good mood for the rest of the week.

Thancred

“Is this your way of telling me that I need a haircut?” A causal jest slips out as easily as breathing. Thancred peeks at you from the corner of his eye as you take a seat right next to him. He turns on his chair to take a better look at your hair, brushing his leg against yours as he leans in for a better look. Thancred is close, almost too close. His body pressed close for you to feel his breath tickling your year. Urianger had been keen on making sure that he doesn’t… replay any of his previous conquests.

G’raha Tia

He just stares and stares and stares. The Seeker isn’t too sure of how he should be responding to the changes. The situation itself is almost ironic. Just as he starts to grow out his hair, as if he was mimicking your hairstyle, you cut it all off. Of course, this decision isn’t without a silver lining. With your short hair, you both can now wear matching hairpins. Upon seeing you with the same set of hairpins he will quickly turn as red as his hair. You can see his ears fluttering in the air and his tail flickering, he looks just shy of a child being kissed on the cheek by his first love.

Cid

Cid really likes the new look, like really, really likes it. He’s ecstatic at the changes. He would shower you in compliments whenever you come by, even if he’s seen it a dozen times before. It allows him to see your face and neck clearer and it doesn’t get tangled in anything he might outfit you with. However, the length of your locks allowed Nero to spark up a debate with the Ironworks staff and even got NOAH involved. He has a preference for long hair and hearing him list off his reasoning why it is superior is enough to incite Cid to join in on the topic.

Alphinaud

Alphinaud was pouting at your new hair. He liked your long hair much more than the short style. Along your travels, he had made it a habit to draw you with long hair. The way it flutters in the wind as the sun sets behind you, the color contrast between the flowers resting on your head and the shade of your hair, or when you change up the style. The elezen doesn’t voice his thoughts and continues to draw you anyway. Eventually, his sketchbook is filled with drawings of you in all manner of different hairstyles, both short and long, as he daydreams about what it would be like to be able to freely touch your hair.

Haurchefant

He is a bit disappointed, the long hair you had was easier to play with. Haurchefant loves being able to run his hand through the strands if he could and playing with the types of hairstyles that you could do with long hair. However, that won’t stop him from gushing about how cute you are with this new hairstyle. Haurchefant would help pair your short hair with a nice accessory; a flower pin, a pair of glasses, or even a simple sunhat. Your collection of jewelry and headbands have only increased since then, but his favorite is still the unicorn hairpin colored the same shade as his ear clips.

Hien

Hien gets worried instantly. Is something wrong? Did something bad happen? Why didn’t you tell him? In Far Eastern culture, cutting long hair has a symbolic meaning which is mainly letting go of the past. To the prince, cutting his hair also felt like he would lose an important connection to his culture. Thus he frets over you, checking your body for any injuries while he asks you if everything is okay. Once you confirm with him that it’s simply your wish to change your looks, the weight would fall off his shoulders. From there he wouldn’t mind helping you tend to your short hair, with all sorts of ribbons to braid into it. Pastel colors with flower stitching for when you like to feel cute, plain darker colors for a mature look. Among all the different ribbons, there is one special to him, a yellow-green ombre ribbon. From afar it appears simple, upon closer inspection, one would find that there are small black streaks criss-crossing along its length to mimic his robes.

#Anon-chan #ffxiv headcanon #ffxiv fanfic #ffxiv #fanfic #haurchefant #aymeric de borel #alphinaud leveilleur #estinien #lord hien #ffxiv hien #thancred #g'raha tia #cid nan garlond #5.3 spoilers

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birthdaysentiment · 4 years ago

Text

The music in wtFOCK season 3 - Song #37

Maandag 11.03 // "Wildfire" - SYML (Part Two)

One of the most difficult things to do in life is to let other people into your life, to show them your world and what kind of person you are. It can be scary to let people see who you are, to let someone see the god and bad parts, because maybe they're not going to like what they find, maybe they're not going to stay once they learn the truth and when they see everything you carry around with you. No matter how terrifying it can be to open up to someone else, to lay everything out and say, "this is me, all of me", we all wish to find that person. We all want to find that one person, who we can be ourselves with, where we don't have to hide or pretend to be someone we're not, because we know they're always going to be there right by our side.

This clip, this scene in particular, is one of my absolute favourites, because for me, it felt like this reunion was the moment where Robbe and Sander realized, that they're always going to be there for each other, that they're not alone and lost in this crazy world, because they will always have each other by their side no matter what.

At this point, Sander had told Robbe about his fears, letting him know what he thinks about himself, because Sander believes that he's toxic, that he breaks everything he touches, that Robbe is going to leave him since he only causes problems, because sooner or later Sander is going to hurt Robbe again, and that thought alone is enough to make Sander want to give up his own happiness, if it's going to keep Robbe safe. But Robbe sees Sander in a different light, he knows that Sander isn't toxic, that he doesn't break everything he touches, because when Sander touched him, he had never felt anything like that before. Robbe isn't going to let the darkness swallow Sander, he's determined to pull Sander out of that darkness, just like he did for Robbe.

In that moment, Robbe wanted to remove all of Sander's fears, and he knew a way to do just that. Robbe takes Sander's hands, asking him to get up, so they can stand in front of each other. And in that same moment, the piano version of "wildfire" starts playing in the background where the calmness and soothing melody fit perfectly to Robbe's gentle and soft voice, which makes everything seem much more intimate, as they stand close to each other. Robbe is almost glowing, his skin and clothes is filled with warm colours, where his brown eyes really stands out, and it's an interesting contrast to Sander, who's bleached hair, grey clothes and tiredness, makes him seem a bit colder and more distant, like it's reflecting what's going on inside of him.

Robbe lets him in on the game, that they're not going to think "what if we ever", but instead, they're going to think "what if we, in the next minute…", and the thought of that seems to bring some comfort. Sander is a thinker, he has a lot of thoughts, especially about the time to come, if everything is going to work out, or if everything is going to fall apart. He can't always control them, but whenever Robbe is near him, his mind seems to be going a lot slower, not racing with hundred miles per hour, so when Robbe tells him what they're going to do in the next minute, it seems to bring some sort of peace to him, that he doesn't have to think about what will happen later or what will happen after they kiss, because they will just take it minute by minute.

As they lean towards each other, the alternative version of the song starts playing around them, where a familiar melody filled with so many emotions, replaces the pure piano tones, and suddenly everything feels overwhelming. Every emotion in that scene gets intensified because of the music, where the song really emphasizes the care, comfort, tenderness and love between Robbe and Sander, which makes the moment so special, and at the same time, you're trying to hold your breath, trying not to move, because you don't want to ruin that minute.

The kiss is filled with so much tenderness, it's so gentle and loving, but at the same time it's almost too much, because of the intensity and intimacy. We have seen Robbe and Sander kiss many times before; they have shares passionate kisses, longing and caring ones, they have shared kisses full of desire and lust, but they've also given each other featherlight kisses. But somehow this kiss seems different, like there is so many unspoken words put into it, but most of all it seems like a declaration of love, a promise from Robbe, that he'll always be there for Sander, that he never has to worry about that. And the contrast between them, with the warm and cold colours, seems to disappear for a moment, and it almost seems like Robbe is trying to give some of his warmth to Sander with the kiss, trying to give him all the comfort, love and safety he needs in that moment.

They continue kissing as Robbe puts an arm around Sander's shoulder, so he can deepen the kiss, but as the camera turns around, as Robbe holds Sander closer to him, Sander can feel how every emotion is coming to him all at once. He slowly moves away from Robbe's lips before he breaks down in his arms, a place where he now feels safe and loved. In that same moment when the tears start forming in his eyes, when his breathing gets unsteady, while he's trying to stay on his feet, the lyrics below can be heard in the background, and somehow it seems like everything is connecting on a deeper level.

Sometimes we break so beautiful

And you know you're not the only one

I breathe you in, so sweet and powerful

Like a wildfire burning up inside my lungs

The editing is once again spot on, because as they sing "sometimes we break so beautiful", Sander breaks down in Robbe's arms in a room that he considers "somewhere safe", and for me, that somehow makes the moment even more emotional. Because Sander is not only in the arms of the person that he loves, but he's also in a room that gives him comfort, where he has the opportunity to escape his thoughts for just a moment, because art is his safe place. In that moment, Sander feels safe enough to be vulnerable, because he believes that Robbe is going to be there to catch him if he falls, that Robbe is going to be there for him, he's going to just hold him in his arms and let him know that it's okay to let it all out, that Sander will always be safe in his arms.

I've written about the meaning behind this song before, but somehow, I feel like the thoughts behind it has a different meaning in terms of this clip, and once again I can't help but get all emotional and teary. Some people wake up with the same feeling every day, a feeling of missing something that has been taken away from them, thinking everything seem so hopeless, which sometimes can make it too hard and difficult to continue. But this song is meant to represent that there is someone out there, who will stop you from giving up, who will let you know that there's hope and how much you mean to them.

In this moment, as Robbe is holding Sander close while his sobs gets louder, Robbe lets him know that he's loved, that he never has to feel alone since he'll always have Robbe by his side, for there is hope in this crazy world they're living in, and they're going to get through it together. Because when you find yourself in a season of destruction and loss, you might need someone to tell you that there's hope, and that they matter, you might need to know that there's someone who will come and pull you out of the dark, which will make it easier to continue. Robbe and Sander is that for each other, they pulled each other out of the darkness, they showed each other that there was another way to live your life, a way that was real and filled with love and happiness.

I love the way Robbe is taking care of Sander, because he's just there for him, and that's exactly what he needs in that moment, and I'm sure it meant everything to Sander. He's never experienced that kind of care before, that kind of love, comfort and safety, because even though he thought he had that in the past, being in Robbe's arms reminds him of how real love should feel like. When Sander no longer can stand on his feet, Robbe takes a firmer hold of him and lowers them to the floor as Sander's crying gets louder, and Robbe just rocks them slowly back and forth while he strokes Sander's hair to let him know that he's there. He's being so sweet, so caring and so gentle with Sander, and that just makes my heart so warm, especially with the loving melody in the background, that makes the moment even more powerful, because every emotion rises to the surface.

I have a hard time watching this scene, actually the whole clip, and sometimes I get all emotional just by thinking about it, because there's so many emotions attached to it. But it always warms my heart to see how much love and care they are between them; how important they are for each other and the changes they've gone through. Seeing Sander break down was tough, painful and it hurt, but I think Sander needed it, I think he needed to let everything out he had been holding inside, he needed to break down in order for him to process everything that happened the last ten weeks. And as I wrote in the beginning, it can be scary to open up, to let someone else into your life, and I think Sander was terrified that the truth would come between them, that Robbe would treat him differently and eventually leave, once he found out about his mental illness, but Robbe was different. By holding him close and whispering comforting words to him, Robbe was letting Sander know that he was never going to leave his side, which was everything Sander needed to know in that moment.

Before the clip ends, Robbe says something to Sander, that always makes me emotional, because as the song is coming to an end, as the melody gets softer and more mellow, Robbe whispers "I'm so happy I found you", six words that holds so much meaning. Not only is Robbe happy to have found Sander in his art room, to know that he's safe, but I also think Robbe says those words to Sander, to let him know how much he means to him, how grateful and happy he is about finding Sander, about him being a part of his life. Because without Sander, Robbe would properly be living a fake life, where he would pretend to be someone he's not, while trying to hide his true feelings. But when he met Sander everything changed, not only did he meet the person that made him feel something he'd never felt before, but he also met the person, that changed his life for the better, because Sander made Robbe want to be himself, Sander made Robbe embrace everything his life had to offer.

After this clip, I found myself emotionally overwhelmed, almost drained, because I had felt every single emotion in that clip, something the choice of music also helped with achieving. For me, "wildfire" will always be Robbe and Sander's song, and sometimes it surprises me, that it wasn't written specifically for them, because it fits so perfectly to them and their story. I can't imagine a different song for this clip, or another song to be the theme of their love story and the journey they've been on together, and I guess that just shows how brilliant wtFOCK is when it comes to selecting the songs for the soundtrack. And even though I have a hard time listing to "wildfire" and its different versions, the song will always be one of my favourites from the soundtrack to season 3, just as it always will have a special place in my heart.

#wtfock #wtfam #music in wtfock #wtfocksoundtrack #robbe ijzermans #sander driesen #one of the most beautiful moments in season 3 #this clip is art #sorry for the way too long post

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e-vasong · 4 years ago

Note

Can I ask about your writing process?

Huge fan of your TUA fics here - the way you just GET the characters is incredible - its almost like reading a novel written by the actual show writers!

How do you go about your characterisation and your drafting process? Any tips on nailing the complexities of the characters (specifically five)?

Thanks!!!

:') This is literally so nice I don't know how to respond, oh my goodness. I wish I had, like, life-altering writing wisdom for you here, but I honestly feel like my entire process is kind of a mess. I'll share it with you anyways, though, just in case you can glean anything helpful from it. I’ll tuck it below a cut, but here it is (ft. some of my specific characterization notes on Five, since you asked :D).

Pre-draft: Concept stage! This can be a variety of things -- sometimes it's a specific scene. For me it's usually a challenge of some sort. I like to take things that I think are unlikely for a character (under what circumstances would [x] character ever become a bad guy? How would [x] character’s secrets get revealed if they never talk willingly about their emotions?) Then I build out from there. I outline sometimes now, but I’ve been winging all my pieces for so long that it’s pretty tough for me.

Draft one: Throw things at the wall. If I let myself, I will spend way too long agonizing on making every word perfect on the first go around, and I’ll never write anything. So draft one has permission to be as bad as it needs to be: sentence fragments, OOC dialogue/actions, clunky word choice, the whole nine yards. The most important thing is getting the words/scenes on the page.

Draft two: What sticks? Everyone is different -- I find it easier to edit than to write in the first place. So here’s where I look over my work from draft one. Is my sentence structure variable enough? How are their voices? Their actions? Does the narration work with the POV I’m using for the scene?

Like, okay. I’m working on chapter two of the end of the war right now. Currently, it includes this line:

“How did you even—” Five starts, then shakes himself. Absolutely not. He isn’t entertaining this. “Luther.”

In retrospect, I’m not wild about it. It doesn’t sound in character to me. I’m not pulling out receipts right now or anything, but the more I think about it, the more that I feel certain that Five rarely expresses surprise unless really shocked. Part of this is likely the contrast between him in his siblings (all the stuff about the Apocalypse and time travel is familiar to him and new to them, so the show has a lot of “Five explains [x] to his siblings while they look flabbergasted by him.”)

Anyways, it doesn’t sit right. So maybe, instead:

Five frowns, taken off guard. He could ask, but--quite frankly--he’s starting to think that he doesn’t want to know. He does, however, know what this is a preface to -- Luther is going to meddle.

“Luther,” Five says it like a warning. Luther either doesn’t hear it or doesn’t care.

Anyways, rinse and repeat step two as much as necessary, and you basically have my entire drafting process.

Characterization, though, I have a more thorough process for!

Fanon and meta is super, super helpful, but I definitely prefer to look at canon first and foremost. I find it easiest to build characterization by asking myself questions about the character! I mean, don’t get me wrong. The first step is just to...get your own read on their personality? And there’s no trick to that. Everyone comes away from watching a show/reading a book with a slightly different interpretation of a character’s personality. But when building off of that to write them, I find questions helpful. They vary from fandom to fandom, but, like, here are some of the questions I’ve asked myself while writing Five.

What motivates them? For Five, this is a super easy one. He literally says it at multiple points throughout the show. He’s motivated by his family. To the point of wanting to save the world because they’re a part of it. Five troops through injury and pain and discomfort, but one reference from Handler about a deal to save his family is enough to coerce Five into 1 - working with her when he doesn’t want to and 2 - taking a job that he doesn’t seem like he wants to take.

How far are they willing to go to get it? For Five, he’s willing to do pretty much anything.

Are there any contradictions in their characterization? This is a weirdly specific question, but! People are inherently contradictory. Sometimes in TV or movies or books, it’s just bad writing. But sometimes it’s because people are complicated. So, in TUA, Five is consistently a big-picture thinker throughout the series. He seems to view his job at the Commission with apathy because he knows that it’s part of maintaining the timeline and necessary for him to get back home and stop the Apocalypse. He plans to kill an innocent person because he believes the butterfly effect of their death could stop the end of the world. He is, in many ways, a utilitarian -- the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. The greater good sometimes requires a lesser evil. Pull the lever in the trolley problem, and kill the one to save the five. Unless that one is one of Five’s siblings.

For instance, his dialogue with the Handler in season one seems to imply that he is willing to give up fighting the Apocalypse if and only if she can guarantee his siblings’ safety (though this admittedly turns on how honest you think he was being with her -- I think he was honest, but smart enough to know she’d never follow through, but a fair argument can be made either way.) There are a million ways to read this, and the fun of playing with characterization is that you get to experiment with them! I read it as proof that Five is so driven by his desire to save his siblings that he actually places their wellbeing above his own moral compass (whether his moral compass is right or wrong is a whole other debate.)

What are they like at their best vs. at their worst? At his best, Five is strategic, driven, independent, determined, loyal, and protective. At his worst, he’s controlling, suspicious, bloodthirsty, temperamental, and obsessive. Of course, most people don’t just switch between these two extremes, and these traits frequently coexist, interact, and manifest in milder ways. Five being suspicious usually manifests as him being cautious until he’s confronted with a character (in season two, Lila) that strikes him the wrong way. Him being obsessive is often just a side product of the fact that he is determined, loyal, and protective. The fact that he can be controlling is connected to how independent he can be -- the same reason that Five tries to keep Diego in the mental hospital, never tells people that he’s injured, and hides things from them is the same reason he’s so quick and effective at getting things done. This is just a handy way of compiling a flaws/virtues list, and I like to look at it in terms of the potential extremes because I think it makes it easier to see how they interact to create the middle ground where the character actually exists.

How do they talk? Arguably the most important question for actually getting their voice, and the easiest way to nail this down is to just...look at the canon dialogue. Does the character use really big words? Do they talk in long gusts or in short, clipped sentences? Do they use contractions more or do they not shorten things? This is the hardest part of writing Five for me, because my first impulse is to make him talk like an Intellectual (tm) and Very Erudite Adult. Like, I default to that when writing him, and it’s a horrible habit (in my opinion) because...while he does speak that way sometimes (usually when explaining things to his siblings) that’s not actually how he talks most of the time. (Like, for instance, I tend to default away from Five using contractions in my first drafts of things. He actually uses contractions a lot, and frequently shortens words--”got to” is “gotta” for Five, “because” becomes “‘cause”, etc.)

Other examples:

Five: Billions of people are about to die tonight. You can change that.

The Handler: Tonight, tomorrow. So little difference in the scheme of things. Don't you remember the Commission's raison d'etre? What's meant to be is meant to be, or, as I like to say, que será, será.

Five: It's bullshit in any language.

I love this exchange so much :D. And it establishes some great things about the way Five talks! He doesn’t dance around the issue or debate her or try and prove her wrong. He just tells her he thinks that that opinion is dumb, obviously. He’s blunt, straightforward, and honest. (This seems to tie into the thing I was saying about Five and contractions -- he picks the most straightforward way of saying things unless he’s giving a technical explanation.)

Five: Okay, Luther, but be careful. I mean, I've... I've lived a long life, but you're still a young man. You got your whole life ahead of you. Don't waste it.

Five talks like an old man. Not all the time (though there’s a wonderful gif set out there somewhere of Five using old timer slang -- wait, I found it here.) He doesn’t use the old-timey slang all the time -- and I personally like the idea of mixing up Five’s slang habits and including slang from all sorts of eras because he’s a time traveler whose primary source of interaction after four decades alone was other time traveling assassins. But! He also talks in a way where he shows his age.

Regardless of where you think Five’s psychological age falls (I have my own Opinions on this), he seems to unilaterally view himself as the Big Sibling, and by a very large margin at that. That’s reflected in how he talks. Not always, since not every line of dialogue is relevant to his age. But stuff like this, or related to it, crops up a fair amount. He counsels his siblings on their problems (as when he comforted Diego post-Eudora’s death), and there are little moments like the quote above, where the point is that Five has indeed seen many more years than his siblings and has the perspective to reflect that.

Well, this is way too long now, and it’s really late where I’m at. I feel like the comprehensibility of this post has been steadily declining the whole time, but if other writers have tips that they want to add onto this, please go ahead!

#asks #writing #writing advice #which im not super qualified to give haha so! again #if anyone else has tips and tricks they want to add #esp if you're familiar with five like anon is asking!#feel free to chime in

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forever-rogue · 5 years ago

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Din + 1, 48, & 57 (Jedi!Reader? Or at least force using bounty hunter)

1. "You can't always do everything on your own." & 48. "If we are going to work together than will you have at least more than a one word conversation with me?" "No." & "Let. Her. Go."

Ayyy, I'm a sucker for a force sensitive reader so here we are.

Mandalorian Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

"You're really not going to let me help?" the Mandalorian's voice was a mixture of amused and concerned as he trailed after you. He was normally the quiet, stoic one and it proved to be an interesting turn of events that it was now his turn to be inquisitive. You momentarily ceased what you were doing, just long enough to give him an annoyed glance, "come on, we can work together.”

"Not interested," you stated firmly, deciding to lightly shove him back with a small flick of your hand. In truth, you were interested, you would have loved if the ragtag bounty hunter came alongside you, but you also didn't want to put him in any sort of danger. You'd grown fond of the mysterious man you've been working with for several months, but you had been operating solo for so long, you weren't sure what it was like to have a partner anymore. Those who had once surrounded you, including the one you used to call Master had all been killed when you were just a child.

"That's not fair!" he sounded and exasperated and you had to turn away, hiding your face to make sure he didn't see the little smirk pulling at the corners of your mouth, "you can't just use the force all willy-nilly!"

"You don't seem to mind when he does it," you looked down at the small child standing near the two of you, listening to everything intently. He cooed excitedly when you gave him a smile, waving his little hand at you.

"That's different-"

"Oh?" you turned around and raised an eyebrow at helmeted man, "how so?"

"It just is," he insisted, watching as you clipped your trusted old saber onto your belt, concealing it with the cloak, "you can't always do everything on your own."

You paused for a moment and gave him a curious glance; he'd repeated the last bit of wisdom your master had passed on before succumbing to death. It was an almost eerie moment and you let out a long sigh, "I know. But I also know that the last person who told me that is now dead. And I'm not putting you in danger too. Not you or the Child.”

"I can handle myself," he insisted and you knew he was right. He wasn't a skilled and highly renowned bounty hunter for no reason after all, "you know I can. We've been working together for months."

"I'm aware," you reminded him, staring at your feet for a moment before reaching up and tapping the side of his helmet, "and if I ever do need your help I will let you know. You'll be my first call."

"Y/N," he was getting frustrated with you but was trying to hide it. He understood why you were the way you were, but he also wanted you to let him in. He wasn't too different from you, you'd survived similar circumstances and he'd slowly learned to open back up to people, while you were struggling with that still. It had taken a long time for him to even learn your name, while he'd learned to trust you quickly, something in his gut telling him it was okay to let you in, “let me keep you safe. I care about you too, you know.”

“I know,” you said softly, giving him a soft smile. He always caused a feeling of butterflies in your stomach, no matter how hard you tried to repress them, they were always there, “I know, Din. But I can’t have you coming with me. This is my bounty, not yours. Besides, one of us should stay with the child.”

“Y/N-”

“No.”

“Will you at least listen to reason for once?” he carried on but he knew it was no use; you were as stubborn as he was, and once you made up your mind, you had made it up and there was no going back. Sometimes it led to a lot of arguing, but you never stayed mad for long. The back and forth, the give and take, was all part of your natural flow and it worked well.

“Nope.”

“Please...”

“No.”

“If we are going to work together will you at least more than a one word conversation with me?” he leaned against the metal wall of the ship, his arms crossed over his chest as he tried to reason with you. You grabbed a few blasters and put them into the holster you were wearing, giving yourself a pat down to make sure you had everything.

“No.”

“You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?” while he was being serious, there was a little tilt to the way he addressed you, and you were sure there a little smirk on his face under the helmet. You shrugged your shoulders and gave him a sweet as honey smile.

“Ever since I was young, my job, my training, everything, has required me to protect others. It’s the Jedi way, and although I am a Jedi no more, it’s ingrained in me,” you explained and he nodded, “and you’re supposed to protect the ones you love more than anything else.”

There was a pause as soon as he heard the word love spill from your lips. It wasn’t lost on you either as you stared at him through the helmet for a moment, right where his eyes would be. You only snapped back into attention when you felt a light tugging on the edge of your trousers, and you looked down to find the Child watching you closely. He lifted his arms up and couldn’t help but pick him up, giving him a tight hug before passing him to Din.

“Stay with your father, okay? I’ll be back before you know it,” you said quietly as Din took him from you, giving you a small nod as you turned around to head out. Just before stepping out into the light, you stopped one hand on the door to the ship, “I’ll be back soon, Din. Please don’t worry.”

“Okay,” it was a soft sound and you knew he didn’t really mean it. He would always worry when you were gone, no matter how safe of a situation it was. He watched you go before giving the Child a few small scratches on the head before setting him down in his makeshift bed, “I gotta go for a little bit. You know I have to go after her.”

The Child seemed to make a small noise of agreement before plopping down and watching as the Mandalorian started to gather up his own weapons, making sure everything was strapped to his body, “be good and we’ll both be back soon.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

It should have been an easy capture; everything about it suggested that it would be easy. The target hadn’t been known to be violent, he shouldn’t have had anyone around him, shouldn’t have had a cache of various weapons. But he did, all of it and then some. You had basically walked into a trap, and despite your strong and renewed connection with the force, you hadn’t been able to sense this. It was wrong, all wrong, and you hated to think that Din was right. He’d know immediately once he saw your bruised face; that was if you ever even made it back to him, or saw him again.

You’d held your own for a little while, managing to take down the majority of the guard, but the target himself was something else. He had been stronger and bigger than you, and for some reason he had gotten the jump on you.

“A Jedi bounty hunter,” he smirked as he trailed a finger along your cheek, making a small tutting sound at the cut that was already welling up underneath your eye, “my, my, my, how far from you have fallen from grace. What would your master say if they saw you now?”

“Don’t you dare talk about my master,” you hissed at him, pulling your face out of his grasp, “he was more of a man you could ever wish to be.”

“Couldn’t have been that good,” he grinned at you, “he didn’t even teach you how to defend yourself. But don’t worry sweetheart, it’s just you and me now, and you’re going to make it up to me.”

“I owe you nothing,” you glared at him.

“You’ve killed my men, stolen some valuable information, and destroyed my work space,” he brought his face close to yours, his lips inches from your ears as you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to keep him away. You needed to think of a plan, and quickly, if you had any chance of surviving, “you owe me.”

“I-”

“Let. Her. Go,” your eyes snapped open as you the familiar voice reached your ears. You looked up and found the Mandalorian standing in the doorway, a blaster in each hand, pointed directly at the man. You let out a small sigh of relief when you realized that you were safe, that you were going to be okay.

“I don’t think I will,” he said as he stepped away from you and took a few closer to the Mandalorian, “how adorable, you’ve come to rescue your little girlfriend. Now let’s make a deal...”

“Yes, let’s,” Din paused for just a moment, and you thought he was being serious. But before any other words were exchanged, the blasters were fired and the man crumpled to the ground, dead as the guards around him. The sound of the blaster shocked for a moment and you let a shaky breath as you realized what you had witnessed. You’d seen plenty of violence before, but it never made it any easier, it always got to you in one way or another.

Din came over immediately, putting his hands on either side of your face as he examined you to make sure you were okay. He made a small sound of disapproval as he looked at how hurt you were. Untying you was a quick process and you almost fell to the ground of the release. Letting out a shaky breath, you rubbed your raw wrists and gave him a thankful nod.

“I guess you were right,” you said quietly as you grabbed your saber and weapons that had been taken from you, “I guess I did need help after all. I just...couldn’t sense this. I dunno what happened...I just...”

“It’s okay,” he reassured you, putting his hand on your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze, “sometimes we all need help.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up,” you gave him a small smile, “I guess that would have been the end of me.”

“You would have found a way out,” he reassured you softly, “the force is strong with you.”

“I dunno about that anymore,” you frowned, wondering why it had failed you, or your own judgment had just been so clouded that you missed all the signs, “it was all due to you. Thank you.”

“You know what they say,” he said as he started to walk out, holding his hand out to you, beckoning for you to come along, “you always protect the ones you love the most.”

“Yes,” you said quietly as you followed after him, gently taking his hand in yours, “I suppose they do.”

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #dyn jarren #dyn jarren x reader #star wars #star wars prompts #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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holdmyhopeinyourhands · 4 years ago

Text

Hypocrisy & My F1 Experience

I wish feelings were easier to sort out. I wish it was easier to be morally on the right track all the time. I wish I could make a judgement call and stick to it. I wish it was easy to say you dislike a celebrity, athlete, any person in public limelight after they've done something controversial (and by controversial I mean something wrong/cruel/inexcusable etc etc) just like that. Click of the finger and any postive feelings towards them turns to the opposite. I guess I hate how not simple it is to turn away from someone you don't know in real life, someone who turns out to be problematic but you still like them because "media" makes them seem more likable than they probably are.

Getting into formula one was both amazing and really terrible for me. I love the sport now, love the fans, love the whole atmosphere. But I'm so conflicted about some of the drivers. It was easier to pass a judgement call on them all when I knew nothing? Like it was so much simpler to hear that they weren't kneeling and automatically know I should dislike them. Easy to seperate them from the good ones. I especially as a black woman was so annoyed and disappointed with them but also... not surprised? I was feeling more resigned then anything else. Because, what else was I supposed to expect from rich, privalaged people who probably never ever had to fear for their lives like black people and other minorities do.

And then I watch videos and clips of my favorite drivers. The ones I'm proud of for taking the knee for blm. The ones who used their actions to speak up against racism. The ones who stood united with the only black driver there. I watched videos of them to just enjoy their personalities, but then, there they are, the ones who are controversial. The ones who don't kneel, the ones I rightfully deem problematic for their casual inaction against racism and.... they look so human? So normal? Like they aren't evil or bad or terrible. They don't do things that upset me. They make me laugh and they are endearing and sweet and they are funny and kind and..... suddenly I find myself trying to make excuses for them. I watch them pull pranks and take part in jokes and suddenly my righteous disappointment is crumbling and I'm here scrambling for any and all reasons to explain away their problematic behaviour.

It's kind of terrifying. How we're all so desperate to excuse away problematic behaviour of people who could give less than two shits about us. How easy it is to fall into the trap of acceptance. How we're willing to hold certain people accountable because "we don't like them" while we harshly judge the others, not because their crimes are any bigger, but because we already disliked them enough to simply logically turn away from them.

What I guess I'm trying to say is that life is life. It's not simple. It's not easy. And I wish I could just fix all my emotions and feelings with cold hard facts. I wish I could hate these strangers for the damning things they've done equally. I wish hypocrisy wasn't so intertwined with my emotions. Ugh, this bothers me so much and there is probably not an easy way to solve it and honestly, tumblr fans are so strict on that line I'm pretty sure no one even voices this.

And honestly, I'm not saying it's fine to like problematic people or that it's ok to excuse away their behaviour. Or make it out to be "not a big deal" when it clearly is. I just wish human emotions were much more simpler and easier to manage.

Eventually I'm pretty sure I'll reach a point where I can neatly put everything into these tiny boxes that seperate the good things from the bad. But for now, I'm just gonna stumble my way through my hypocracy and hope I come out on the other side of this a little bit wiser.

#formula 1 #f1 #racism #hypocrisy #I'm out here trying to sort out my feelings in public #don't mind me #f1 drivers #blm #i thought as a black woman i would be stronger than this #but alas here i am #being all kinds of conflicted #yikes

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princessofgayskull · 4 years ago

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The last chapter of UWS, right when catra and adora meet up at the bakery before their date

HEY GIRL I’M SO SORRY THAT I HAVEN’T GOTTEN AROUND TO THIS WHEN YOU WERE SO NICE AND THOUGHTFUL TO HAVE SENT IT IN i COMPLETELY UNDERESTIMATED MY AMOUNT OF FREE TIME BUT HERE WE GO I HOPE THIS IS WHAT YOU HAD IN MIND!

So a little backstory about the last chapter: usually a chapter of about 16k-20k will take me about a month, if I’m lucky not to have enough off days. I got this chapter done, (I think it was about 33k words?) in about three weeks. I was full on sprint writing because I wanted to be done before season three dropped on what was either August 3rd or 4th? Anyways, I was eating, breathing, sleeping upper west side. Almost all of the big plot points I’d spent a lot of time dreaming up for the past nine months so they ended up just flowing out of me. I’m still amazed I got it done and it was cohesive enough for the audience because I was spent.

I got this chapter up, lost my mind over season three- especially because I’d written Angella in this chapter and it gave me and quite a few readers EMOTIONAL WHIPLASH- and then I took the entire month of August up from any writing.

I have no idea why Rob was Scottish but I am LAYING IT ON THICK WITH THAT SHOW DON’T TELL RIGHT THERE. I was exhausted by the time I was writing this part, because I write linearly, so I just wanted to be done.

I get asked this question enough to say I’m not sure what the significance of the migraines was in upper west side. There’s no canon equivalent, so I think I was just putting a little bit of me in Catra to I dunno, help with realism? At this point I’d only suffered with chronic pain- fibromyalgia to be specific- but back in April of 2020 I started experiencing migraines and my first thought was “HOW COULD I DO THIS TO CATRA?” Life imitates art.

This will be discussed more in cruel summer, but I wrote Catra as having Borderline Personality Disorder. I’ve never been fully diagnosed with BPD, but I’ve struggled with some syndromes of it, and she comes across that way to me in canon (she fits a DSM-V profile to the letter, almost). I’ve always wanted to have mental illness as a fundamental element of any of my stories because in my own life, I’ve experienced many barriers there and there’s just almost no positive rep for M.I, especially not unconventional disorders like BPD.

So Catra is talking about how she cycles through the entire spectrum of human emotions as a result of everything that’s happening to her, but also just how her psyche is reacting to it. To me, if you feel anger really intensely, the flip side can be feeling happiness really intensely, and I can testify to that.

For being completely exhausted I don’t think that first paragraph is actually too bad.

Catra has such a unique voice in Upper West Side; it’s what I believed her voice would be like if she’d been raised in the modern world, so there’s a lot more cursing and aggravation and even sarcasm, because not only is this the modern world, she’s also about three years older than she was at the end of canon.

One of the things that I think is being expressed here is the idea of resilience. Catra is resilient by nature, she’s a born fighter, and so she breaks but she gets back up. I think the biggest difference between her and Hordka- and the reason why Catra survives such an onslaught of abuse and mistreatment but doesn’t need Adora to whisk the bad out of her- is that Catra is psychology resilient. And I put her through the wringer in this universe so I wouldn’t her resilience to be very loud and apparent.

Entrapta is, without a doubt, a cyber criminal in the uws universe. But as they say, BE GAY. DO CRIME.

They won’t be ghosts for much longer, Catra.

But look at that progress! One thing that I think is really jarring for people when they start she’s god and I found her is that Catra seems to have regressed to being against the vulnerability she seemed so open to in this scene, but I’m never not dealing with some sort of cognitive distortion in a character’s head. When you’re mentally ill, you can be pro-recovery and can be making changes and strides, but you’re going to get set back, and it’s much easier at the start to get moved back to square one than say after months or years of therapy and meds. One thing that I hope people who move through this universe remember is that Catra is at the beginning right here. She’s having one of many hundreds of epiphanies you have when you are going through recovery. In Cruel Summer, we’re going to see how she’s moved forward and what she’s doing to keep herself moving forward.

I think I got the idea of the “curiosity killed the cat” motif when I was making a pinterest board for this story. See, pinterest boards DO work for inspo!

“Walk cock excuse for a human.” I stand by that ASDFHGJK

I love the line in Alessia Cara’s song “My Kind” (which was a HUGE inspo for uws, that whole album was) “I wish we could’ve told those little girls they’re gonna be okay”/ “Wish somebody would’ve told me that we'd be alright.” It just hits me so hard. So there’s a repeated element I want to carry through the universe of “If my past self could see me now, she wouldn’t be so ready to give up 24/7”

I love writing thirsty!Catra, almost as much as I love writing thirsty!Adora.

Okay, just how obvious is that I know nothing about alcohol? I grew up Mormon, and I’d drink now but I can’t because, you know, meds, so I feel like I'm always overcompensating when I write about drinking.

I really, really like working in motifs.

My, my, my, how the turn tables. Definitely a nod to Season 2 when we all lost our minds.

This moment feels very finale Best Friend Squad, which we’ll see more of in Cruel Summer.

Writing a character with a broken arm, I have to say, was strange. The cast is just one more out of a million things to keep track of in your working memory. Writing Upper West, especially as the seasons continued to drop, sometimes felt like I was balancing stacks and stacks of plates on my head, hands, and one foot while trying to whistle Beethoven.

I love that she keeps Sea Hawk’s bracelet and that she adds her “What Would Scorpia Do” to it and wears both.

I have spent hours listening to AJ and Aimee’s voices. Between the actual episodes, youtube clips, and interviews because I am so worried that my characterization is not going to transfer to readers. When AJ is playing Catra as teasing, she sometimes will go up in her register and so that’s what I was going for when she’s teasing Bow.

Also, writing PDA is hard.

Because I go hard on the angst, I have to go hard on the fluff, of course.

And the humor.

I THOUGHT HAVING THEM BE AT THE WINDOW WAS THE FUNNIEST THING IN THE UNIVERSE I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW.

Writing confident and flirty Adora is sooooooo fun, especially because I don’t think that’s really how the fandom thinks of her, but she can be like that in canon, so I like to bring her out when it’s appropriate. And because, obviously, Catra is whipped for her.

WRITING KISSES IS SO, SO, SO DIFFICULT. THREE SO’S OF DIFFICULTY. It can so easily become gross or unbelievable, but I didn’t want every single time they kissed to be the same, so then they each have to be different in some way.

Catra’s mentality of doom is a result of years of trauma and untreated mental illness. It’s branching off of learned helplessness that she and Adora both suffer from. It also sets up for the universe to be explored more beyond the end of this story.

For those who didn’t catch it, the last line of upper west side and the first are the same: “Bright Moon, ugh.” She speaks it here, instead of thinking it. That was the plan from the very beginning to have them kiss in front of the bakery and for her to say this.

Thank you SO much for sending this ask and letting me divulge all of my random thoughts about this scene. I had a blast and I hope it lives up to expectations! Thank you for reading!

You can find upper west side here, and the follow up series, she’s god and I found her, here, and keep a look out for the third series, cruel summer, coming soon!

#upper west side #she's god and i found her #upper west side: cruel summer #AGAIN SORRY IT TOOK ME SO FREAKING LONG #I hope this is what you had in mind

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