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sullygoofy · 9 months

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𝐍𝐆𝐀 𝐘𝐀𝐖𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐔 𝐎𝐄 pt.1

(avatar | human) JAKE SULLY X MALE (na'vi) READER

. i can't believe i did this. english isn't my first language. long one-shot!!

"Bold italics" = Na'vi "Normal" = English

YOU CLICKED YOUR TONGUE IN ANNOYANCE , jumping from tree to tree with multiple throwing knives clutched tightly in your three fingers. While the leaves of the tree you're in hide you, you observe the na'vi down below. He had the same blue skin as yours, patterns almost identical to that of a regular na'vi's— but you know that isn't what he is. As the chiefs son, you're well acquainted with many forest na'vi, and yet you cannot recognize the one below.

Perhaps it's because strange clothing covered his body, or because he walked around as if he were a newborn baby (fortunately even na'vi babies walk around better than him), and he stared at everything as if he were captivated by it— as if it were his first time seeing such things

And you knew it in that moment,

he is not one of your kind.

"Another demon." You spit the word out with so much venom, your hold tightening around your knives as you stare at the demon.

You don't know why the aliens think that you na'vi —real na'vi— would ever fall for a trick such as that. Those demons would never be true na'vi, they could try to look like one but they'd never know how to become one, they'd never know the heart of one.

They wouldn't understand the way of a na'vi, the devotees to the great Ewya. They would not share the same respect and care for your forest.

Humans only knew how to take and destroy, to break and to steal, they are filled with ignorance and greed. They do not properly think— and now they're assuming that they can just peacefully come into your forest!

Your hate for humans will continue to pulse through your blue veins. They took both of your sister's lives, for no apparent reason.

Sylwanin, Neytiri.

Their names rung through your head, and you felt your throat tighten up. The sounds of gunshots rang through your ears, but you knew it was not real. The ringing in your ears was not real, and the blood that now covered your hands was not real either.

I'm sorry, sisters.

You took a steady breath out, placing your hand on your chest as you tried to calm down your breathing, closing your eyes while doing so. Something your mother had taught to you, and you were forever grateful for her.

Once your breathing completely stilled, you looked back to the demon on your grounds. He still lingered along, observing the different plants. While he was distracted, you pulled back your hand, dagger held tightly, aimed perfectly at his heart and you were ready to throw, before Ewya had whispered to you.

The whisper of Ewya had landed on the tip of your knife, and you couldn't fathom why Ewya would want a demon like him alive. You clenched your hand tighter on the dagger, releasing a frustrated growl before releasing the dagger, purposely missing the most vital organ, his heart.

You watched with great satisfaction as the knife had grazed the demon's right cheek, enough to leave a scar for sure.

"I'm sorry Ewya." You truly meant it, but it's not like you had greatly injured the demon, so all was to be fine.

You felt horrible, but also relieved. Ewya's voice had slightly touched your nose, and you knew you had already earned her forgiveness.

You couldn't help it, you needed to see the demon's blood spill, and maybe Ewya understood.

"Ah shit! What the fuck?" The demon groaned, holding his cheek as his wide eyes turned to your direction. Thankfully he could not see you from all the plants that camouflaged you, but he looked extremely startled. You felt pride swell up in your chest as you internally congratulated yourself.

Now, startled and bleeding slightly, this demon should go back to where he came from. He should leave now— away from your people. Perhaps this would even be a message to the humans, that you na'vi would start to go for more violent methods.

But a graze on the cheek wouldn't do the job..

You, either way, had done a good job of protecting your people from harms way.

"Stupid demon.."

You didn't feel all too happy, because not a moment later the demon had ran off further into the forest, to your great and immense displeasure.

It seems now you'd have to keep your eye on him, so he does not wander further. You clicked your tongue in annoyance, not expecting to spend your time babysitting...

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JAKE HAS DONE MANY STUPID THINGS IN HIS LIFETIME, that he could admit, and perhaps running off while on an entire planet unknown to him was one of them.. He knew Norm would get on his ass if he damaged this avatar body further. It hasn't even been five minutes until Jake was attacked by a dagger, seemingly from out of nowhere.

With a sigh, Jake got comfortable and started to make a fire, he'd have to make sure this body is fine until he can switch back. While doing so, he heard bushes rustle and creatures chirping. In this body Jake was so much more. His hearing was increased, and he could finally walk and run.

It was his ultimate dream. Pandora was a beautiful place, but he couldn't get too comfortable because even with its beauty it was still incredibly dangerous.

Jake stopped what he was doing once a pack of wolfs— viper wolfs as Grace had called them once, came into his view. He held a torch firmly in his grasp, in hopes of intimidating the beasts, but it wasn't working. "Shit.."

Jake cursed, before yelling and swearing at the wolfs, they still stayed in place until they approached the male with a snarl.

"Shit ! Get back, ya wanna piece of this?"

Before one of them could jump at the demon you came down from your hiding spot, ears on alert and a hiss coming from your mouth as you barred your sharp teeth to the viper wolf. You skillfully dodged it's attacks, pushing your knives deep into their hearts and weak points. By the end of it your chest was painted a crimson red, and blood splatters were evident on your face— running down your jaw as if you'd even taken a bite out of one of the Viper wolfs, which you probably had done.

Jake was frightened, and in awe of the na'vi before him. The dark night illuminated your glowing eyes, and the blood surrounding your mouth was the most menacing visual Jake had the pleasure of seeing.

You brought your hand up to your mouth and wiped at the blood, although it didn't do much— considering your hands were also covered in the red liquid.

Sylwanin and Neytiri had used bows, and now you could understand why. Knives were up close and personal, and they'd leave you a bloody mess in the end. But perhaps having your entire being coated in your kills blood was what made you so prideful as you puffed out your chest and glared at the demon na'vi in front of you. A true, intimidating na'vi— you.

YOU were the most enchanting sight to the ex-marines eyes. Maybe it was the way you were coated in blood, or the way you looked like a true warrior while standing before him. Jake's tail swayed slightly, and he could hear his heart thumping— and he's sure you can hear it to with the way your ears flutter at each beat.

Bump,

bump,

bump.

"Than— thank you." Jake said, and all you did was hiss in response.

"You skxáwng! Foolish! Urgh!"

A great first impression, really. But that's how Jake managed to get an 'in' with your clan— by being himself, an idiot. Because if he wasn't in danger, you wouldn't have interacted with him otherwise.

You still couldn't understand why Ewya wanted him alive.

After that encounter, you had taken Jake to your clan, seeing as though Eywa had told you so. He would've been dead if it weren't for your great mother, and you didn't particularly enjoy having to teach him the way of a na'vi (as per your mother, Mo'at's, request).

"Jake Sully, you listen?"

"Mmh."

You could tell he was distracted as he watched your nimble fingers play around with your dagger, and you could only click your tongue— something Jake noticed you did often in his presence.

"Skxáwng." You grumbled, and you noticed the way his ears seemed to perk up at the word. It was not like he could understand half of the words that came out of your mouth, since he is even distracted when you try to teach him basic phrases.

"'M not an skxáwng," Jake watched with great pleasure as your eyes seemed to widen at what he had said. "You— where did you learn that?" You questioned, and Jake didn't miss the way your tail lightly swayed behind you. You came up close to him, until your tail snaked around his leg.

With a tight grip on his leg, you had pulled him closer with your cat-like tail, and your eyes still stared at him with wonder.

"I learnt from Grace."

"Grace?" It was a whisper, but given how close the two of you were Jake could clearly hear what you had said. A confused tone was evident in your voice.

"Mm.. You're always calling me skxáwng, so I asked what it meant."

You let out a scoff, stepping away from Jake once you heard the familiar sound of hooves trotting by.

Tsu'tey's here.

Jake seemed to realize this too, and you noticed the way his ears fell flat against his head at this own realization, you chuckled at that.

"My brother! You still wasting time teaching this demon our ways? Why don't you join me for a ride— it's been awhile." Tsu'tey asked, tilting his head as he stared at both you and Jake. "Leave this demon," He said, now in English, most likely to push on Jake's buttons.

You chuckled once more, staring at Jake as he let out a scoff.

"I cannot, my mother will surely have my head if I do not carry my duties and watch over this thing."

"Yeah! So back off." Jake agreed, and you're sure he could only understand the first two words of your sentence, since he did not have any reaction to you calling him a 'thing'.

You internally laughed at this anyways.

Tsu'tey gave an understanding nod, looking towards you before turning his gaze back to Jake Sully.

"Have fun thing!" Tsu'tey chuckled, guiding his way back to the clan while both you and Jake stayed.

Jake tilted his head slightly, confused as to why he had been called a 'thing' instead of a demon.

"You know why he called me a thing?" Jake had a sneaking suspicion that it had to do with you, and when you only shrugged in response to his question while biting down on your bottom lip to hide a smile— he already knew the answer.

"Come, let's practice more skxáwng!"

He found out that he didn't really mind when you called him such names.

Training was finally done, and now you decided to relax in the open. Without Jake Sully here to bother you.

You grumbled underneath your breath as Jake came up closer towards you, his breath fanning your face as the two of you lay down in a clearing.

Your eyes remained closed as you whispered a quick "Go away."

"You'd miss me too much if I did" Jake smirked, staring at your irritated face as you clicked your tongue once more.

"You act like you hate me, but I know you love me."

"..."

You were silent as you stared at Jake's face, slowing sitting up and hissing at the male.

"Shut the hell up."

"You're even using sky people language!" Jake chuckled, leaning in closer as you pushed his face way with your hand.

Yet, he continued with his foolishness "It's a sign of affection if you adapt another person's speech— and I'm here adapting your whole culture."

"You are bothering me Jake Sully."

"What are you gonna do? Bite me?"

Your ears perked up at the word 'bite', and you stared at Jake's neck with a heated look in your eyes. He was annoying you, and his neck was looking awfully tempting..

You pushed the male back onto the grass, stradling his hips as you tilted your head down towards him, a low growl emitting from your throat. "I will make you bleed Jake Sully." Jake stared at you as if you brought him the stars and the moon, "Don't doubt it for one second kitty.."

"Brother! Mo'at is calling for you! "

Jake released a groan at Tsu'tey's words, and you huffed in amusement.

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YOU TRAINED JAKE FOR THE NEXT few months, and although he pretended to not know certain things, he was still a quick learner.

You stared at Jake's na'vi body, observing the stillness of it. He did not breath when he went to sleep, and his eyes were devoid of life. It was scary thing to see— and at first you had thought he died in his sleep, but he had simply told you it was because he needs to do 'swaps'.

Sometimes you wonder how he looks as a human, as you trace your fingers gently on the avatar body— afraid to wake it even though that's not how it works.

Jake had mentioned before that he looked different than you, and you obviously knew that.. But how different?

Was he smaller? Taller? Larger? Softer?

Easy to break?

"Uhg.." You jumped back as you saw Jake 'wake' up, rubbing at his head as he stared at you.

"Watchin' me sleep?" He asked, a smirk growing on his features as he watched you furrow your brows, not responding to his previous question/statement.

The silence was strange, not comfortable but not uncomfortable either. You just kept staring at him, and usually Jake would soak up this attention, but the way you were staring at him made him feel like his insides were your gallery.

After a long while the silence was finally broken.

"Jake, can I ask you a question?"

"Mm, yeah" Jake had his ears up, tail swaying behind him as you crawled closer to his sat down position. It was usually him asking questions and moving closer to you, so he was surprised by this.

"What do you look like— as a de- human?"

"Well..—"

"In detail, so I can imagine."

Jake avoided eye contact, feeling hot underneath your stare.

"I'm much shorter than you, way shorter"

You laughed at that.

"And well— I'm not blue"

You also laughed at that.

"You could— you could come and see me at the lab.." Jake trailed off, staring into your eyes as he felt his heartbeat quicken, and like always your ears fluttered in tune when hearing the beats.

"I come see you?" You questioned, eyes widened as you stared at the male before you.

"Mmh.."

You tilted your head and smirked, showing of your fangs as you stared at Jake with hooded eyes.

"Alright, I'll come and see you."

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IT TOOK NO GENIUS to find out that Jake was nervous, and the rest of the scientists didn't exactly know why.

Yes, Jake decided to make an on whim decision to let you see him as, well, him.

But now he was scared, as much as he didn't want to admit it.

Would you liked how he looked? What if you were weirded-out by him? Would you still see him as him, or would you view him differently? He wasn't exactly anything special— and how would you react when you find out that he's in a wheelchair? Would you—

"Jake, seriously what's got your panties in a twist? Some people are trying do their jobs and your distracting them, did something happen in the clan?" Grace questioned, taking a drag from her cigarette and raising an accusing eyebrow.

Norm joined in with his commentary, "I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to fuck over the clan— probably because he hasn't studied na'vi for I don't know, 9 years?" Cleary Norm was jealous, Jake noted.

"It's just— well (Y/n)'s coming here."

Everyone went silent. The sound of keyboards clickling came to an abrupt stop.

"The chief's son is coming here?"

".. Yes."

Unfortunately, now Jake wasn't the only one that was nervous. Norm had a crisis between being excited or terrified, Grace was in shock and doubted Jake's words, while the rest of the scientists tried to make the place more 'home-y'.

"Exactly when is he coming, Jake?"

Jake didn't respond to Grace's words, cringing a bit as he looked off to the side.

"Jake. When the fuck is he coming."

"I said you could come see me— and he said he would so— maybe now?"

Grace was about to shout profanities at the brown-haired male, but the lab doors had already unexpectedly opened.

Standing, slightly crouching near the door was none other than (Y/n). In front of him— trying to stop him from entering— was a random guard in SWAT clothing. The guard was easily pushed out of the way by the na'vi.

You stared at everyone with narrowed eyes. Lips curled down slightly as your eyes scanned the room.

Jake..

"Jake Sully?"

It was no surprise that you couldn't regonize Jake, but you suspectrd that he'd be here.

Grace turned her head towards where Jake was— hiding behind a scientist and quickly shaking his head 'no'.

Jake was stupid. He doesn't know why he'd say you should come and see him now— it was in the moment type of thing. He wasn't ready.

Grace gave a quiet sigh, seeing the look on Jake's fave that she could immediately recognize.

"Jake's not here right now, he's currently in his avatar form— which I suppose means he's waiting for you." Grace smiled at you, hurriedly killing her cigarette.

"What? —" Norm was quickly shut up by Grace's intense glare. Norm could easily piece the parts together.

"Mm." You hummed, turning around to leave as your eyebrows furrowed.

"Jake."

#jake sully x male reader #avatar x reader #dom reader #avatar #jake sully x you #jake sully x reader #top reader

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cleabellanov · 7 months

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Jet-Skiing through identity: a deep dive into Mobius M. Mobius (part 2) 🛥️

Even the kindest of hearts have a trigger point, a spot that can catch a bullet without bleeding; making it part of the heart's anatomy.

I'm only saying that because I associate Loki as Mobius's soft spot("I know you have a soft spot for broken things"), and Loki turning his back to that in s1e2 as the trigger point. Imagine you have that courage, to do something everyone around you thinks is wrong. Then, just as you were going to prove the opposite,our efforts turn to be in vain.

For Mobius's character, this means he has to turn around at 360, to where he came from; with inovative ideas not working, it all comes to accepting defeat.

He manages that excellently in front of Ravonna: caring more about reassuring her everything will work out rather than focusing on himself. Another example of how much Mobius cares about others, even when he should care more about himself.

Episode 4, season 1, is crucial for where Mobius's story is going.

We can see so many interesting things in his conversation with Loki, like the way he handles stress through amusement. Asif this emotion isn't worthy enough, but to be laughed at:

"You like her! Does she like you?"

After all, let's not forget Mobius was already (and even earlier than this episode) catching feelings for Loki. His own words put this straightforward: "Just kind of an asshole. And a bad friend". Notice how he doesn't use any word similr to "traitor". He still considers him a friend, albeit a bad one, after everything he's done. Mobius might do his best to hide it, but he's still forgiving deep down. And it's not even Loki's departure in time and space that matters the most to the analyst. It's his alliance with Sylvie, hinting once again at the jelaousy of his character I talked about in part 1. "It's ruining my reality right now!" in Mobius's words.

But when he is told by Loki that they're all variants, Mobius doesn't simply dissmiss the idea. He could, and should, given the position he is in. But the brightness of his mind, and that little flicker of hope he still has in his Loki makes the difference. After all, hope is what makes us believe: it's the desire of having something to believe in.

Watch his reaction when he is told all this:

He is masking it flawlessly in front of Loki and the hunters, but that raising hope makes him search: is the trickster out of tricks for once? What if, all this time, that feeling he had inside himself but hid away is actually a sign, gently whispering to him there is more he should know about? That is a bravery so different from live action, and battling with superheroes: the bravery of discovery. Loki telling the truth means Mobius living a lie - a scary thought of course, but not scary enough to stop him.

This all drives Mobius to finding out what actually happened with hunter C-20. And the rest is history.

There is a certain honour in telling Loki he was right from the beginning. This new approach, this insight Mobius now gains over everything give him not only a rush of adrenaline, but also the confidence he didn't allow himself before. Therefore, he wasn't just working half a measure. The limits that were set were not part of his perimeter, but of the TVA's. Now that he sees that, he can also break those limits.

He is also free to speak his mind. And Loki is so deserving of these words that this scene right here is one of the most precious in the entire series. Their wonderful dinamc certainnly gives extra points to that.

Now Mobius isn't just an analyst anymore. He is a rebel, betraying the only thing he believes in, the one institution that shaped his entire existence. This rebellion isn't just external, but internal as well. Ultimately, only one part of the internal conflict won, but the other still exist, like two sides of the same coin, spinning and spinning. But he still has the hope that he'll find something better on the other side, and doesn't stop just because it's a hard thing to do.

If it was easy, everyone would do it. (Loki in Thor The Dark World)

I wanted to write more but this is already getting too long (like damn I'm fangirling hard) so see you for part 3!

#if you liked this reblog so it can reach more people?#marvel #loki #lokius #character analysis #owen wilson #tom hiddleston #mobius #mobius my beloved #writing #writblr #variants #mcu #marvel fandom #comics #the tva #cinema #sorry if I did any mistakes English is not my first language #💛💚

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ellesthots · 1 month

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Fateful Beginnings

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

parts: previous / next

plot: witnessing the breaking of Bruce, your desperation reaches new heights.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of suicide, description of panic attack/psychosis, light gore, angst, hurt/comfort, ableism (internalized; ‘crazy’ etc.), manipulation/lying

words: 8.8k

a/n: if you do not wish to read this, I will post a blurb at the front of the next chapter to summarize what happened in this one so you can still follow along. this is the last chapter for a while to talk about it explicitly.

prev. chapter summary (XXVII): You visit Bruce at Arkham, and share a tender moment. Bruce is moderately injured. Dr. Crane explains to you the protocol for interacting with patients who experience schizophrenia or psychosis, including not directly engaging with their delusion. Bruce remembered a powerful, owl-like creature attacking him, but it was ruled a suicide attempt. Bruce visits your apartment after his hold ends, where he tells you he didn't try to kill himself. Frustrated at not being believed, Bruce leaves, with no intention of getting medication or therapy.

In the afternoon you awoke, even more upset than the night before. Sleep allowed the weight of your task to internalize—you nearly passed out peeking at the news on your phone, fully anticipating news of his death—though you found nothing, the fear wasn't alleviated. A look at Scypher proved no one knew he'd been to Gotham General or Arkham, either. As day crept into night, you found yourself pacing about your apartment. Your mind's current fixation was on whether or not you should go to Alfred, and if so, whether to leave now or later. Now would increase the odds of Bruce seeing you, probably as he donned the suit and left the tower for another shift; that could leave him agitated. Leaving later would increase the odds of danger finding you, make it a sketchy Uber driver or chancing a walk across town in the total dark; neither option bode well, but there was no chance you would stay here. Every tick on the clock felt like a drop of blood spilling out of Bruce.

You paid extra for Uber Luxe, hoping that might decrease your chance of being assaulted or beheaded. Your taser sat thick in your sweatpant pocket, jostling with every step. You'd given the driver instructions to drop you off a block before Wayne Tower grounds, at the last convenience store. The drive was unfortunately short, leaving little time to plan what you wanted to say. Alfred would likely still be awake, waiting up for Bruce who was ever so ungrateful to have someone waiting and praying for his safe arrival.

Walking up the grounds was ominous; this wasn't what you thought a celebrity's house would be like, and you cringed thinking of him that way. There were no overlording guards, security staff peppering the outskirts, or someone watching the door. It was empty, quiet, and dark. The steps to the main entryway were broken concrete. The door was thick wood, double the height of a regular door, and equally wide. When you knocked it hardly made a sound.

The door opened without fanfare, the only sound the echoing creak of the door hinge bleeding into the foyer. Alfred's eyes brightened momentarily, and only slightly, at your arrival. He gave a watery grin and stepped aside for you to come in. "Miss Y/N. Master Bruce told me you visited at Arkham." You were struck by how different he seemed; his previously warm, jolly demeanor was replaced with all-encompassing fatigue, dread swaddling him with a sweaty blanket. "If you want to check on him, I'm afraid he's out." He walked to the unlit kitchen and grabbed a glass from the counter, drawing water from the sink before taking a gulp. His hand rested on his waist, his head facing the ground as he sucked his teeth. He rubbed his eyes.

You shut the door behind you, crossing your arms round your waist. "He looked pretty beat up."

Alfred gave a solemn nod. "Did they tell you what happened?"

You reciprocated. "About his great grandfather too." You paused. "Doesn't seem like he believes it."

The sigh the man heaved could've moved mountains. "I've tried to get through to him." His voice cracked. "Only seems to make him more resentful." He laughed hollowly.

Your heart hurt for Alfred. Maybe you'd only scratched the surface and the old man was some abusive piece of shit, maybe Bruce was perfectly right to disregard him, maybe it was all a show, but from what you'd experienced with Bruce, he seemed unwilling to consider his impact on others, not the other way around. "Did he seem worked up at all?"

Alfred, though exhausted, easily sniffed out your not-so-subtle attempt at gathering info. "I see—the psychiatrist brought all hands on deck." He'd wondered why you'd visited; it was hard to believe that Bruce would have asked for you, even if he'd wanted you. The boy hadn't even asked for him—though that could've been his altered consciousness after the attempt, or shame, embarrassment. On a good day the boy was tough to crack. He hadn't heard a thing about you since your leaving the mansion in the spring.

When Alfred got the call he panicked, quite literally dropping what he was doing to rush to him, but it was when he was pulled into a private room with the doctor that his heart shattered. How alone did Bruce feel? How isolated, lonely, and helpless had he felt? That night when Bruce arrived home from Arkham he'd had a long, heartfelt, one-sided conversation with him while they waited for his med timer to go off. He went on about whether Bruce would attempt again, and how Alfred could help prevent that. Bruce averted his eyes and listened, for a while. Eventually he stood with dewy eyes and told him he hadn't done it. The ensuing argument was steeped in desperation from both sides; Alfred hadn't slept a wink since. He checked on the boy every half hour as he slept and hadn't left his general vicinity until he slunk off in the suit.

"You know him best." The hallway cast an echo to your words. "Do you think there's anything you or I could do, or say? To make him get help?"

Alfred's laugh startled you. "That's precisely the issue, Miss. Bruce has an unforceable hand." He set the glass down, body tense. "He has to want it for himself. And he doesn't." The way he planted himself into the dining chair had you wonder if the sink wasn't actually filled with vodka. It almost looked like Alfred had given up. It pissed you off—not at the sorrowful man before you, but at Bruce. If your mom had begged like that, you wanted to believe you'd try something. This path of destruction he was on...

He interrupted your fuming. "Is that why you paid him a visit, to convince him to seek help?"

You nodded but his back was turned. "Yeah. Dr. Crane seems to think I can get through to him. No idea how. Said I was the last point of contact."

He huffed. "At this point anything's on the table." So maybe he hasn't given up hope... or maybe he truly sees no scenario where Bruce makes it out.

Footsteps sounded from the shadowy hallway at the back of the kitchen and before you knew it, Bruce arrived in the suit. His black eyeshadow had smeared at the edges. The cowl hung in his left hand.

"Master Bruce,"

His voice was terse, still hoarse. "What's she doing here? Did you call her?" He strode past Alfred in the kitchen to rip open the fridge and grab an apple. God, you wanted to scream. As he moved toward the elevator, you nearly flew off the handle at the combination of his back facing the two of you and his disgruntled sigh. With how fast he was escaping, that rage was unable to be tempered in time for a measured response. "So you're gonna act like I'm not here?"

He stopped but didn't look back. "I asked him a question."

"I didn't call her, Bruce." He rubbed his temples, a migraine forming. Alfred sighed and excused himself to grab an aspirin upstairs. Bruce kept forward. His stomach twisted into knots seeing you here again—intrusive, meddling, righteous. He took massive care to avoid limping.

The scene was poetic: Bruce disdainfully walking away while his butler (and only guardian) went to medicate for a stress-induced ailment. Metal clanking signified his nearing departure and you snapped. "Do you see how much you're hurting him?"

That was the single most aggravating and entitled thing you did: pretend you had any damn idea who Alfred was or had even a crumb of knowledge about their relationship. He spun around. "You know nothing about him—"

"I know he's exhausted and miserable waiting on you, he's alone in the kitchen at 10 pm with his goddamn head in his hands—"

"I told him he doesn't have to worry."

You could've laughed, but your body wouldn't let you. "You are genuinely risking your life, how the hell are we not supposed to worry?"

His eyes flashed at your pronoun choice. "You're ridiculous to think you're in any alignment with him."

"Are you?"

He stepped out of the elevator, his chest thick with tense breathing. "You don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

You shot an icy glare. "Is that a threat?"

He snarled. "Observation."

Heat rose to your cheeks for reasons you couldn't yet decipher. The longer he stayed arguing with you the less time he'd have for seeking behavior, but you had to toe the line. He was getting too riled up. "We-I just want you to be safe."

He stared at you for a good few seconds, trying to do a temperature check. You were hard to read. Ever since you'd come back he'd been decidedly disappointed in your intermittent composure. These glimmers of bite made him feel curiously alive, in ways both delightful and infuriating. "You got what you wanted from me. Why are you still here?"

It was like he was ignoring you on purpose; like he hadn't cried into your touch a day prior, like he couldn't fathom if he had been successful, Alfred would be planning a funeral right now. You shrugged, your chest procuring an exasperated sound to accompany it. "Do you not know how serious this weekend's been, or do you not care?"

He paused only briefly, enough for him to shoot a dagger stare. "It's not serious in the way you're painting it."

"Can you suspend your disbelief just a moment?" Please. Please. Please. You began to sweat.

"I could say the same to you."

You were losing him, you knew it. Whatever thin string tied you to him was threatening to sever. You opened your mouth but he cut you off, knowing if he gave you space to speak he would implode. "I know what I saw." His hands flexed in and out of fists, trying desperately to metabolize the stress, to temper the helpless rage bubbling in his stomach.

No idea what to say and at an utter loss, you stood and looked at him. The moon only lit up your half of the kitchen. The air was tense and brittle as ice. Dr. Crane's voice was a subtle pulse cocooning every sentence you thought you might say. "I know you saw that, I believe you."

His jaw set. He responded with a colossal eye roll and scornful jeer. "You don't believe it happened, you believe I experienced it."

Your voice lost its gusto, your mind going blank. "I don't know what else to say."

"Say nothing. It's not needed." He moved to turn and you reflexively tossed a lasso.

"You're needed; who will protect Gotham?" You paused too long in the middle there.

He cackled—a jarring, unsettling sound in the chilled air. "There's no line you won't cross."

Fuck. You wanted to stomp your foot, and throw a tantrum to shake the house; this visceral experience of exasperated compassion fuzzed your restraint. "No line you won't ignore."

He stopped turning and scowled, his voice devastatingly cutting. "Says the person loitering."

He needed to know how serious this was; all arrows pointed in one direction. "If you'd been successful, we wouldn't even be t—"

"I didn't do it!" It was the first time he'd really yelled around you, and definitely the first time at you. It peppered goosebumps across your skin and hitched a few breaths. Clamoring steps and Alfred entered, brows raised after a quick scan of the room. "What's going on?"

Bruce turned on his heel and made haste to the elevator, slamming his palm against the button before he rocketed down to the cave. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears, tears springing up for the umpteenth time this weekend. The second the doors opened he bolted through the basement, his cowl catching on the corner of a particularly obtrusive desk in the center of the room. He tossed the cowl, and as he felt the helplessness punctuate into his chest he began ripping off the suit until he was nothing but spandex base layers. He sprinted through the subway doors, past the car, and barreled north. The chilled air slapped his flushed cheeks, the pain in his foot and torso going silent as he sprinted through unlit sidewalks and alleys. He'd find it. Find something. Find anything. His weak ankle slipped on a patch of oil, and he landed swiftly on his back. Unprotected by the suit, the thud knocked the tears out of him, and they slid silently down his cheeks until they joined the puddles on the ground.

Alfred turned toward you and searched your face. "I heard shouting?"

You whipped out your phone and dialed Dr. Crane. He picked up on the second ring; you put it on speaker for Alfred to hear. "Ms. Y/L/N. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. I went to see Mr. Pennyworth, and Bruce caught me there and, we had an argument and he just, he ran off." The adrenaline rush of his shout lingered much like sweat. You fought to catch your breath as tsunamis of guilt and fear crashed into you. Would he hurt himself right now? Is he gonna die? Dr. Crane sighed. "Certainly not ideal..." Another sigh. "Did he make any threat against his life, or anyone else's?"

"No."

"Did he seem oriented to place and time?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately there's not much we can do at this point."

Your hands shook. Alfred placed a hand on your arm to steady you. "I could go after him, I don't, I don't know,"

"No." Dr. Crane was quick with it. Alfred shook his head at you too, but remained quiet. "That might push him further. Mr. Pennyworth has this number, let him know to call me if he doesn't come home in the next few hours. Anything else I can do for you?"

God this was hopeless. Guilt ravaged through you, and you barely contained a sob while telling him that was all. You stowed the phone in your pocket, callously wiping hot tears from your face. Alfred dropped his hand from your arm, face empathetic but grim. "Miss. This is not your responsibility."

"I need to leave, I'm not making this better,"

"Let me drive you."

You shook your head. "I need to walk. I have a taser, I'm fine." You brushed past him before you melted into a pile of dust and became unable to command your legs.

Alfred walked across the kitchen and pulled off a piece of paper towel. "At least take my number. I'm a call away." The soft lull of his accent and the smooth feel of the fiber grounded you enough to walk out the door and brace yourself for the two-mile walk back, after a brief embrace and thanks. You stomped along the sidewalks with your arms across your chest, both grateful and suspicious at the lack of people around. Glints of flickering street lamps caught your attention on the wet cement. It shocked you that Gotham still got rain in the summer—much less, yes, but the littering of puddles and slick pavement was an ever-present ghoul.

The sidewalk curved to the left, jutting out to various side streets and alleyways. Some faint yelling punctuated the otherwise quiet evening, but that was usual. As you walked further however, it grew louder, sounding distressed. You grabbed your taser and held it in front with the trigger ready, safety off. The screaming kept an insistent space in the ambiance. Shuffling, hitting, thudding, scrambling. The fuck? Curiosity outweighed the fear that criticized every step toward the noise pollution. By this point the main street's light source had waned, rendering your phone the only way to not trip and break your nose against disgusting concrete. You yelped when someone ran out in front of you—it took a full ten seconds to realize it was Bruce.

His clothes were completely torn up; he wasn't in the suit, which confused you. Is it lying somewhere? Someone could easily trace it back to him. He turned quickly and paced back from whence he came, a small alley littered with garbage and decaying leaves. You could make out even less of what he looked like now. Every time you moved your light up he flinched, turning hard away from it. The puddles refracted the light off your phone, allowing just enough to frame his expressions and movements. He was hunched, shaking like he was in an earthquake, and shreds of his shirt and leggings were strewn about. "Get away from me." He grumbled, loud, his voice bloated and cracked. The hoarseness from earlier had devolved into a scratchy sound, almost like his throat had open wounds. He spoke too loudly, with some words emphasized and shouted while others sounded more swallowed, drowning in the tears he sputtered on as he choked out shouts and screams. You didn't bother to hide your wince; with sounds that heartwrenching and lights so low, it would be futile to suppress. Upon closer inspection some of his bandages had been ripped off too; as if on cue he began ripping more of them off, digging underneath his shirt, sniffing, huffing, and heaving.

"Bruce,"

He looked at you like he'd seen a ghost. "How do you know my name?" He shrieked, doubling over into the fetal position while he anxiously ran his hands through his hair, smearing the bloody, blackened tears into his hairline. His next few breaths were desperate and shallow, and you heard the sound of air sucking through his teeth. You stood about ten feet from him, unable to step any closer due to his erratic movements. He fell onto his ass and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking violently as he rocked back and forth. Spit launched out of his mouth and dangled in the corner of his lips, the hiss of strained airflow clenching your gut into knots. You gulped, your limbs beginning to numb. "I'm calling Alfred."

Your hand shook nearly as much as his as you tried to squint to read his number. After too long, every second passing like ten minutes with the state Bruce was in, he picked up. "Alfred,"

"Miss? Everything—"

"Bruce needs to be picked up." You didn't realize you were gasping until you had to speak through it. It was at that second that Bruce acknowledged you, jumping to his feet and racing to only a foot's distance. "NO!" His pupils were blown, eyes rapidly shutting and squeezing. Crouched to be at eye level, you could see how his lip trembled under the weight of the sweat and tears pooling beneath his nose. His bleary, soaked, inflamed eyes threatened to impale yours with the intensity of their focused attention. He opened and shut his mouth a few times without speaking, and when he did, flecks of spit landed on your chin. A few unsuccessful regulating breaths and heaving exhales later, he whined into the phone. "Don't tell Mom and Dad about this."

Palpable silence. Alfred was the one to break it. "I'll be there in three minutes." The phone sat heavy in your palm after he hung up. Bruce sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the wet ground. He bloodied his knuckles beating against it. His screams became muffled as you stood, frozen. He gazed at the alley's dead end and shouted unintelligibly, his agitation mounting until Alfred arrived and helped him into the backseat. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and the man had to walk you to the passenger seat. "I'll take you home first, Miss."

"You won't tell them, right? I can't be out this late." Bruce wrung his hands together and looked out the window anxiously. You and Alfred exchanged a solemn look. Alfred nodded. "It'll stay between us, Master Bruce. I promise." This was bad, and you both knew it. It was sad, too. Would he wake up wondering where his parents were? Would he have any recollection of this in the morning? Would Alfred have to break the news to him that his parents had died years ago? Did this warrant an inpatient stay? What would Dr. Crane think? The hum of the cabin air was the only distraction from Bruce picking at his fingernails and sniffling up sobs. If there had been any more breathing room in there you would've joined him. But you had to wait until they were gone. Wait until the only thing around you was dark, empty silence. You directed Alfred to your apartment, and soon enough you arrived.

Pulling up to the curb of The Moore, he waited for your door to open before locking the rest. He stepped out and walked over to hold the lobby doors. His steps were slow and a bit shallow. He saw tears streaming your cheeks and stopped before grabbing the handle. "Miss,"

Now that you were out of the car you couldn't contain yourself. "It was my fault, I'm fucking meddling,"

His mouth settled into a tight frown. "As far as I'm concerned you saved him tonight. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't been there?"

You shook your head, his words not penetrating the layers of guilt. "He wouldn't have been like that if it weren't for me. I'm inserting myself where I'm not needed."

Alfred placed a hand on your shoulder, waiting until you met his eyes to speak. "Efforts to save a life are never misplaced." With that, he nodded and bid you adieu. The walk to your room felt like a million years with the weights on your ankles. Your room was cold, a liminal space between before and after, then and now. If only I hadn't left.

Bruce had woken up screaming five times that night. The first two times he'd bolted out of his bedroom in his underwear, needing to be coaxed back to bed with firm reassurance and breathing exercises. Alfred took to sleeping in a makeshift cot in front of the boy's door to make sure he didn't slip past. When morning came, he hadn't recalled a thing; his head ached, his body felt like it'd been struck by lightning, run over by a car, and chewed on by twenty dogs. Seeing Alfred sleeping at the foot of his door prompted a conversation about what had happened last night—he'd glazed over by the time he was told what he'd said about his parents, though it didn't help the sting.

As much as he wanted to rot in bed the rest of the day until he could go out as the bat, his stomach grumbled to the kitchen. It was there that Alfred threw out the idea of going to see you. "Miss Y/N is the one who found you. She called me." After a few hours of avoidance that only propelled the day to early afternoon, he caved; the hovering presence of Alfred made his embarrassment and frustration peak, and if he'd stayed a moment longer he might have lashed out. So... he found himself once again at the door to your apartment. He felt strange being there, like he wasn't supposed to remember where you lived. He figured a text would have been worse.

You opened the door wearing black sweats and a white tee. You looked exhausted. "Alfred wanted me to stop by."

It hurt more than it should have that it didn't come from him. Moreso than desiring any self-indulgent recognition, you wanted to feel like he didn't hate you. Regret had kept you up the entire night to the extent of wicked nausea. Your knees still ached from kneeling in front of the toilet for hours on end. I'm sorry caught before it passed your tonsils, evaporated before reaching your tongue. All night you'd ruminated about how ridiculous and intrusive you'd been. All you'd done was fuck up his life. Why had you even gone over last night? Because some man in a blazer with a fancy degree gave you a crash course on mental illness meant you had any right to meddle? Those thoughts stormed against others that saw the pain and dangerous denial plainly in him, like a ticking time bomb.

Dr. Crane had called you earlier that morning to warn you about his condition. "It appears he's in a state of delirium. This is the worst-case scenario outside of another attempt... which is usually imminent soon after." His words echoed through your best attempt at listening. You'd have to remove 'works well under pressure' from your resume after this weekend. The call had ended on a sobering note, such lethal stakes nearly forcing you into complete apathy. You'd sat on the edge of your couch with the phone on speaker, sitting on your hands that grew colder the more he spoke. "The gravity of his current condition cannot be overstated."

"Me talking to him only hurt him." Your voice was dry and raspy from lack of sleep. "It sent him into a spiral, I can't do that again." Your arms wrapped around your torso in a sad excuse for a hug. Walter would've been great company right about then.

"Ms. Y/L/N, I assure you: such a high-caliber reaction could not be spurred solely by asking him to get help." But you didn't believe him. At this point you snapped, wanting to drill into him that you were making it worse. "He does not like me. He only gave me the interview because I wouldn't leave him alone, I have been a stain in his life for months."

Dr. Crane sighed. "Y/N." This was the first time he'd addressed you so informally. "I am aware he might dislike you. I hear what you are telling me. My professional judgment remains."

"Wouldn't someone you hate telling you to get help only make you want it less?" This thought had plagued you between dry heaves, the thought of your assistance only exacerbating his refusal. If someone you detested—and barely knew—came barging into your home demanding you get help and told you how much you were hurting your parents... you'd want to slap the shit out of them. It was embarrassing how entitled you'd acted the night before. "I'm making the problem worse. I need to be hands-off."

"I did my graduate studies on interventions for schizophrenic populations—I focused on the different outcomes between estranged and aligned families. Some of these guardians were outright abusive and thoroughly hated by the patient," He spoke the next part emphatically. "Yet regardless of how polluted the relationship, the data was clear:" He needed to drill every syllable of the next part into your very spirit. "Once the patient entered delirium, the families who took a 'hands-off approach' had an 87% increased rate of patient mortality within one week."

If the phone had been in your hands you would've dropped it. "Whatever you need to do, make sure it gets done. Nothing is too far when it comes to saving a life. It's the eleventh hour."

You stepped aside and Bruce walked in no further than required to shut the door behind him. He looked worse than ever. How did he even walk up here in the light of day? If even one camera got a picture of him it would be plastered to the front of every tabloid, he would have to come out with a statement...

He stilled. He saw the strain in your breath, how your chest rose rapidly, the slumped defeat in your body, your swollen under eyes and chapped lips. "I also wanted to apologize." He certainly hadn't meant to, but the anger was dissipating with every second he looked at you. "Last night I wasn't myself."

Maybe he'll say it himself. Maybe this is it, maybe he came to accept it. Hope fluttered against your ribs. No more fighting, no more arguing. "I'm sorry for inserting myself. I shouldn't have said that about Alfred. I'm a stranger." After the call with Dr. Crane, you'd wondered about playing docile, but this wasn't a ploy; this guilt was desperate to purge itself, and he was an altar edging it out.

He blinked at the ground. "You weren't wrong. Alfred is suffering." It hurt to push those words past his teeth. "But there's nothing I can do about that." He snuck a look over, seeing your mouth open. He cringed. "Don't tell me to get help." He grit his teeth and balled his fists, the tension in his body overwhelming. When you didn't respond, he spoke again, trying to show you plainly and clearly how suspicious it was. "It's an anonymous witness. No footage."

You wanted to talk about how the witness probably stayed anonymous because he was Bruce Wayne, someone so rich and powerful they might have feared retaliation if their identity was on record, but the other times you reminded him of his status had sent him spiraling. You wanted to talk about how the city budget was so misused that most of the security cameras around town were out of order, especially in dark alleyways that businessmen didn't frequent—that was the only purpose of justice in Gotham anyway, to protect and serve the elite. But the tension was visible and unnerving; you and Bruce together at a fragile crossroad. That mortality rate sat like a boulder in your gut. Every option was bitter on the tongue.

The one thing you thought to do was the one thing Dr. Crane said to never do; engage directly with his hallucinations. Did you even care about that anymore? Was he even right? Was Bruce right? Probably not. He'd been so beyond himself he thought his parents were still alive, staring at the back of an empty alleyway like someone was out to get him. That couldn't be reasoned with. Another refrain ran laps around you: one week. Seeing Bruce Wayne in your kitchen after hearing that... it seemed the odds were more likely you'd attend a public memorial than speak to him next weekend. Oh. Fuck.

He chased after the shift in your body language. You had that look again from city hall. The expression of being far away, on another planet. It instilled in him an unquenchable urge to thrust you out of it. "Last night... It was like I'd been drugged."

Any explanation to keep him in denial. You shook yourself out of it, immediately replacing the dismissive thought with something more just. It's a lot to accept. Of course he's struggling with it. The most you could manage was to stare at his shoes. Your eyes still glazed. The room muffled. Unaware of every breath. You hadn't dissociated this hard since the first call from the doctor seven years ago. Therapy had helped back then, letting you know this served a function. Holding it compassionately wouldn't do a damn thing right now, locked in your gridlock, dipping your toes in the apathy that lusted to infiltrate your bloodstream. My apathy is deadly. My apathy could cost him his fucking life. But you couldn't shake it. You couldn't look up at him, you couldn't even speak. You burst into tears... or thought you did. You'd heaved an enormous sigh and sat with your head down, unable to well up tears in such a detached state. Even if you could, you wouldn't cry in front of him if you could manage; he didn't need that.

Your sigh had a whimper at the end of it, sending a jolt through him. The stillness of the moment had him noticing the details, like how you hadn't changed since the night before. Your apartment was still disassembled. The time on the stove read 4:18. His mind wandered. Gordon got off on weekends at five; the mask would conceal most of his injuries, and the ones it didn't would make sense. He could investigate it more with him, explore the evidence room... But there you sat. And he didn't want to leave you like this. His tone was tender, like yours had been. "I'm safe."

Arkham. "I don't know what else to do."

"Believe me." He pleaded, a gravelly whine fraying the end. Dr. Crane had warned you about this on the phone call. He asked about your plan if he came over; you hadn't had one, wanting to ignore the possibility entirely. Dr. Crane said it was likely he'd draw more desperate. You'd asked about humoring him. Tried to express how stubborn Bruce was. Nope. Not a possibility. "If you want to throw gasoline on a fire."

Your lids were heavy with sleep, stress, anxiety. You could see how much you stressed him out. How he was on the edge of leaving. How desperate he was to be believed. Fish hooks in your sides threatened to cut you in two, tugging equally left and right, splitting each layer of your skin at the belly button.

At least if you stuck with Dr. Crane's plan and it ended horribly, you would have someone else to blame... You hated yourself for letting that cross your mind. Bruce wasn't an experiment, and this wasn't a low-stakes outcome. As much as the situation juiced your heart until it was throbbing and weak, he was the one with the most to lose, and he couldn't think clearly. He needed you to stay the course. Trust the science. Listen to the data, to reason, not what tugged at your heartstrings. You took a deep breath. "I know it hurts to not be trusted, but you have to weigh the pros and cons."

All he did was glare back at you. You couldn't hesitate, refusing to waste another second. "Worst case scenario is you have some temporary side effects," You ignored how visibly agitated he was becoming, how his hands twitched and his eyes looked away as his jaw clenched. "Worst case scenario of not trying them is you do that again, and not even know it's happening."

He'd far surpassed his limit; every syllable slipping past your lips trying its best to gaslight. You'd been persistent when getting the interview, he should've seen the red flag in your tenacity. "You're never going to believe me?" Posed as a question, meant as a statement. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. "Why are you pushing this?" Why would you of all people be shelling this so hard?

It was simple, and you said it as such. "I don't want you to die."

Bruce didn't give it time to linger. His face was sour with a scowl. "Doesn't change what happened."

"Weigh the options. One outcome is far worse." Please. You crossed your fingers behind your back to summon the universe's luck. Please. He just glared at you. Small shaking of his head. You pressed on. "You don't even have to believe anyone, just humor—"

He scoffed, the sound like a slap across the face. "Take medication to humor..." Your audacity... fuck. He could've laughed. He could've rolled his eyes, stormed out, any number of things. His was instead welded to the floor. It didn't make sense. Any of it.

"Please." God, the way you whined. The smallest, most minuscule seed of doubt entered him. Terrified of it manifesting into slipping resolve, he turned to leave. "Where are you going?"

He kept walking. The squeak in your voice, the haze of desperation, the exhaustion weighing you down—had you stayed up all night thinking about this? You couldn't have. He reached the doorknob just as you jumped toward him. "Please, stop,"

He winced. "Stop sounding like that." Your begging was pointless. He'd made up his mind. He'd leave, he wouldn't even look back... he wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't think about you, you wouldn't get to him.

At this point your heart was beating so hard you swore Bruce could hear it. As soon as he slipped out of your apartment he would be unreachable. Every other time he'd left like this, something terrible had happened. He could be dead by the end of the night. The end of the hour. When he turned the doorknob you could've jumped out of your skin. Your vocal cords constricted from overwhelming dread. This is too much. "Where are you going?"

"Don't need to concern yourself." He opened the door and you grabbed his arm; his head whipped around to look at you, startled by the forcefulness of your grip. Through his sweatshirt he could feel how ice cold your fingers were.

"I do,"

He shrugged his arm away. "Keep telling yourself that." The door opened wide with a quick snap; the snarl in his tone, the glare set in his features, you had about two seconds before he was down the hallway to god knows where to do god knows what. Popping into your mind was his insinuation that no one had seen it; no evidence, no corroboration, and you made a split-second decision as he stepped into the hallway.

"Because I saw it." A disorienting combination of emotions swarmed you; immediate regret at having lied, and immediate relief in seeing Bruce freeze, no longer rushing out to his demise.

"Saw what?" His voice lowered and he stilled, like he knew exactly what you implied but hoped you didn't mean it.

It was hard to stay quiet through the sudden flush of tears down your cheeks. The lie ended up gasping out of you. "I saw you jump, I'm the person who called."

You barely contained a sob of relief when he stepped back inside and shut the door. He peeked at you, his eyes searching your face slowly, deliberately. This was the first time you'd had any feeling at all that he was willing to listen. This was your last chance, his last chance, anyone's to get him to safety. "I felt bad about how the interview ended, so I went looking for you."

Bruce could barely hear you, and he could only hear you. The world, his thoughts, everything but the crackle of the flaming pitchforks his defenses held faded away. It would make sense it hadn't leaked to the press yet if it had been you, but.... He said this like an accusation, eyes narrowed with skepticism. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He was giving you an inch, you were taking a mile. You were yanking him close to you and holding him there. You would've imploded if you had to see him in a casket, knowing you could've done more. Even if it wasn't your responsibility, even if you barely knew him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Thought it'd be easier."

His heart was in his throat. Hope was lying nearly dead in his chest, gasping for air before a final death rattle. His voice was strained, weary, haunting. "You saw me jump?" His brows knit together just barely, daring you both to be honest and to spare him. "Off a building?"

You bit your tongue until a searing sting. Jesus... You couldn't hesitate. Not with him, not now. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with his pulse hanging in the balance. You nodded and strangled the words out from where they clotted in your throat. "It was horrifying. I thought I watched you die."

Bruce flinched as you said it, your words evoking a visceral sensation of being stoned. Brick by brick it hit his chest, teleporting him to the night his parents died; the feeling of watching blood pour out of their bodies, shucking sounds of it glugging against the wet concrete, seeping into puddles. Like a flipped switch, he had no choice but to believe you. This was his line. The notion that he had caused someone to experience even a fraction of that feeling... no matter how deep his denial, no matter that he saw the creature clear as day, he would have forgotten his own name if it meant sparing someone. If he suffered through the truth, fine; if it harmed anyone else, it was over. Folded. Hard limit. Fear was a tool, but not like this.

You witnessed a clear shift in him. You were too busy swimming in fragile relief to think about why that had connected. Your body was buzzing, and you watched on with bated breath as he stood in silence. If you listened hard you could hear his deep nasal inhale. His shallow, quick exhale.

He felt embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid. He hated how much he still wanted to drill you. How desperate he was to corroborate his experience and dismiss everything else. He wouldn't force you to rehash it. he wouldn't make you relive something like that. The walls began to close in as his reality rapidly dissolved; the owls hadn't been real, the creature hadn't been real, he'd really jumped off a building and his mind was so unreliable he hadn't known? Ooh, this was... this was...

You sniffed. It brought him back to space and time. He couldn't lose it yet. "Do you, uh," He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind completely numbed out. Save the spiral for later. "What do you need?"

You felt absolutely disgusting. What did you need? It churned your stomach. Why did he have to have humility now? Flashbacks to him screaming and hitting the pavement as spit flew out of his mouth. Taped down to a psychiatric bed. The scabs beginning to form on his face, neck, and hands... the pain that surfaced so quickly when you'd even barely touched his cheek. You pursed your lips and blew out a shaky breath to ground yourself. Save the spiral for later.

"You want me to get meds, therapy?" Desperation coated his tone. Like he was counting the seconds until he could leave, or explode, or both.

Your eyes were wide and bleary as you made contact with his. You couldn't bring yourself to nod, or even look him in the face longer than a few seconds. "I just want you to be safe."

He didn't speak for another minute. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he certainly wasn't at peace. You hadn't expected him to believe you. You hadn't imagined a universe where he would ever believe a word you said. But then he nodded. Lost in thought, eyes darting across the floor, breathing labored, and said things you never thought he would. "I'll pick some up in the morning."

The dizzying haze of shock annihilated him. He walked to the door but felt stumbled, like his saliva was thickening in his mouth, blood rushing to his core to sustain him, keep him upright, thinking, moving. When he grabbed the doorknob he couldn't feel it. In a blink the door opened and he didn't remember opening it. The zigzag pattern on the hallway rug floated, fuzzy, spotting the edge of his vision.

He walked calmly to the door; you couldn't see his face, no idea what he was thinking, and it killed you. "Are you gonna be safe tonight?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to reassure you he wouldn't do anything now that he knew you were involved. He wanted to tell you he didn't think he'd ever attempt to kill himself, but apparently that wasn't real. You'd witnessed him try to end his life. He was obviously unstable, an unreliable narrator, and he was afraid. The pieces were falling into place; the wear in your body, your meddling... He heard the elevator ding from the end of the hall and shut the door, leaning his sore, bruised forehead against it. What had he done to get that? He couldn't remember where half of his injuries came from. Alfred said he'd panicked the night before. Was out of his body. The last thing he remembered was staring up at the cloudy sky, wishing, pleading the universe to be believed. Then it was all black.

He spoke in a whisper, though unintentional. "I don't know." He didn't trust anything now. Was he even here? Was this even happening? Were his feet planted against your flooring, or was he actually in a field by himself? He couldn't do this now, he couldn't, he couldn't make you take care of him, you couldn't feel responsible, you weren't, this was crazy. He was crazy. His heart began to race when he heard you step behind him. He shook his head hard. "I'll stay inside tonight."

"Bruce," A plaintive cry.

He spun around. His shaky, blurred vision dialed in to your slick, puffy face. His jaw hung slack. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

It's worth it. He's getting help. No more bruises, cuts, jumps. I did what I needed to. He's not gonna die. He's not gonna die. He's not. gonna. die. You flirted with hyperventilation the more you sat under his gaze. "It's fine,"

"It's not." He wasn't going to leave you like this, alone and crying. Had you gotten flashbacks like he did way back when? Did you need a hug as badly as he did after taking their bodies away?

"You're okay, so." He stepped toward you and you jumped. He searched your face and goddammit, tracked every tear again. He is not gonna take care of me. STOP CRYING! You stammered for anything to say that could shift the focus off of you as you forced your tear ducts to close. "I can call Alfred if you want to be picked up," Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I'm a fucking liar. I'm lying. I'm lying.

He didn't answer. You gulped, feeling increasingly like you were about to pass out. "The smog's pretty bad today, um," Your hands shook, you needed to find something to tether them to. Heat flooded your lashes again, fuck. "I think I have some tea, if you're walking it might, it might help."

Your hands quivered against the lavender mug as you pulled it from the cabinet. "With your throat, you know." Your hands were going clammy, your forehead felt sticky. He watched your trembling fingers search the drawers, finally procuring a packet. He'd traumatized you—he wouldn't let you take care of him too. He tracked your eyes to the microwave, and moved to open the door. You filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave for two minutes.

Just walking those few steps made him queasy; on top of everything else he was late to taking his pain meds. Inside, he frantically plugged a cracking dam. Would he be able to go out as batman anymore? How would the psych meds affect him? Had anything else happened that wasn't real? Did you even know he was batman? Was batman even real? Was batman a way for him to channel his sickness into something productive? What memories were real? He held his hands in front of him. The dam was breaking.

You turned around to grab a paper towel, but saw Bruce standing a foot away staring at his shaking palms. The blueness of his eyes was exaggerated by his constricted pupils. Unsure of what to do, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you stared at the mesmerizing spin of the mug. Round, and round, and round. The light hit his cheek, emphasizing the scabs and cuts. The beat of his rising chest pulsing in your ear propelled you forward; maybe it was the rapid fluttering of his lashes or the first tear that fell, but you grabbed his suffering hands and the room went quiet.

"Hey, hey." You squeezed his lukewarm hands with your cold ones, nearly making a self-deprecating joke about not being able to warm him. He was staring blankly over your shoulder, his bottom lip ragged from biting. The whir of the microwave came faintly back into earshot, until Bruce looked back at you. A crest of tears balanced in his waterline.

His entire body vibrated. He wanted to tell you how terrified he was, but he was sure you could see it. He could see it in you, too. He still didn't want you to have to care for him, but that was rapidly deprioritized as more fears crowded in. You could almost see the dreams dying in his eyes; uneventful, hopeless, and frustrating like a dud firework. You swallowed back bile as you grasped for anything you could say to him, repeating a mantra to stave off the nausea. I didn't cause this pain. This was the only way. This has to help him. This is worth it, it has to be. You didn't believe it, but having him alive and in your sight helped muffle the self-hatred.

The microwave sounded. When you pulled back to open it you felt resistance—he squeezed your hands lightly, his breathing heavy and deep. You hesitated before giving another reassuring squeeze; you'd acclimated to each other's temperature, your fingers no longer feeling like ice against his. His hands were calloused and rough, and your palm rubbed on the scabs when you pulled back. Before your mind could wander further, before you collapsed in a puddle of tears, you slipped your hands out of his and busied yourself with steeping the tea.

Bruce lowered his hands to his sides, gently flexing them to remember the shape of yours. He ached to hug you; he ached to go back and stay just a little longer after the interview. He could've helped you pack more. Could've called Alfred for a ride home. What had it looked like? Had there been sounds? Body fluids? Did you race after him, or stay away out of fear? Had he needed CPR? Had there been a pulse? Did you see the impact? Did you run to catch him? Were you close, were you far? How vivid was your memory of it?

"How do you like it?" You didn't have much, just some sugar and honey, some old oat milk in the fridge.

He concealed a gasp as you broke his feverish spiral. He shook his head. "It's yours."

You didn't bother fighting him on it; the warmth of the mug and taste of the ginger would be a welcome distraction until he left safely with Alfred. You placed a plate over the mug and pat your sweats for your phone. "Did you want to call him?"

"I got it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a regular-degular iPhone, shocking you more than it should have. You went to grab the honey while he spoke to his butler. You sat in a valley between; you wanted Bruce to leave as quickly as possible so you could throw yourself into the shower and cry, then hibernate in bed until Thursday, but it scared you to have him leaving these walls.

"He'll be in the parking garage soon."

Crap. "You need a key to open it, one of those fob things." You put a scoop of honey and mixed it in, the tremble in your hand coming back. "I'll walk you down."

The mug was cooling in the building's AC, the whoosh of the elevator doors hastening the process. The ride was quick and painless, the walk to the garage the same. Bruce had pulled up his hood, cinched it around his face, and put on sunglasses before leaving. He was actually pretty unrecognizable, but part of you wondered if that was just because you knew people would never suspect him out with someone like you; unknown, working class, in dirty sweats and flip flops.

Alfred came swiftly, giving you a wave as he pulled up. Bruce turned to you before getting in the car. "I'll keep you updated." He nodded, then sidled into the passenger seat. A second later, tint enveloped all the windows, leaving the car completely anonymous as it drove off.

The walk to the shower was excruciating. Every step felt like you were walking on legos. The shower offered a sliver of relief, but it didn't warm your conscience. It wasn't until Alfred called a few minutes after you had toweled off that you could let yourself breathe.

The old man was tearful, sniffing after every word. "Miss Y/N. Bruce asked me," He blew his nose. "To get his script tomorrow morning." He tried to catch his sobs, but they were getting away from him. "I don't know what you did, but thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I truly believed it was the end."

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jennamoran · 7 months

Text

The Far Roofs

cover art by Isip Xin

Hi!

Today I'm going to talk a little bit more about my forthcoming RPG, the Far Roofs. I've previously talked about

general principles,

the rats,

and the campaign.

Today, I want to talk about the Mysteries.

Up on the distant roofs, you see, the rats hunt, and are hunted, by these ... things. These vast, impossible god-monsters.

The Mysteries.

These things that are as much experiences as beings.

I like to anchor them to real-world myths. That's mostly an authorial choice, rather than something intrinsic to their character---

I think if I named them all in some made-up language of my own, called them all things like, I dunno, Alolitha or Eidumir, then they'd come across as cooler ... but also harder to get a handle on.

You'd have to be immersed in the setting to really get what they're about.

So I give most of them a byname that's more accessible. Something like Harpy, Hoop Snake, Lennan-Shee---whatever---so that you can tap into your memories or impressions of real-world mythology and the work of fantasists and cultural tropes and monster manuals from other games and the stories of your childhood and all of that.

Even still, they are vast things.

You might be forgiven, if I just named them without that prelude, in thinking that they seem vast to the rats because the rats are small. Thinking, perhaps, that you could fight off a Mystery like Jackalope, say, or Hippocampus ... if you were lucky, or had a gun ... whereas a rat might have a harder time.

The thing is, to walk in the realm of myth is to lose your grounding in the world. On the Far Roofs you can't rely on your ability to frame a story or a conflict through a rationalistic lens. The Mysteries are not physical creatures of a certain size, but rather the animating spirits of dramatic, life-changing experiences. Like the starring monster of a horror movie, or divinity that visits you in dreams, it's loosely possible to pay them off, or punch them out, or argue with them about Naruto, or whatever, but you can't really extrapolate out from that to resolve whatever underlying problem they can be.

Jackalope isn't a thing you shoot, or whatever:

It's a thing you encounter on dark nights, sometimes, and can't ever really prove you've seen. Maybe you don't even encounter it, just ... find its tracks.

It's not a conflict you can easily rewrite.

As for something like Harpy ... she is dead, the rats have killed her ... and even dead and disembodied your fate is very likely in her hands.

This kind of thing is why the rats are valid protagonists in this world:

In the face of the Mysteries, there's not much difference between the standings of a human and a rat. We are all such small, imperiled things.

Each of the Mysteries is tied to some internal state. Some mood or emotion or whatever. It's not clear how much that's true, and how much that's a game convention, and how much that's how the rats, who you're going to be getting most of your basic information from, understand them.

... but it's at least a little bit "all three."

This is, fundamentally, an authorial choice. The Far Roofs is an expressionist game. It's a game about emotion bleeding out into reality, about moods and experiences taking on physical or quasi-physical form in the world or narrative around us. So that's part of why I made the Mysteries like this.

The other part is, if you want to make up your own Mysteries, it helps a lot that you can start with an internal state.

Deciding to make up "Centaur" as a Mystery is kind of boring. I think.

Deciding to make a Mystery named Centaur that is on some level "about" mind-body duality or immersion in the body, or wisdom, or the post-exercise endorphin mood, or having ADHD ("I'm stuck on a horse that's going where it wants"), or whatever ... that's a bit more interesting.

Starting with a mood you want to talk about, I think, like ... Sorrow ... and figuring out what mythical entity best matches that (I'd go with Banshee), and then figuring out how its stories work from there:

I think that's the most interesting option of them all.

I do give some of them fancy made-up names, to be clear. I'm not opposed to having an Alolitha or Eidumir or whatever around! But that's not the default or primary approach.

In theory, the game expects you to make up most of the Mysteries you encounter.

In practice, there's a built-in campaign that features a bunch of them, so there are enough worked examples in the book that you might never have to come up with one from scratch:

there's solid summaries of about three dozen, plus

in-depth writeups of Goblin, Harpy, Hoop Snake, Unicorn, and four other Mysteries that map a bit less precisely to established myths.

There's a lot in those in-depth writeups, but my favorite parts are the pages that are just questions the GM can ask the players when that Mystery is at hand.

(Questions, sometimes statements, sometimes actions or power uses, but ... it's the questions that I love.)

I have spent the better part of a decade working on power sets for spiritual, mystical, and divine entities, and you can find some cool rules toys for the more purely mechanically minded here. I like how their game-mechanical writeups all turned out.

... but in both practice and theory, none of that is as cool to me as the list of asides and questions the GM can crib from when the Mystery is involved. Simple stuff like "the wind is rising" or "speak to me of solitude." More nuanced stuff like GM-as-Death playing a spade suit card and saying, "tell me of a nasty accident, and how you avoided or survived it." In every case, a bunch of options.

As a reader, I love the detailed mechanics more. As a reader, I don't really care that much about the actual how of how the Mysteries do things but I love that there is a how. It tickles an important part of my brain, deep down.

... but when I'm actually GMing, I love the lists of phenomena and questions so very much.

I am admittedly usually in a constant state of panic when GMing, so perhaps I get more value out of both the cue card function and the ability to hand off responsibility to the player than others would.

Perhaps.

If you're curious about those examples:

The wind rises when you're dealing with Harpy because a lot of her story is the story about how being on the Far Roofs is like falling, like flying, like losing the stable influence of the ground. So naturally you feel the air. You feel the motion. It arises. Naturally you become isolated, or at least experience intermittent solitude, because the ground ultimately mediates almost every social connection and interaction.

Maybe not love or skydiving teams, I guess.

When Death's presence is weighty in your life ... well, it's in your life, so you're probably not dead yet, but stuff happens! You nearly died!

I like that you don't have to think through that theory when playing with this stuff, but it's still all right there, implicit, presented in a couple of different forms.

That's what I have to say tonight!

From the Cutting Room Floor for this Post:

... there is still a part of my brain that loves it when you write up the power that lets the Christian God be three species of hypostasis and a single ousia, or whatever, and loves it even more when you can use the same power to combine three mechs.

I have not written up that specific power, though, to be clear, as I rarely put either Christianity or mecha in my games (albeit, see Invisible Mecha) ...

#the far roofs #jenna moran #ttrpgs #invisible mecha

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iremiari · 3 months

Text

something something.... in a similar vein of thought as to how crystal's mind eyes are supposed to represent her "being watched" (it was stated in an interview somewhere), what would the baby doll demon spider represent for edwin?

it took me a good while to figure out but i think it's Societal Pressure and Bullying. which is A Lot Lamer than it sounds but also,, think about it!! (a bit of a long read)

it makes laughing noises. Specifically children's laughter. It is made up of MULTIPLE doll heads and hands. It's like if an angry mob of children was a spider. And let's not forget about its nature -- If Edwin makes the slightest noise or the slightest utterance or makes a move, it chases him. It chases him relentlessly and is always there to eat him alive.

obviously the spider is terrifying in ways that also don't relate to bullying, but still kind of relate to the society around edwin. one of them being that it's made of dolls. they're fake. they're plastic. they're superficial. people tend to be so superficial to keep up appearances and ostracize anyone that doesn't.

it's also a spider. a doll spider. in a dollhouse. edwin is trapped in its web (the dollhouse). but also, he would be trapped in society's social obstacles and mazes for him if he were alive simply because he is Different from them. his true self is not one that society welcomes, accepts, nor tolerates. and they would hunt them down and hurt him any chance they get.

this also makes for some really poetic metaphors about him and his interactions in hell

i think one that's really sweet is when edwin says "I can't escape it... I can't." and charles replies "Yeah well, I'm here now." LIKE OH MY GODDDDDDD LIKE!! like think abt it. think of the implications and how it relates to the metaphor.

charles is there to FREE him from being quiet. he is free to run and to scream and to escape the web that he's in. that's so. they're everything to me.

as for simon,, i cant really say what it WOULD mean like metaphorically... except for the part where simon asks "Do you think it has to be torture? Being the way we are?" and edwin's like "No. It does not. I'm going to get out of here, you should come with me." like edwin KNOWS its not a sin and he's trying to escape the society that rejects them

other than that though, i cant really think what that interaction would mean...

maybe im just wrong about the metaphor, maybe it's Not societal pressure. maybe it's not anything at all! maybe the curtains were just blue, and a giant spider made of doll heads is just a giant spider made of doll heads. who knows?

either way it is 1am where i am right now so if anyone sees this post and has any ideas, feel free to rb/comment, id love to see your take :D

(though: in a similar vein,,, charles died due to hypothermia and internal bleeding. hypothermia or the cold is usually associated with loneliness in most fiction - the way warmth is associated with company - and internal bleeding represents,.. well you can probably guess. leads you to wonder the kind of life charles lived.)

#edwin payne #dead boy detectives #character study #character analysis #literature analysis #dead boy detectives analysis #dbda #dead boy detectives agency #edwin paine #edwin payne character study #edwin payne study #edwin payne character analysis #can you tell i really want ppl to see this and hear their thoughts from the tags #edwin paine study #edwin paine character study #ok thats it i give up tagging LOL #but its really nice that edwin gave charles a bit of warmth in his final moments #thats really really sweet of them #that stupid lantern i hate it its gonna make me cry #charles gave him warmth when he thought it impossible to escape that demon too #they're just. they're just everything to me.#lantern got left behind because now it's a certainty that they will never leave each other and they are each others' warmth #ITS 1AM IM OVERANALYZING THIS HELP #i literally have to take a 1-hour drive tomorrow at 6am for my moving up ceremony i shouldn't be up this late #anyway #remi rants #remi rambles

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sjsmith56 · 21 days

Text

Letting Go

Summary: Bucky is critically injured, trapped in a building destroyed by a bomb. He orders his team to leave him behind but they refuse and Peter calls for help. It comes from several sources.

Length: 5.4 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Scott Lang, Hope Van Dyne, Wanda Maximoff, with cameos by other Avengers, named OFC (seen in flashbacks).

Warnings: Bucky injured, feeling unworthy, accepting death, good and bad memories, medical emergency.

Author notes: Believe it or not I dreamed the first part of this and wrote down a summary as soon as I woke up so I wouldn’t forget it. This one shot imagines a post-FATWS Avengers that brings in several of the newer characters as well as some older ones. Thunderbolts* and Captain America: Brave New World have not happened.

⏳ ⌛️

If he had to do it all over again, Bucky would have made the same decision. Leading a mission with the newest Avengers under his supervision, meant that he felt responsible for their safety. It was his choice to enter the building first, assessing the risk before they came in with him. Just as it was his choice to tell them to leave him behind after the bomb went off, an event that sent tons of debris raining down on him. Now, as he laid injured in the dark, with his metal arm twisted and lodged behind him and both his legs broken he knew he wasn't getting out alive. Those who had worked with him before, specifically Peter and Yelena, begged him not to make them leave but he made it clear.

"There is nothing you can do for me," he said, with what he hoped was finality. "It's too risky for even a sorcerer and with Dr. Strange off somewhere in the multiverse I don't think he can activate the time stone and reverse this."

He stopped for a moment to cough, feeling the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, likely from bleeding internally.

"Bucky?" asked Peter over the comms. "What about Cara?"

Cara ... his girlfriend of 8 months that he planned to propose to. This would devastate her, but she knew the risks, being a SHIELD employee herself.

"Tell her I love her and that I'm sorry," he replied, then he refused to answer his comms after that.

Outside the team sat, despondent. Shaun, Joaquin, Kate, Yelena, and Peter looked at each other, feeling sick inside. Then Peter strode into the quinjet and asked Friday to patch him through to the Avengers compound.

"Sam? We need help." He filled him in on what happened and what Bucky ordered them to do, explaining none of them wanted to leave. "We don't leave a team member behind. I don't care if he made it an order. It's not right."

As Sam listened to Peter, he got Carol Danvers' attention. After listening to the gist of the conversation between him and Peter, she asked Friday to alert the remaining Avengers to suit up. She also asked Friday to contact Wong, thinking they were going to need some magic to rescue Bucky.

"Peter, stay there," he said. "We're on our way and you're right, no matter what, we don't leave a team member behind."

⏳ ⌛️

It's strange where your mind takes you when it's the only thing still working. Practically immobilized in the dark, close confines of what Bucky accepted was his tomb, he thought back over his life. The first twenty years went by fast, not surprising considering it was so long ago and he wasn't even sure he had regained all those memories back. He thought of his mother's hands. Not an unusual thing because they were always busy. Housewives in the 1920s and 1930s were always on the go and his mother was no different; washing clothes by hand, ironing everything, including the sheets, cooking, baking, darning, soothing a fevered brow when he was sick, tying his necktie the first time he wore one. He sighed at how much he missed her, wished he had been able to see her just once before .... If he had just been man enough to tell her he loved her before he left for England, the last time he saw her, or Dad, or Rebecca when she was still young. At least he saw his sister again before she died. That meant something.

Then he thought of Cara, a bright moment in his life when he met her, although he didn't think so at the time. He had returned from a mission and forgot about the comms pieces that were still in the front chest pocket of his tactical suit, given to the staff responsible for cleaning them, and repairing any damage done to them. Taking his time in the locker room by having a long, hot shower, then getting dressed at his own pace, he was surprised to see a strange woman waiting for him outside the door.

"Sergeant Barnes?" she asked, looking him in the eye, even though she was a good six inches shorter than him. "I'm Comm Tech Laskey. You were supposed to return your comms pieces on your return."

"I thought I did," he answered.

"No, Sergeant." She checked the small tablet in her hand. "You returned your weapons to the armoury, and your tactical suit to Uniform Maintenance for cleaning and repair but the person taking in communications equipment didn't check them off and there is no sign of them. Until they are returned, you're financially responsible."

"You're kidding, right?" She stared at him. "I guess I left them in my tactical suit. Why don't you go there?"

"Not my responsibility."

"Listen, Laskey, is it? I'm tired and hungry and really need a beer. Can't you just go check for me this one time and see if they're in my uniform? I promise I'll make it up to you and that it will never happen again."

"This one time?" She looked at her tablet again. "You used that excuse four times on my predecessor. She left me notes on not taking you at your word. I don't want to know how you made it up to her, but I'm not her and think that you asking me to do your job is taking advantage of your position. Now, I can either declare them missing and have you invoiced, or you can go right now to find them and bring them to me in Communications. Those are your options, Sergeant. I'll give you 10 minutes."

She turned around and walked away, not looking back even once. He watched her, wondering why the previous tech left. He had made it up to Marin, taking her for drinks at least once. Laskey had to be wrong that he didn't turn in his comms equipment four times. It wasn't that many times, was it? With a sigh, he headed towards Uniform Maintenance, explained his problem, and was given his suit to examine. The earpieces were still in his front chest pocket.

"Good thing you came now, Sarge," said the cleaner. "Was just going to process your suit. It would have wrecked those. Someone told me those are worth 5 grand a pair."

He looked at the two small earpieces in his hand, not believing they cost that much. Returning to the communications department, he entered, looking for Laskey but he didn't see her. Seeing a guy sitting in front of several computer monitors in a secure room he knocked on the window. The guy flipped a switch to speak with him.

"Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?"

"I'm here to return my comms pieces to Comm Tech Laskey," he said, holding up the two comms pieces.

"She's gone for the evening," said the guy, Martino. "She waited for you then said your 10 minutes was up. Sorry, you'll have to give them to her tomorrow. I'm not authorized to unlock the door so I can't receive them."

A rumble above him interrupted his train of thought and he strained to see what was happening in the darkness. Then a large piece of debris shifted, landing on his right arm. He could hear the snap as the pain of his arm being broken shot up from his forearm, making him scream in agony. Fuck, he was completely trapped now, every part of him broken or pinned in place.

"Bucky?" Peter's voice was in his comms piece. "Was that you?"

"I ordered you to go," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "Why are you still here?"

"We're not leaving you behind," said Yelena. "Help is coming."

"What did you do?"

"We called for help and it's coming," replied Peter. "Now, what's your status?"

"Damn it," muttered Bucky. "I gave you an order."

"Yeah, and I ignored it," answered the younger man. "You can discipline me later. Now, what's your status, Bucky?"

Angrily, he breathed several times then calmed himself. "Both legs broken, my metal arm is pinned behind my back, and I can't move it, and that scream was my right arm being broken by a piece of debris landing on it. I can taste blood coming up into my throat, so I likely have internal bleeding. The building is unstable, Peter. They won't be able to do anything."

"You let them figure that out," said the younger man. "Don't give up yet, Bucky. Please."

He closed his eyes, unnecessary in the dark but it was the only thing he could still do in the circumstances. He felt as helpless as he did when he came to after falling from the train. Everything was broken then, except for his left arm, which was gone. It was true he survived that, and the hypothermia that should have killed him, if he didn't already have the serum flowing through his veins. But something told him that this time the serum wouldn't be enough to keep him alive.

The sad thing was that he was okay with it. He really was. He was older than he had a right to be, had done terrible things that had sent other men to death row for less. His defence of involuntary mind control and torture was accepted for his pardon, but that was little comfort to the families of those he killed. Even though he made his amends a big part of him always felt that he got away with murder. That was the same part of him that was telling him to let go, to accept that this time, he had to pay the piper. Why couldn't Peter just obey orders?

You know why.

Great, now he was hearing a voice in his head, and it wasn't coming from the comms.

"Why?" he whispered, not wanting the others to hear him.

He had to watch Tony Stark die, then his Aunt May. Don't you think if he left you behind to die that it would hurt him as much as those deaths did?

"I don't mean that much to him. I barely talk to him."

You mean more to him than you know, Bucky, and he means more to you than you realize.

He had nothing to say to that because he couldn't see it. Peter was still a kid, living in Queens, trying to get the marks to be accepted into engineering at college, while still patrolling the streets at night and being an Avenger.

You don't see it, do you?

"See what?" asked Bucky, out loud.

"What did you say, Bucky? Are you okay?"

"Sorry, just thinking out loud," he replied to Peter. "Has your help arrived yet?"

"No, but they'll be here in a couple of minutes. They're just getting some things sorted out first."

Bucky closed his eyes again and tried to calm his mind.

You're a survivor, Bucky. Peter looks up to you, because you went through hell, and you survived it. You're a good leader who treats everyone with respect like the sergeant you are. You're fair, firm, and you make sure that everyone knows their job before you take them on a mission. If anyone gets hurt, you're the first one there, the first one to assure them that they'll be okay. He admires you for that. So do the others.

A scoff erupted from Bucky's lips, causing him to cough and he tasted blood again. Personally, he didn't want to believe what that inner voice was telling him. He barely said anything to the younger ones. They were always on their phones, or playing video games; silly pastimes in his mind. Still, Peter helped him set up his smartphone without making him feel stupid or out of touch. It still impressed him that the kid was stronger than him, even though he was a lot shorter and lighter than Bucky.

He often reminds you of Steve, doesn't he? Except without the anger. Orphan, living on his own on a shoestring budget, until you and Sam convinced him to live at the tower. He helps people who have been pushed around, and you admire his mind, because it reminds you of you, when you were younger and still had hopes of college.

Well, maybe there was some truth in all of that but as far as Bucky was concerned, it wasn't enough to warrant Peter disobeying a direct order and bringing in help. He probably called Sam, first. He wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

"Bucky? How you doing, man?"

Well, shit, speak of the devil.

"Sam. I assume Peter gave you a status report, so I won't repeat myself. I don't think I'm getting out of this one."

"You let us assess the situation before we make that decision. I've got Carol, Thor, Wong, Hope, and Scott here. Bruce, Dr. Cho, and a couple of paramedics are on standby to treat your injuries. We've set up a little trauma centre just to stabilize you before we transport you to the tower."

"The building is really unstable, Sam. Whatever you do can make it worse for me."

"Buck, we know." Sam's voice was more serious. "We've got a couple of structural engineers here to determine the best way to get that debris pile off of you. Hope and Scott are going to fly in and try to get into your space to make a scan of your situation. Then we'll make a plan of action. We're not leaving you behind, you hear?"

Despite his stoic acceptance of his fate, Bucky couldn't help the little sob that erupted from his throat. It took a lot to get his single word answer out.

"Okay."

He didn't know how long it was before he was aware he wasn't alone. A small light approached him in the darkness, revealing Hope carrying Scott. She had a light on one arm with a small scanner on the other, while Scott carried the same sort of scanner. She hovered over Bucky's face and flipped her face shield up, making her face visible to him.

"Hey, Buck," she said. "Scott is going to stand on your chest. If it hurts, you let us know. While he scans this pocket, I'm going to your sides and underneath to scan there. Just relax. Sorry, I know you can't really do that."

He nodded his head slightly, but didn't say anything. As she left, Scott activated the light on his arm.

"I'm not too heavy for you, am I?" he asked as he began to laser scan the space Bucky was trapped in.

"No, it's not too heavy," replied Bucky. "I'm sorry to bring you in here. I don't think much can be done for me."

"Well, it's easy to feel that way when you're the one who's trapped." Scott looked back at him. "Understandably so but it always amazes me that even in the most backward areas, when there's a landslide or an earthquake and people get trapped that they are still able to rescue people with just their bare hands. We have a full team out there and a couple of cranes setting up to lift debris off from above you. It's kind of like a 3D jigsaw puzzle or more likely a house of cards that we're taking apart, without destabilizing it. It's challenging but with the right moves and respect for the task, it can be done. I have faith in us, Bucky. You just have to trust us to do our jobs. Your only job is to hang on."

"I don't know how much longer I can do that." Scott turned so he could see Bucky's face. "I'm bleeding internally. If it's bad enough I don't know if the serum can heal it before I bleed out."

"Do your best."

There was no answer from the former assassin for a while as Scott continued scanning. He kept checking on Bucky's face, making sure he was still conscious. Turning towards Bucky's face after a few moments, Scott noticed that he had relaxed completely, and his eyes were closed. Putting the scanner down he moved closer and tapped Bucky's cheek.

"Hey, Buck, you still with me?"

A small groan followed by his eyes trying to open was his answer. He was slipping away.

"Sam! He's losing consciousness. What do I do?"

He could hear Bruce and Helen discussing what could be done to bring him back. They all involved Hope flying back, getting a stimulant in an injector, then bringing it back and jamming it into Bucky's neck but it might not be in time and the effect wouldn't be enough if they didn't enlarge the injector. Then Scott thought that perhaps a pain stimulus would work.

"Hope! Get up here, I need you," called Scott. She appeared from the side moments later. "Sting him. He's losing consciousness and I figured a pain stimulus would bring him back. I don't have anything on me, but you do with your stingers. It won't hurt him, but he should feel it."

"Do it," said Bruce, who had been listening in. "It's the only thing we've got to offer and it's better than nothing."

Aiming at Bucky's cheek, Hope fired on him. The response was minimal, so she did it again and this time Bucky opened his eyes.

"That hurt," he mumbled. "What did you do?"

"Sorry, Buck," she answered. "You were passing out and we need to keep you conscious. I stung you."

"Cut it out." Then he grinned lightly. "It's okay. You did what you had to."

She returned to scanning underneath while Scott continued his scan. He looked at Bucky frequently, not wanting to miss the signs of him passing out again. Then he cleared his throat.

"Buck?" He could feel the super soldier's eyes on him. "I've heard you wanted to get into engineering when you were young. You know I'm an electrical engineer by training. What field were you interested in?"

"Mechanical," answered Bucky. "I was always interested in how things work and worked a lot on engines. But the Depression pretty much wiped out any chance of going to college. I quit school to work on the docks. It didn't require a lot of thought, but it paid the bills."

"What about Steve? What was he into?"

"Art. He could draw anything. He spent a year in art school then ran out of money to continue." Bucky was silent for a moment. "So, you left engineering to become Ant Man?"

"Not exactly," replied Scott. "I worked for a corporation that was robbing its customers and kind of stole from them to give back to the people they were stealing from. One thing led to another, I got caught and I spent a few years in prison. Couldn't get a job when I got out, then I got involved with Hank Pym, became Ant Man and here I am."

"You did prison time." The disbelief was strong in Bucky's voice as he always thought Lang was a bit of a softy.

"Yeah, I managed. I kept my head down, didn't rat anyone out, tried to stay pleasant. It seemed to work. It's where I met Luis ... you've met Luis, haven't you?"

"The guy that can't shut up? Yeah, he's hilarious."

"Hey, he's been a good friend and has had my back whenever I've needed him. That's worth a lot in this world."

Bucky felt bad about being dismissive. By everything he had heard about Luis, he had been a good friend to Scott, helping him bring in some dangerous people.

"I guess he's kind of your Steve in that you watch out for each other." He watched as Scott continued scanning. "It's good to have someone like that in your life."

"Like Sam. I know on the surface that you two are always bugging each other, but he'd drop everything to help you and so would you." Bucky grunted. "Don't deny it. It's why you're partners."

"Co-workers."

Scott laughed. "Okay, have it your way." He finished his scan and came close so that Bucky could see him. "Right now, that co-worker is looking over the results of my scan and figuring out with the others where to start saving your life. Hope, are you done?"

"Yes, I've already transmitted the data." She was quiet for a moment. "You know, Scott, I think with a little nudge we can help Bucky free his left arm. I just need to size up slightly and raise him enough so that he can pull it free. Bucky, do you want to give it a try?"

They cleared it with Sam, who, along with the others, was looking at the scans. There was concern that they could destabilize the debris pile, but Bruce was also concerned that Bucky had already lost consciousness briefly. Scott pointed out that with both of them there, they could enlarge themselves quickly enough to push the debris aside and open up access to Bucky. It wouldn't be pretty, but it could get him out sooner.

"Remember, I did it at the compound after Thanos blew us up and we were buried underground," he said. "We won't let him get hurt any further."

"Alright," said Sam. "Do it, but be prepared for both of you to go giant sized."

Hope returned to an open spot below Bucky, while Scott remained on his chest, although he changed his footing somewhat so that if he went large, he wouldn't step on the super soldier. She counted down from three, then Bucky could feel his body lift slightly, and then a slight tug on his left arm. It moved a little, then he felt more pressure on his back as Hope pushed him further up. Suddenly, his arm was free and by his side. He flexed his hand, then the pressure beneath him eased as Hope shrank down.

"It's free," he said. "Thanks."

Then everything went black and silent.

"Guys, what's going on?" asked Bucky. "Where are you?"

"It's okay, Bucky," said a familiar female voice.

A red glow appeared near him, and he saw Wanda, sitting cross-legged in the dark with him.

"Wanda? What are you doing here? It's dangerous."

"You're not trapped, Bucky," she answered, in her soft melodious voice. "At least, the inner you isn't. Your body is and right now, Scott and Hope are trying to revive you while the others are ready to have them go giant size just to get you out of there. I just wanted a chance to talk to you face to face before they wake you up. I've been with you since you first were trapped."

"That was your voice in my head, wasn't it?" he asked. "You know how I feel about that."

"I know, and I'm sorry for invading your privacy but I hated that you seemed to have given up. The younger Avengers were so upset when you told them to leave you behind. I felt their distress. Shame on you for not thinking that you're worth it."

"You know what I was and what I did."

"I know because I did things that were just as bad or worse; things that I'm truly sorry for." She was right beside him now, red tendrils of light snaking off her body and dissipating into the dark. "You've done a lot of good since HYDRA and have more than paid back your dues. You're respected, people care about you, and someone loves you very much."

"Cara will move on," he replied. "She deserves better."

"Hmmm," she voiced. Then she brought up an image of Cara in the air. "She doesn't think so. In her eyes, you're someone who makes her feel like she's the most beautiful woman in the world. Let's continue with the memory of when you first met her. I was enjoying that until the building fell on your right arm."

The morning after he tried to return the comms pieces, Bucky got up early and waited outside the office, until the first staff member came in, Cara Laskey herself.

"I have the comms pieces," said Bucky. "I tried to return them last night, but you had already gone."

She unlocked the door without comment, then went to the counter and pulled out a form. Putting her hand out to Bucky, she examined the two earpieces, then wrote a note on the form before turning it towards him and handing him a pen.

"Sign here. You're accepting any penalties that might have accrued for the late return of classified equipment. I'll submit this to the supervisor, and you'll be hearing what the penalty is."

He looked at her, dumbfounded. "You're kidding, right? I just handed them to you. It wasn't my fault that it took me longer than 10 minutes to get to Uniform Maintenance, explain why I needed my suit and then go through the pockets before returning here to find you already gone. This is bullshit."

"Sergeant Barnes, may I remind you that there is a code of conduct in place governing interactions between frontline and support staff. I don't have to take this kind of verbal abuse from you."

He ran his hand over his face, breathing heavily, then he looked down at her, noticing for the first time, she had flecks of gold in her hazel irises.

"You're right, I apologize," he said. "I would just like to ask respectfully, that you verify that I was here to return the items last night, then was here first thing in the morning to return them. Considering that I made every effort to get here on time, I just object to a penalty being assessed arbitrarily. Surely, there must be some leeway, in the spirit of inter-departmental cooperation."

A small smile graced Laskey's face, then she looked down at the form, picked it up and put it through the paper shredder.

"Since you put it that way and asked so nicely, I'll make an exception this time," she said. "Just don't forget them again."

"That was smooth," said Wanda. "So how did you get from inter-departmental cooperation to wanting to ask her to marry you?"

"I wish I knew," said Bucky. "It just seemed that I saw her more around the compound. It was formal between us at first; she called me Sergeant Barnes and I called her Comm Tech Laskey. Then I stepped outside one night and she was changing her tire. It went flat during the day, and she was having a hard time getting it done in the dark as the light above where she parked had burnt out. I offered to help if she lit up the scene with her phone flashlight. We talked and found we liked some things in common. I told her to call me Bucky and she said to call her Cara." He smiled. "We began having coffee together, worked out together, and then I'd wait for her to finish work to see if she wanted to join us for drinks."

His voice trailed off as he thought about them meeting as a group for drinks. She wasn't the only support staff that came out, but she was the one he always tried to sit beside. Then one Friday night, the place they went to had dancing and one of the weapons techs asked her to dance. As he watched her dance with the guy, he couldn't stop feeling angry. Why was she dancing with him? He wasn't good enough for her. The guy bragged about his body count all the time in the locker room.

"Sam saw it, didn't he?" Wanda asked him gently. "He told you to stop wasting time and ask her to dance yourself. So, you did. What was the song again?"

"Holding Back the Years," replied Bucky. "Not a romantic song at all but that voice and the feeling behind it just got to me. I held back from opening myself up to others for so long, afraid of hurting them but with her, it was suddenly clear that I wanted her in my life. I kissed her, right on the dance floor and she kissed me back. That was eight months ago."

"So why were you so ready to leave her behind?"

He didn't answer for the longest time. "I was angry at myself for not telling her how much I love her. I've had the ring for a month working up the courage to ask her to marry me. She keeps me honest. Doesn't take my bullshit. She makes me laugh and when we're together, making love, it's like the first time every time. I learn something new about her every day. I guess, I figured if I gave her up then it wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't make it. It doesn't make sense, I know. I don't want to die, and I don't want to lose her."

"So, you do think you're good enough for her?"

"I'll spend every day of our lives together being worthy of her." He looked at the young woman who had her own HYDRA story. "Can you send me back?"

"Of course," she smiled. "I just wanted to make sure that you don't want to let go of life, that you really wanted to go back, and not just to Cara but all of them. They're all fond of you, Bucky, and even love you. It's because you're worth loving. It's why Steve risked so much to find you and make sure you were free."

"But he left."

"Yeah." Her face softened. "Sometimes, the people who love us have to make a hard decision. He chose to leave you for reasons only he really knows. You're choosing to stay because you love these people, and they love you. That's a good thing, Bucky. Love is always a good thing."

🩺

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears flooding them. When he opened them, he was inside a tent, with Bruce and Helen hovering over him, while a paramedic was holding paddles in the air, and another had a mask over his mouth squeezing air into his lungs.

"Normal sinus rhythm," said someone. "He's conscious."

Bruce came closer. "Bucky?"

He nodded. "How long was I out?"

"Over a minute. Scott and Hope went giant and cleared the debris pile, while Wong levitated you out of there and directly into the tent. Your heart stopped and we had to shock you three times. You gave us quite the scare." He nodded to someone out of Bucky's view. "We're going to transport you directly to the compound via a portal. You need surgery to repair a bleeding artery. Plus, we have to set the breaks in your legs and right arm."

They transferred him to a gurney, strapping him on, and putting his IV bag on a stand. An oxygen mask was placed over his mouth, then the two paramedics began wheeling him towards the portal, while Bruce and Helen followed. The other Avengers were lined up before the portal. He heard murmurs of good luck from them, plus received numerous smiles. Putting his hand up when it got to Peter, he grasped the younger man's hand.

"Thanks," he said softly. "You're still in trouble but we'll talk later about it."

Peter smiled. "Sure, Bucky."

With another wave to Scott and Hope, Bucky nodded, and the gurney went through the portal, coming out to the medical centre surgical suite. They cut his gear off and he had the thought that the uniform tech wouldn't be happy with him. It made him smile. Then he thought of another thing.

"Make sure Cara gets my comms earpieces," he said out loud. "Don't want to get in trouble with the woman I love."

There were chuckles at that, and he relaxed. As soon as he woke up from this surgery, he was going to tell Cara he loved her and wanted to marry her. It was then he remembered something Wanda said. How did she know he wanted to ask Cara to marry him? No one knew, not even Sam. It really didn't matter because Wanda was right. Love was a good thing. It was everything.

One Shots Masterlist

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes original female character #bucky barnes oneshot #injured bucky Barnes #giving up #letting go #accepting fate

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public-trans-it-deactivated20240 · 10 months

Text

Time is fake as hell

I know people regularly talk about how time is an illusion, or just something humans made up as a tool to help us describe our moment to moment experiences and differentiate them. I'm not breaking any new ground there.

Anyone who has to suffer through the abhorrent creature that is Daylight Savings is already aware of this, and by extension, anyone who regularly interacts with people who have to deal with DST. People living close to the international date line (on either side) regularly deal with this as well.

But genuinely, I don't think you truly realize the extent of just how fake time is until you work night shift. I work five 8-hour shifts per week. I get only 1 day off every 2 weeks. At the end of my shift on Monday my boss asks me to do something tomorrow. She of course means Wednesday, why would you think she meant anything else?

To prove my point, here is my work schedule:

Fairly straight forward! As far as a rotating weekend schedule, it's pretty standard. I get every other weekend off, and with the weekend I work I will have another day during the week off, once before and once after. So I still get the usual 4 days off every 2 weeks.

Or at least, I would if I worked day shift.

Day shift gets 4 days off every 2 weeks.

I get 4 SHIFTS off every 2 weeks. I only get a single day off every two weeks.

And when I tell people that, they think I'm making it up, because the fundamental nature of night shift work runs so counter-intuitive to the way they view the world.

A single shift on night shift occupies two days, and you work twice each day you have consexutive shifts. You come in Monday night, leave Tuesday morning. Come in Tuesday night, leave Wednesday morning. Those two shifts take 3 days to complete, despite being standard 8 hour shifts.

Here is another image of my work shift, this time indicating in red when my shift bleeds into the next day.

Suddenly, it becomes obvious that I'm working every single day on that time block, except for 1. Having a SHIFT off does NOT equate to having the DAY off.

People working night shift experience time FUNDAMENTALLY DIFFERENT than the people around them.

Another example, based on genuine real life events that happened to me:

I come in to work on Monday. I finish up my shift. As I go to leave, I bump into my manager. She tells me I will be training someone tomorrow. I go home and go to sleep. I wake up and come in for my Tuesday shift. I procrastinate a bit of my early shift work, so I can show the new guy how to do it. The new guy never shows up, and I rush to get the work done. I finish up my shift, but don't see my manager this time. We only have a few minutes of our schedule overlapping, so thats not unusual. I go home and get to sleep, and don't worry about it too much. I come in for my Wednesday night shift. The new guy is there. I ask him where he was yesterday. He looks at me confused, wondering what I mean. He wasn't scheduled to work yesterday.

I make a mental note that from now on, I need to ask for clarification from my boss of what she means by "tomorrow." Because while everyone else knows what people mean by the word "tomorrow", I work night shift, and have two different tomorrows. According to my boss, by finishing up my Monday shift, my tomorrow means Wednesday.

Time is relative. And normally when people talk about that, they are talking about major sci-fi concepts like light speed travel or the temporal distortion of gravity wells, or other such things.

You don't need to be in a sci-fi world to experience relative time. You just need to work night shift and see how it breaks down at the most fundamental level.

#text essay #night shift

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illuminatedferret · 6 months

Note

So I've been trying to do a bit of detective work regarding the origin of the "E-ming reopens wounds" translation. TL;DR I think it may have come from an early version of Suika's translation, and is likely a mistranslation.

Most translations I could find online (including Deep Dream translation group, several bootleg novel sites that have stolen Suika or Deep Dream's translations, and a couple of machine translations) have that passage in line with the official translation - that simply, E-ming is dangerous, forging it took a cruel ritual, and touching it would have terrible consequences.

I did however find a pdf containing the webnovel chapters 12-43, with the following:

precisely the excerpt I submitted before. At the top of this pdf is a note:

The link in this note leads to a 404 error, but is one that was shared around a lot before the Sevenseas' official release. I found a tumblr post from 2019 which identifies this link as Suika's (now deleted) translation.

https://web.archive.org/web/20200508224041/https://arahir.tumblr.com/post/188476102230/ok-im-an-anon-who-in-the-past-has-asked-you-how

So, it looks like this is a old document of Suika's, and I can only assume the "reopens wounds" thing was a mistranslation that Suika later corrected.

The TGCF epub I have on hand is an amalgamation of sakhyulations' (up to ch 23) and Suika's (ch 24 and beyond) fan translations. Well, it doesn't actually say it's using Suika's work, but, it does link the source of the ch 24+ translations, that being the above google drive link. I'm not sure who made the epub or when it was made, but they must have taken Suika's work before it had been properly edited.

IIRC this was an epub that was circulating tumblr a while back. I don't know how widespread the "reopens wounds" fanon is, but if it's popular on tumblr, I guess this explains why.

Sorry for such a long ask!! I think that covers almost everything I found. Oh, there was one single bootleg novel site that did have the passage:

"The wounds inflicted by the evil sword of E-Ming are all cursed. Even when the wound is healed, if Hua Cheng wants it, it will bleed once more." Jun Wu answered.

which is slightly different from the above passage from that pdf. But I couldn't find any real source for this translation, so I'm thinking it might just be based on the above passage, with words switched around to disguise the fact it's stolen.

wow!!!! don't apologize for the long ask, this is some awesome digging you did!!! thank you SO much for sharing all your hard work!!

E-ming reopening old wounds being a mistranslation of some sort does make more sense to me than anything else, just because it's so specific and yet the official translation makes no mention of it, but it being from one of Suika's earlier translations is interesting. I'm still curious what the original raws read like. I wonder, considering Xie Lian's arm injury doesn't heal without special medicine, if the raw says something about wounds being slow to heal or not closing, and that's where the mistranslation initially occurred.

'E-ming reopening wounds' isn't a fanon I see discussed much, but I've read more than one fic that uses the idea, and I've mentioned it to friends before in the past without anyone questioning it until recently. So, it coming from an old translation that was probably one of the initial ways people read TGCF makes a LOT of sense- people read it, internalized it, and stopped thinking about it when more accurate translations rolled around, while still keeping the idea in their head.

#illuanswers #the-rad-paramecium #seriously thank you so much for all your work #this has been both fascinating and really illuminating!#....pun not intended

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fandomfluffandfuck · 29 days

Note

Genuine question and I'm seriously not trying to shame here but from the perspective of someone who writes rpf, don't you think that would make Chris and Seb really uncomfortable? Like look obviously the chance of them seeing it are zero to none right, but they're still real people, you know? They cant consent to being written into that type of content and I cant imagine how uncomfortable it would be to know there is content like that out there about you and your coworker/friends.

And maybe theres something I'm missing out on here but do you see where I'm coming from? Honestly like, seriously, honestly I'm not hating, I love a lot of your work. I guess I'm just asking what the thoughts behind it are?

Hey,

I feel like that's a fair question, yeah. And as someone who's active in the kink community in real life, I can assure you that I am very aware of consent and boundaries, so I see that side, too.

I get the ethics/non-ethics of real person fanfiction, I really do.

Further, I have had my own internal debates about RPF. I don't recall exactly what I thought when I first discovered RPF, but I know I didn't get it right away and steered myself away from it for a bit. Eventually, though... I started to understand what it was all about, and I began to think I the way I do now.

To me, it's fanfiction, and I am acutely aware of both of those things that make up that word. It's for the fans. It's fictional. I can hold both of those understandings at the same time as participating in fandom.

(That wording makes it sound like I feel as though I am holier than thou, but that's not what I mean. I really am just speaking from my own perspective. I have no idea if everyone in the fandom can relate or no one can, lol.)

As being for the fans--it is not supposed to cross the boundary of bleeding into real life and being shown to the people who it's about or the characters that they play. I follow that rule strictly. I have no interest in showing fanfiction to the people it's about or even heckling them about it. That's a boundary I will respect and actively defend. (Especially now considering that Chris is married and Seb is in a serious relationship. I will never condone people being mean to their real-life partners just because it threatens their ships.)

And the few times I've had someone ask me if they could send my writing in the direction of who it's about (I can't find any exact examples right now, thanks Tumblr search system, ugh, so you'll just have to trust me, lol), I always have a little panic and go on a (hopefully polite) rant to say NO!! PLEASE DON'T FUCKING DO THAT! THAT IS NOT WHAT MY WRITING IS FOR! Trying my hardest to explain why. The why is as you say--the people haven't consented to that.

Now, yes, I have a work (titled "Character Bleed") that plays into the fantasy of Sebastian stumbling onto stucky fanfiction and getting into it with Chris, but that's just it, it's fantasy. I have a disclaimer before the fic begins about that. Do. not. share. this. with. the. actors.

However, I feel the same way about my writing that I do about porn, generally. Porn is a fantasy. Porn is not the real world. Porn can often not (or should not) be extrapolated out into real life. And adults who consume porn have a responsibility to understand that. There is a difference between fantasy and how social scripts work.

(To some degree, it's like how you may think about a porn actor--you have all this connection to them in your fantasy world, but if you were to see them in real life, you don't have permission to do or say anything to them that's inappropriate. Obviously, porn actors concent to being someone's fantasy in a way actors don't, unless they're in sex scenes even that isn't the same, but it's similar enough for this discussion.)

As for it being fictional--it isn't real. Clearly, lol. I've already kind of talked about that, but to further go on:

To me, it is obvious that it's not real. I don't know the people I write about, and I know that well. The pseudo relationship that exists is one-sided and barely skin-deep.

Also, personally, I don't actually believe in my heart that evanstan, for example, are together or that shit went down between them. Sure, their chemistry together is undeniable, but that doesn't mean anything. They're coworkers and friends. And the same can be said for a million other real life people that're shipped together.

If I were ever to meet either of them, Sebastian or Chris, I wouldn't act familiar with them. I use their public personas like characters, I know. I know how that can be looked at as unethical or problematic. But I can realize at the same time that I know nothing of them really.

I hate to call people out, but I once saw a clip of someone calling Sebastian "sweetie" and telling him to finish his food in a jokey yet dominant-ish way, and... yikes. I just. I know it's a fandom joke that I even propogate, that Sebastian's a sub, but that makes me cringe. You don't know him, and that's a friendship-to-a-romantic-partner boundary to cross. Please don't. I'm sure being starstruck and flustered plays a part, but, again, you don't know him.

So, my blabbering aside, I think that's what I come down to with my RPF feelings--admittance and understanding that I don't know these people. I don't claim to. I enjoy the parts of them I see, and I play up those parts to tell stories surrounding them, like playing with dolls. I probably shouldn't, but because I also know that, I try to keep it to myself and this community the best I can. Fandoms often get a bad wrap for being crazed and not knowing boundaries, but they're not all like that. We can be contained and appropriate within limits.

Hopefully, some of that was understandable? I don't know, I think I just... rambled? 🤷🏻‍♂️

#asks #fandom discourse #fandom discussion #real person fanfiction #evanstan #rpf

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alevolpe · 7 months

Note

I'm really curious about the second arc based off your hcs!

EXTREMELY LONG ASK! I’ll put a super quick TLDRL at the end, but this is my longest ask by FAR.

I’m really not a fan of time travel in sailor moon, so season 2 is very different in my hc.

I still rlly like Ail and An, so I think I’d keep them for the first section of season 2, but introduce them as regular students that attend the same school as Usagi and Ami in season 1.

I thought even having An as Usagi’s classmate and having a Rei like bantery relationship. Show them being kinda weird and a bit more comic-y side characters during the season, but never have them fight or meet the senshi directly. They attack with more subtlety to avoid inciting suspicion and honestly, just have them act like they are trying to live a regular life, which they are, but they have to feed on energy to survive (no tree needed).

The Ail and Ann section would be more low key, let’s try to get our shit together and recover front he trauma we just witnessed at the end of the first season type deal (they didn’t die), but layer a level of quiet but ever rising uneasiness. Something is changing, the girls are changing.

Venus contact with Minako is getting stronger and stronger. Ami’s black hair (i hc her having jet black with a blue shine hair as a civilian, which turns blue post transformation) is starting to grow blue roots. Mako is getting ever so slightly taller and muscular. Rei’s visions get way more frequent and her powers are starting to bleed to her human form. Usagi’s is starting to behave a bit off, few strands of white hair start to poke out among her blonde hair.

They eventually square off with Ail and An, who found out their secret identities. Due to an accident, the building they are in collapses splitting the girls and Ail and An in odd groups. All the girls, but Usagi ready to kill the threat and An battling internally as well, not really wanting to fight, but at the same time being unwilling to believe Usagi would be a Sailor Senshi.

For Ail and An backstory. They were forced to evacuate their planet as kids cause Galaxia attacked their protector (who is also a senshi, but they don’t know that yet) and devastated their planet. This caused an immense resentment toward the sailor senshi kind by both Ail and An, but Ail being the older more mature of the two, just wants to let peace and to live a peaceful low key life on Earth. An doesn’t believe that could happen, because these other senshi will come after them again and kill them, cause that’s what senshis do.

They eventually resolve their conflicts and Ail and Ann get to live on Earth among them (with some restrictions on what type of energy they get to consume, limited human energy, just don’t attack people in general terms lol).

Skipping to the second section of season 2, this is where the bigger more dramatic stakes come in. As I stated in a previous ask, both Serenity and Venus used Venus’ sword to make their souls persist through their reincarnations and they are staring to resurface from within Usagi’s and Mina’s bodies.

Luna is very perplexed by all the changes going on among the girls, at this point knowing the whole deal with the Moon Kingdom, the now gone ‘Dark Kingdom’ and Artemis, but still not having any memories of it. One particular night, she takes a walk to reflect, trying to focus and remember, and that’s where, while crossing at a green light, among the public she spots a Sailor Pluto towering unmoving among the walking crowds. Just staring her down with a blank expression on her face. This causes her to stop everything and just stare, pieces of her memory slowing unblurring, one by one, Venus, Jupiter, Mercury, Mars.. Serenity.. Serenity! Just like that she misses the lights turning red, a truck barreling toward her at full speed.

The girls all meet having looked for Luna everywhere. Makoto joins them a few moments later with a small plastic bag in her hands, having seen a couple of trash collectors in her neighborhood getting ready to load a fresh roadkill into their trucks, Artemis being with her commands her to stop them, having smelled Luna’s scent.

The girls all have different reactions to this. Ami immediately going and taking the bag, in complete denial and desperation she just cries holding Luna. Rei is just left absolutely stunned and in disbelief. None of her other premonitions ever came true.

Rei is constantly plagued by visions, most of these visions are futures that will never happen. She’s seen all her loved one die in all of different ways, events out of apocalyptic scenarios, all of which never happened, so she just stayed silent about them. Choosing to not cause unnecessary stress for what it’s basically a fortune cookie prediction. But this one was the one, the one to actually come true, seeing Luna on a snowy night getting hit by a truck while crossing a sidewalk.

Rei and Luna’s relationship was a bit strained. Rei always turning her nose up at Luna’s attempts to be a force of authority to Rei (never goes well). Though throughout season 1 Rei learns to ‘tolerate’ her after a talk they had, Luna stating that she was never trying to replace Rei’s mother and that she truly wants to be there for them, but that Rei is free to not accept her that way and keep healthy boundaries between them.

This next section is an excerpt from an outline I have saved of the scene following Luna’s death. (Warning I suck at writing so go easy on me. This isn’t meant to be read as a story, but just a dialogue outline for me to keep as a guideline)

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Rei, at the sight of Luna’s body in the bag blurts out loud that this isn’t possible and they it doesn’t make sense. None of her predictions ever came true, it doesn’t make sense, Mina coming to her side to calm her down and trying to understand what visions Rei is even referring to.

Ami overhears this while still crying, devastated.

“You saw this?” With the widest and most blank eyes Rei has ever seen on Ami.

“No, I mean yes.. but it never happens. I just see some much, all the time, with you, with Luna and I can’t-”

“Murderer”

“ …What? What did you just fucking say?”

“MURDER!!” And with that she jumps at Rei, blinded by rage, genuinely ready to start a beat down. And Rei doing the same, being also blinded by rage and betrayal of Ami accusing her she would ever withhold such information on purpose. Fortunately Mako and Mina intervene, Mako keeping Ami at bay while Mina severely struggles with Rei.

Ami keeps throwing accusations and insults toward Rei, knowing very well of Rei’s poor treatment of Luna, but being unaware of the small bridge of agreement they came to just among themselves a bit prior. Though she’s just genuinely blinded by grief and rage, she would’ve never accused Rei of such things with a clear mind. Luna was the closest, among all the others to Ami, being the first to be awakened by her (I have a different join order for the senshi, I have a diagram for it right HERE! But it’s basically Luna awakens Ami, Rei and Usagi, in that order, while Artemis awakens Mina and Mako). Their bond has genuinely become one of a mother-daughter relationship, so losing Luna hit Ami the absolute hardest.

Mako has to knock Ami unconscious to help Mina with Rei and Rei, obviously threatened by Mako, plus he’s herself off of Mina. While Mina instructs Mako to just let her be and that she just wants everyone to calm tf down.

Rei still in utter shock and denial looks toward Usagi “WOULD YOU FUCKING SAY SOMETHING?!”.

Usagi was just holding still silent this whole time, eyes widened in shock, but.. not balling. Small tears at the edge of her eyes are all she’s given. She’s just shocked and speechless, but not the Usagi way. She seems empty..

Mako puts Ami to sleep in Rei’s bed and gives Mina instructions to go home and that they can deal with everything in the morning. She’ll stay with the others at the temple to keep the from going crazy once during the nigh. Very reluctantly Mina accepts and leaves with Artemis, leaving Rei, Ami, Usagi and Mako at the temple for the night.

The next morning Mina and Artemis make their way to the temple. The anticipation of the girls at each other’s throats eating at them.

Mina opens the door and finds something that just leaves her absolutely speechless.

All the girls are sitting at the low table eating breakfast, chatting like absolutely NOTHING happened the night prior. Usagi super cheerful from eating Mako’s delightful cooking, Rei sipping tea quietly and Ami reading one of Rei’s books while enjoying her breakfast.

Mina has no words and obviously asks Mako what happened. Mako with a very friendly and peaceful expression just says that everything was resolved. Mina attempts to prod the others for clarifications too, but with no different results. “We talked it out” “YOU’RE NOT MAD ANYMORE?!?” “No” “why are you being so weird Mina” “yeah Mina, we’re a team! Come on! We can’t let stuff like that divide us!”

Something’s not right. It can’t be. And fortunately, by an absolute miracle for Mina she takes a peek at Artemis and the same exact expression of ‘something’s is not right here’ is plastered on his face too.

At this point Usagi finally refers directly to Mina very casually “have you seen the silver Crystal, I can’t find it?” (At the end of season 1 Usagi gave it to Mina to keep). Something’s absolutely not right, Mina states she hasn’t seen it lately and makes an excuse to leave, Mako raising at the same time, a way more serious expression on her face, repeating the princesses’ question. At this point both Mako and Ami looking at Mina with eye peering through her, Mina and Artemis making a mad dash for the door, running as far away from the temple as they can, Ami and Mako right on their heels.

Artemis separates from Mina, stating he knows something that could help them, but that’s he has to leave Mina to deal with the situation alone for the time being. Agreeing Sailor Venus has a chase with across the streets of Tokyo, both Mercury and Jupiter on hot pursuit, while Usagi and Rei slowly walk the same direction.

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The real enemy of season 2 is Princess Serenity, being reawakened within Usagi’s body, the trauma of losing Luna being the last straw Serenity needed to shove Usagi in the backseat. The rest of the senshi, especially Mako and Ami have also sort of reawakened, but as hollowed soldier powered by the will of the Serenity and the Crystal. Sailor Venus being immune to the “control” cause of the deal her and Serenity made in the their previous life, preserving Venus’ soul inside Minako (here, toward the end), while Sailor Mars is temporarily controlled, but not fully cause she died in season 1. This unexpected course of events braking the connection of the silver Crystal to her body and reincarnated soul. She will break out the spell and escape joining Mina to fight Serenity, Mercury and Jupiter and bring their friends back.

Tho they aren’t alone, as Artemis returns after a small absence, bringing back our favorite lesbians Sailor Neptune and Sailor Uranus, whose whereabouts and goals are unknown for the time being, but due to the dire situation they are in, questions will come later.

The season will resolve with Mina being able to permanently kill Serenity’s soul and being Usagi back (all while bettering Venus’ soul and the temptation to kill Usagi, knowing there has to be another way to stop Serenity without killing the body) shattering her sword in the process and freeing Mercury and Jupiter who have been under Serenity’s control all this time and have being fighting Uranus and Neptune.

TLDR for hc SEASON 2:

Ail and An are forced to confront the senshi after the first season of living as regular humans who secretly fed on energy. The senshi wan to kill them, as well as An, but Usagi and Ail just want peace. They resolve it and Ail and An get to continue living on Earth as normal people with some restrictions on attacking people for energy.

While all that was happening, the girls start to bleed aspects of their senshi selves into the human forms (ie Ami’s blue hair is poking out of her natural civilian black hair and so on). Luna dies in a car accident while being distracted by Pluto, the girls discover her and Ami violently accuses Rei of withholding the information of her death to her (Rei saw her dying in a vision but didn’t say anything to anybody, cause all her other visions never came true).

A violent ruffle goes down, and Mina is instructed to leave the temple to let the waters cool. She comes back the next morning to find them all eerily serene and quiet and sensing something is wrong she runs away. The rest of the senshi and Usagi, now having been taken over by Serenity. Rei manages to break free from the control and joins Mina, who has now the hold of the mysterious Uranus and Neptune and they all set out to stop Serenity.

#ask me stuff #long post #super long post #hc season 2 #Still all in the writing works ofc!

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