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dcbbw · 3 years ago

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The Witch Hunt

This fic is a highly fictionalized account of true events. I wrote it as a way of coping with the discourse and said it would never be publicly posted. But thanks to an ask from @twinkleallnight (and her persistence that anything I write needs to be shared and enjoyed by all), and discussions with my boos, bears, and Coven sisters … here it is.

HUGE THANK YOU to @ao719 for the amazing moodboard.

Thank you to my writing sisters for re-reading this story and assuring me that it still makes sense.

For all who will read this fic, THANK YOU! Your time, efforts, and energy spent reading, commenting, and/or reblogging is greatly appreciated more than you know.

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. (I rushed through my final editing)

Only the Commoner and the King belong to Pixelberry.

Song Inspiration: Every Breath You Take, Scala/Kolacny Brothers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bt63b4x2Xec

Word Count: 3,546

Eastwick

Light years and many moons from Reality, there is an alternate universe called Fandom where both children and witches live. The witches are a large coven, and spend their days writing spells; incantations of love, lust, and laughter … sometimes of darkness. The spells are for their intended and beloved, and tell of the lives and adventures the sorceresses wish to experience with them.

The witches live in a corner of the Fandom known as Cordonia, in a small town called Eastwick; for the most part, they all got along well and were supportive of each other. Within the coven were three sisters: Hilda, Zelma, and Glinda. The sisters lived together in a large Victorian house, complete with wraparound porch, bay windows, and spires. All three were well-known and well-liked throughout the coven.

Glinda was the most popular; her bright cheery smile and sweet personality made her a favorite throughout Eastwick.

Zelma was the friendliest; she knew nearly all the other witches, and read over their spells to ensure that nothing went wrong. One incorrect word or improper enunciation could twist the spell’s intention completely.

Hilda, who was also a wizardess, was the most empathetic; she offered hugs and a listening ear to the strays of the coven: The witches who either had no magic, or if they did, no idea how to use it. Her sisters were usually tolerant when Hilda brought home her newfound, friendless acquaintances … except for Apple Core. There was a reason the oldest citizen of Eastwick had never truly been a part of the coven, but Hilda insisted Apple Core just needed love.

The sisters were sitting at their kitchen table, writing spells for their love interests. Zelma was in love with the Commoner of Cordonia, as were many others; it did not deter her from sending her love spells into the universe, neither did it stop the Commoner from returning her affections.

Glinda and Hilda were in love with the King; as was the case with the Commoner, the sisters were in competition with many for his both his hand and his heart. Glinda had decided that she and Hilda would love different versions of the King so as not to make things awkward between them. Glinda fell in love with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed King, while Hilda’s King had dark hair, dark eyes, and Asian features.

“I love him so much,” Zelma murmured as she finished her spell, her eyes landing on a picture of the Commoner she had summoned in their crystal ball.

“And he loves you in return,” Glinda said while tapping her quill pen against her chin.

“He loves an alternate version of me. If he knew what I really looked like, he wouldn’t,” Zelma lamented.

“Our beloveds see our hearts and souls, not our outer appearances,” Hilda stated as she waved a wand over her spell of lust.

Silence as the sisters worked to finalize their spells before casting them into the Void. Suddenly, there was a jarring of the earth and a loud clap of thunder; it was so loud and sharp, Glinda covered her ears as the house shook.

Zelma looked up, her eyes darting around the room, as if the source of the disruption was in their home.

“The Dark One is casting.” She looked at her sisters uneasily.

WestWorld

On the other side of Cordonia, in WestWorld, The Guardian’s head lifted at the sound of distant thunder. Her eyes fell to her glass of water, now slightly moving across the table from the remnants of the shaking earth. Her gaze narrowed.

“The Witches!” she hissed.

WestWorld was where the children of Cordonia lived. There were some adults: survivors of trauma and abuse from their previous worlds, but the majority of the residents were children. The Guardian lived there to ensure the under-aged residents were properly housed, clothed and fed. She shielded them from the Witches, whose sorcery and magic were misunderstood by WestWorld.

The Guardian and her Army believed in love and light; no sex was needed for that. Angst and strife were not needed for that. Darkness definitely was not needed. So, the Guardian warned the children constantly not to venture into Eastwick and to never, under any circumstances, read the spells that were cast into the Void from the other side.

And now, the Witches were casting darkness into the Void … again. Dark magic was the only thing that would have such far reaching effects.

The Guardian retrieved an ornate gold box from her cupboards and removed the lid to reveal her crystal ball. She chanted as she waved her hands over the ball, summoning up a spell to inform her of what was happening.

The Dark One appeared in the glass, looking rather smug and pleased; her image faded, to be replaced by the parchment containing her spell. The Guardian fell into her chair, her eyes wide with shock as she read what the Dark One had cast.

The Guardian felt her stomach churn; the children would most certainly want to see what had caused such a disruption in their world. Normally, the citizens of West World were content to read their tales of otherworldly creatures from a time long past, or of the single mothers who loved their childen beyond measure.

But they were children, and they were curious.

And now Dark One was once again summoning the Guardian’s charges to the other side.

The Guardian rose hastily from the table, and ran through the halls calling for her Generals.

One Week Later

Eastwick

The Dark One sat in her living room, her eyes fixed on her Book of Spells, searching for an answer, a solution.

Something.

The Guardian and her Army were calling for the Dark One’s head. They wanted her banished from all of Cordonia, and her spells erased from existence.

The Dark One shook her head to herself.

That was unacceptable.

The Dark One was in love with the Commoner; she always had been since she first laid eyes on him. However, The Dark One knew she would never stand out in the sea of spells filled with love and lust. She didn’t speak that language.

No, she needed to speak to the Commoner soul to soul.

She focused not on his perfection, but his flaws and insecurities. She sought out the Commoner’s dark side that no one wanted to hear of or speak to. The Dark One offered the Commoner her broken pieces, her sorrow and hurt … and he was finally accepting them.

He was falling for her.

And she refused to let anyone stop them from being together.

With a small sigh, The Dark One sipped from her glass filled with hibiscus wine. This was not her first run- in with The Guardian. When The Dark One cast her first appeal to the Commoner’s dark side, her spell was met with resistance from both Eastwick and Westworld. She had taken a day away from the coven, not in shame, but to consider whether to remove her spell. If it inspired such strong feelings from her fellow witches, would it repel the Commoner?

But it did not.

He began looking her way. He urged her to tell him more about herself; he whispered more of his secrets in her ear. And The Dark One decided not to remove her spell simply because others were jealous the Commoner’s attentions were turning to her.

But now, The Guardian was viciously attacking her, over simple spells! There were threats of her murder if she did not comply with The Guardian’s request. Her sister witches, save for a few, were silent. The chosen to do battle with WestWorld fought alone; however The Dark One was given suggestions, instructions, and encouragements in private:

Listen to their concerns.

Perhaps you need to not cast so many spells.

Just stand down for a little while; it will blow over. The battles always do.

The Dark One thumbed slowly through her Book; her eyes took in the words that her soul had spilled. Her blood, sweat, and tears covered every page. And she knew what she had to do. She would step away from the coven; not because The Guardian told her to, but to protect the innocent.

It meant leaving the Commoner behind and The Dark One wasn’t sure she could do that. She had finally captured his attention and found her understanding.

But she would try.

She just had to do one last thing …

That night in Cordonia the earth shook, and the thunder clapped loudly and incessantly as The Dark One released nearly all her spells into the Void.

The Three Sisters

At the home of The Three Sisters, Zelma fretted as the house shook and dark clouds covered the sky.

“She’s been casting nonstop for a week! They’re threatening to kill her! And now what is she doing? The Void cannot handle so much dark energy.” Zelma stopped pacing to angrily throw her hands in the air. “She’s going to make it so none of us can cast!”

Glinda poured hot tea into three delicate teacups. “Perhaps we can appeal to The Guardian.”

“She won’t listen to us! With The Dark One being so unreasonable, The Guardian will set her sights on us. I’ve dealt with WestWorld once and I’m not eager to be once more tossed into that fray,” Hilda argued as she added honey and lemon to her fragrant beverage.

“If we use our powers of invisibility, she may. I see others from both sides are appealing to her in that manner.”

Zelma and Hilda barely heard their sister; they were watching the crystal ball reveal spell after spell flying past, flurries of parchment and ink whisking before them as if in a windstorm.

“Stop it! Stop the ball!” Hilda yelled.

With a frown of confusion, Glinda waved her hands over the sphere and froze the image. The sisters read the spell before them, eyes widening at the darkness it revealed. When they finished reading, they looked at each other, each trying to process what they just read.

Hilda straightened up. “This…this is not good. Perhaps I will approach the Guardian. I see where she has let the children read one of my spells. She praised it.”

“Perhaps … “Zelma said doubtfully as she reached for her cup.

The knock on the door startled the trio. Glancing at the clock, Glinda wondered aloud who it could be at this hour. Hilda went to the door; she was the oldest and viewed herself as her sisters’ protector. She pulled open the door to see Apple Core.

Apple Core was an outcast amongst the witches. She was without magic, and very demanding of members of the Coven. Apple Core had no true home and only one friend.

“Hello, dearie,” the outcast croaked.

“Good evening,” Hilda responded politely.

She noticed the older woman’s threadbare cloak and cracked, dry lips. Hilda stepped aside, pulling the door open wider as she did so.

“Please, come in. Perhaps partake in a glass of water? And a bowl of brew?”

Apple Core smiled thinly as she entered the household; she ignored Glinda and Zelma rolling their eyes at each other.

“The Dark One is releasing her magic quite freely tonight,” Apple Core remarked as she settled into a wooden rocking chair.

Glinda went to fetch water and brew for their visitor. Zelma and Hilda sat side by side on the sofa.

“Yes, she is. I plan to reach out to The Guardian as she and I are on friendly terms.” Hilda smoothed down her dress.

Apple Core looked at her quizzically. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“She has let the children read one of my spells.” Hilda said with a hint of pride.

WestWorld never allowed a spell to be voluntarily brought into their corner of Fandom.

“Your spell has been removed and cast out of WestWorld. The Guardian has discovered that you are mutuals with The Dark One, and therefore are guilty by association. In fact, all three of you are now on The Guardian’s blacklist.”

Glinda was returning with the sustenance for the visitor and heard the last part of the statement; her voice held an edge when she spoke.

“What are you talking about? I was never mutuals with The Dark One, and Zelma broke ties with her months ago! Hilda has maintained ties with The Dark One, but in name only!”

“This has become so much more than a push to banish The Dark One. And I fear now, even if she leaves, the damage has been done. Deep damage,” Apple Core said cryptically.

Her eyes fell to her bowl and the glass of water; she greedily licked her lips. “The best thing to do … frankly, the only thing … is to deflect The Guardian’s anger and ire back where it belongs. On The Dark One.”

“But how?” Glinda sat next to her sisters.

Apple Core slurped her brew directly from the bowl; splashes of broth splattered both Apple Core’s dark cloak and the silver spoon still sitting on the tray. Her eyes rolled over to the three sisters. “I can only point you in the direction, I cannot lead you.”

Hilda spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “The spell we just read; perhaps that will be enough to redirect The Guardian. I can speak to her invisibly. It can’t hurt.”

“Have you ever used the Spell of Invisibility?” Glinda asked, scoffing slightly.

“Hmmmm, once?” Hilda shrugged.

Glinda shook her head impatiently. “I’ll show you!”

Apple Core finished her meal and rose from her chair. “Your secret is safe with me, dearies. Just know, I have seen many battles fought between the two sides, and this one is going to be far worse than the others before. And a word of caution … The Dark One has even more spells; she just isn’t releasing them yet.”

“MORE spells?” Zelma exclaimed, wondering just how many spells The Dark One had. She rose to usher Apple Core to the door where she bid the woman a good evening, watching Apple Core’s dark cloak billow behind her as the outcast made her way back to a hut on the outskirts of Eastwick.

Two Weeks Later

Eastwick

Zelma was sobbing as her sisters tried to comfort her. The battle with WestWorld was intensifying at a rapid rate.

Hilda’s attempts to divert The Guardian had failed: The Guardian had already read every spell The Dark One had cast into the void, which led her to seek out who among the Witches approved of such an abuse of power. The Guardian’s research went back over a year and was helped along by several informants, all invisible and anonymous to her but she had her ideas as to who the people were.

Names filled her ears, portions of spells and those who supported them crossed her desk. Her lips tightened a tad more with every name she came across. The Guardian needed a plan; a plan to end this once and for all.

This was so much bigger than simply The Dark One.

Zelma had wanted to approach The Guardian with news that one of the informants was bogus, and a spy for both sides. But in her haste and eagerness, she forgot to cloak herself with the Spell of Invisibility.

The Guardian’s lips had curved in a slightly cruel smile when the two women faced each other in their crystal balls. The Guardian knew who Zelma was; Zelma found out who the Guardian was. The witch flushed beet red and began to stammer, but The Guardian waved her hands and both balls went dark.

Zelma panicked. She knew about the Blacklist and didn’t want to be on it. Zelma didn’t want to be in WestWorld’s crosshairs at all.

She saw what had happened to Hilda; she saw what they were doing to The Dark One. Zelma immediately wrote a letter of apology to both the Coven and WestWorld. She tried to scrub any traces of her affiliation with The Dark One; but still, they remained.

The Guardian refused to listen to Zelma’s apologies and excuses. Moreover, she was angered by the outpouring of love and support for Zelma. But The Guardian held the upper hand, and she did not hesitate to use it.

Zelma was blacklisted and outed.

Her best friend in the coven had her spell creating abilities revoked.

Yet another friend wrote an appeal to both sides, asking to come to a consensus as to the best way to protect the children. She too was outed and blacklisted.

The only concession made by The Guardian was to restore spell creating privileges and to assure Zelma that she was in good company: Her sisters, along with many others, would be joining her on the list.

Invisibly, Glinda, Hilda, and several others from the coven reached out to The Guardian; they were either ignored, or met with dismissiveness. Hilda’s plea was met with acknowledgement she raised valid points, but The Guardian would not waver on her decision.

This was for the children.

The sisters and their friends were both resigned to and relieved at their fate. Perhaps this Blacklist would be a good thing. They were buoyed by their fellow Witches requesting to be added to the list.

WestWorld and Eastwick rarely interacted; another layer of separation may be the best thing.

WestWorld

The Guardian’s head was in her hands, her fingers splayed across her face. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket, so quickly.

Too quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

The Guardian had started her crusade with one mission in mind: banishment of The Dark One. But that hussy hadn’t left; she had barricaded herself inside of her home after releasing hundreds of spells into the Void. For days on end, all that crossed anyone’s path were dark, potentially triggering spells. The Guardian was truly puzzled how one witch could have so.many.spells. just waiting to be cast. And for the Commoner’s love at that; for the King … The Guardian could see that.

At least it was over.

Then began the influx of invisible, anonymous visitors. The Guardian knew they weren’t all witches, at least in the beginning. The Spell of Invisibility was available to all the citizens of Fandom.

Hour upon hour, The Guardian heard words of support and encouragement; tales of trauma; grateful sobs … all from people with no names or faces.

The Guardian knew she was doing the right thing; she and her Army were protecting those who were defenseless. The Dark One was simply the tip of the iceberg. All the dark spells had to go, and the ones who wrote them had to be outed, at the very least.

A new plan formulated in her mind, and her generals agreed with it.

The Blacklist would include the witch’s names, their addresses, and a list of the offensive spells.

And that is when the others began to visit.

They came while The Guardian slept; they came while she was preparing her meals. One came while she was bathing. All told her she was self-serving, trying to draw attention to herself and WestWorld.

That her plan of the Blacklist was simply telling the children where to go.

That they too were traumatized, and this is how they chose to cope.

The others told her they warned the children not to read their spells because the words they spoke were not for young eyes.

They told her to reach out to the people being put on the list, to walk in their shoes for a day or so.

The Guardian’s brain felt as if it were about to explode from too many voices and too much information.

She argued that she had reached out to the Witches; they had blocked their portals to her.

The Witches said that was an untruth.

The Guardian said she was doing what was best: Providing the children with the witches’ addresses and providing them access to their portals was to protect the children and survivors.

The Witches countered The Guardian was readying her Army to attack them. The children had already used their invisibility and anonymity to bully them to the point of encouraging the witches to commit suicide.

The Guardian said she was making Fandom a safe and nurturing environment for all.

The Witches scoffed at that, arguing that was why they lived in Eastwick and the children lived in WestWorld. It was neither safe nor healthy for either side to interact with each other.

It was all too much; this is not what was supposed to happen. Despite what it looked like, she was not looking to start a war.

But one was underway.

And to make everything even worse, The Dark One was casting spells again.

With a slightly trembling hand, she reached for her glass of water as she popped an aspirin in her mouth. The knock on her portal startled her; water sloshed from the glass and onto her frock.

She raised her head as the witch stepped over the threshold. It was Hilda.

A smile on her face, but a serious look in her eyes, Hilda sat uninvited at the table with The Guardian.

“We need to talk.”

Tagging: @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @ao719 @burnsoslow @bbrandy2002 @ofpixelsandscribbles @debramcg1106 @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @shewillreadyou @starrystarrytrouble @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @queenrileyrose @ladyangel70 @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @lodberg @charlotteg234 @sweatyrysconnoisseur @mainstreetreader @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @jessiembruno @darley1101 @txemrn @tessa-liam @phoenixrising308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @thegreentwin

#dcbbw writes #dug in the vault #for this one #kinda choices

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themurphyzone · 3 years ago

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PatB Oneshot: Poor Unfortunate Soul

Summary: Brain doesn’t think Pinky would be a very good villain. Pinky decides to prove him wrong (but mostly he wants Denny's).

AN: I’ll be honest, Dark Pinky isn’t for me. So how to compromise writing a villainous Pinky with normal Pinky? Well...you’ll see.

AO3 Link

Pinky gasped at the TV, crumbs of popcorn falling out of his mouth. Brain stopped chewing and looked away from the screen, unable to stomach the scene of Lupin and Sirius forcing Pettigrew out of rat form as he attempted to flee the Shrieking Shack.

No matter how many times he’d seen Prisoner of Azkaban, Brain always found it uncomfortable to watch Pettigrew transform into a pathetic, sniveling human who acted like he hadn’t sold his own friends out to a homicidal madman.

Sure, Voldemort was the villain while Umbridge was the personification of government corruption, but there was just something downright insidious about Pettigrew.

Pinky’s eyes were blown wide open as Pettigrew pitifully tried to plead his case. The simpleton was always so surprised about this plot twist no matter how many times he’d seen this movie.

The more he pondered, perhaps Pinky was the exact reason he found Pettigrew worse than the larger threats of the Harry Potter world. The man played into the worst of rodent stereotypes with his cowardly and backstabbing nature.

But Pinky?

Not a single disloyal bone in his body. It was a lesson Brain had taken to heart after his disastrous second birthday. Pinky was far too sweet and simple to even think about betrayal.

Tears flowed down Pinky’s face as Lupin transformed into an emaciated werewolf, so Brain discreetly nudged a pack of Kleenexes his way. Pinky flashed him a grateful, wobbly smile, then reached for a tissue and blew his nose.

Pinky always cried at this part. And while Brain found the scene emotionally gut-punching too, he considered himself above displays of crying during movies.

Mufasa’s death didn’t count. Dirt always lodged in his lacrimal ducts whenever he watched that scene. That was all.

Brain’s fists clenched as the cowardly Pettigrew abandoned everyone to die.

Though his escape was an essential plot point for the rest of the series, Brain wished the protagonists could’ve caught Pettigrew and delivered justice for betraying those who called him a friend.

He knew how the movie played out, but Pinky acted like he was watching it all for the very first time. Sometimes, watching Pinky when he didn’t care what happened on-screen was much more interesting. Especially when Pinky insisted on not skipping Order of the Phoenix.

Pinky hugged his knees, tail draped tightly around him as the Dementors attacked Harry and Sirius. The rest of the movie would be loaded with those undead abominations. Brain had learned from unfortunate experience that Pinky would have nightmares if he didn’t cut off the fear before it took root in his subconscious.

Slowly, Brain moved towards Pinky, careful not to make a sound lest Pinky catch him in the act. He took a deep breath to steel his resolve, placing a hesitant hand on Pinky’s back.

Pinky turned to look at him.

“Eyes on the screen,�� Brain commanded. It was easier to do this when Pinky wasn’t watching him.

Pinky obeyed, humming softly as Brain patted soft fur. A long, flowing tail wrapped around a crooked one. Pinky sat up a little straighter.

The Dementors wouldn’t haunt Pinky’s dreams tonight. Not as long as Brain had something to say about it.

o-o-o-o-o

“-and I’m so happy Sirius and Buckbeak got away! D’you think I could ride a hippogriff? Why are they called hippos when they’re not hippos anyway? I don’t think wizards know their animals very well, Brain.” Pinky’s chatter continued into the ungodly hours of the morning. Only the people unfortunate enough to work early morning shifts on Saturday would be awake at this time.

Brain rolled onto his stomach, covering his ears with his pillow to block out all the extraneous noise. One con about taking nights off from world domination was that his body just didn’t want to sleep even when he was tired, and Pinky’s exuberance only amplified the issue.

“Troz! Prisoner of Azkaban is my favorite out of the Harry Potter movies. But my favorites are also Sorcerer’s Stone and Chamber and Goblet...oh! And Order has Luna Lovegood of course! Love her! What’s your favorite, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Ooh, you shouldn’t lay like that. You need to breathe!”

The pillow was completely ineffective as a sound buffer. Brain was sorely tempted to keep up his current position out of pure spite, but he had to give up and lay on his side so he wouldn’t suffocate.

“No favorite. Hippogriffs are fictional. Hippo is Greek for horse and does not refer to a hippopotamus in this context. You think cows cluck and chickens moo, Pinky. Now go to sleep,” Brain sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

Perhaps he could trick his exhausted mind into believing Pinky wasn’t there if he couldn’t be seen.

He had an urge to stay awake though. If his subconscious latched onto hippopotamuses, he’d just have that nightmare with the rich hippo couple and Rockefeller baby all over again. He shuddered at that memory. The pain and humiliation from that hippo-sized booster shot had been oddly vivid.

“Okay. G’night, Brain.” The bed shifted as Pinky flopped onto his back.

All was quiet.

Brain curled into a more comfortable position, ready to drift off to a dream world where he was an emperor on a golden throne, Pinky was dressed in royal finery while leading a resounding chorus of We are the World, and all knelt before their authority.

“Brain?”

And there went the dream.

“What?” Brain snapped. Part of him wanted to knock Pinky out himself, but that would require moving his arms. He didn’t want to move out of his current position.

“Just pondering. Poit,” Pinky yawned. “Before sleep ponderings. Those kinds are the best, Brain. Cause they get weird and tangerine-y. Bet you get those too.”

It was true. When his plans weren’t derived from Pinky’s inane ramblings or current events, they were often the product of pre-sleep thoughts. While he wrote down all he could remember afterwards, the plans pulled from those tangents tended to be the craziest and illogical in hindsight.

He tried not to rely on them too much, but if his conqueror’s block was high or creativity levels were low, he didn’t have much choice.

“Yes,” Brain confirmed.

But his curt answer wasn’t enough to deter Pinky.

“Cause I was pondering about villains,” Pinky said. “Like Pettigrew. Cause what if I had something that makes me a villain?”

As much as Brain wanted to dismiss the idea of a villainous Pinky due to the sheer absurdity of the concept, he supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility either.

But Pinky as a villain? A mouse who gave up his soul for the sake of Brain’s desires and argued against promoting harmful cigarettes to children?

It was just ludicrous.

“Pinky, you lack many prerequisites for proper villainy,” Brain said. “Except for the dramatics. That’s the only trait you have in common.”

“Oh. Well, I could certainly try,” Pinky replied.

Yes, and someday pigs would evolve and develop flight capabilities.

If he were in a clearer state of mind, he would’ve argued out of obstinance. But right now, it was incredibly early on a Saturday morning and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Discussions on villainy and world domination could wait a few hours.

“If you can prove me wrong, you can select the next restaurant we’ll go to,” Brain yawned.

Pinky rarely got to choose the restaurant, given Brain’s sophisticated palate, but at this point he was willing to try anything to get Pinky off his back.

Then Pinky went from figuratively being on his back to pressing against it, his tail curling around Brain’s. Pinky’s jaw rested against the back of Brain’s head. The added pressure released a tenseness around Brain’s shoulders, one that he’d been previously unaware of.

“Denny’s,” Pinky murmured, nuzzling the back of Brain’s ear. The sensitive appendage flicked. Nobody was around to witness that involuntary reflex, so Brain let it pass. “A Grand Slam with pancakes and syrup and bacon n’ eggs…”

Within seconds, Pinky was out like a light. He wouldn’t remember this conversation, too busy thinking with his stomach instead of properly pondering with that fluffball of a mind.

With Pinky’s warm fur against his back and soft narfs against his ear, Brain’s thoughts gently trickled away and yielded to peaceful sleep.

o-o-o-o-o

Though it was probably noon by now, Brain still didn’t want to open his eyes. Why bother? No scientists to pester them, no leftover plans or materials to hide away so they wouldn’t be discovered, no tedious mazes to run on Saturday.

Pinky had gotten up sometime before him, and the space beside him was empty, giving Brain room to stretch out in whatever way he liked.

Then he heard a harsh scraping noise, like someone was dragging something heavy across the counter. That wasn’t unusual for Pinky if an object caught his short attention span for some inane reason.

However, there was also the sound of laughter accompanying the noise. Pinky was giggly and bubbly to a fault, but this brand of laughter was different.

Almost malevolent.

A chill ran up his spine, but Brain ignored the feeling. Pinky’s evil laugh was still firmly in Saturday morning cartoon villain territory, he told himself.

Even if he sounded a little too good at being evil.

Apparently, Pinky had remembered the bet after all.

Brain slowly opened his eyes, about to find Pinky and tell him to knock it off, only to find that it was much darker than it should be for daytime. But it wasn’t dark enough to impede his vision. When he looked up, he found a sheet had been pulled over the entire cage. He couldn’t see anything outside the cage.

Pinky being secretive would surely spell disaster. And it hadn’t been there last night, so Pinky was the only culprit.

The wheel stood empty, a fresh oil can beside it. Brain rubbed his eyes, partly to wake himself up and partly out of disbelief. He was normally a light sleeper, but if he hadn’t heard Pinky maintain his wheel at all, then he must’ve had a deeper sleep than he thought.

He climbed out of bed and marched towards the unlatched cage door, though the corner of the sheet was pulled over it. He would’ve swept it aside, but an unopened cup of Rice Krispies with a half-empty bottle of milk, napkin, and spoon conspicuously placed next to the door gave him pause from leaving the cage.

His stomach growled.

“Well played, Pinky,” Brain admitted. A breakfast barricade to delay him? It was rather creative, not that he’d ever let Pinky know.

The Rice Krispies made satisfactory snap, crackle, and pop noises as Brain poured the milk inside. Then he scarfed down the cereal, half-expecting Pinky to come in and drag him outside for whatever he planned.

But Pinky seemed content to let him eat first.

Once he finished eating, he dragged the empty cereal cup and milk bottle behind him. But even his simple two-step plan of throwing his current load into the garbage and finding Pinky were laid to waste the moment he set foot outside the cage.

For Pinky had unleashed his inner interior designer and completely transformed the room in such a short timeframe.

Large, sweeping blackout curtains covered the windows, even the skylight. According to the digital clock atop the TV, it was 12:30 in the afternoon. But if Brain didn’t know any better, he would’ve believed it was midnight.

No wonder he’d been so inclined to sleep in.

Long strands of Christmas lights hung on each dark blue wall, which was otherwise untransformed. Other than the digital clock, they were the only available light source. But rather than their usual festive association, the unblinking reds, greens, and blues lent a rather ominous, otherworldly quality to the room.

Brain dispelled the fear. It was irrational when he’d traversed the dark lab at night a million times before.

Perhaps he was focusing too hard on dumping the leftover milk into the sink. With absolute concentration, he pushed the empty cup and bottle over the counter’s edge and into the garbage can below.

As he backed away from the edge, he saw a large mixing bowl with a stepladder set by it. Wisps of steam rose from the inside of the bowl. This must’ve been the source of the scraping sound he’d heard earlier. Curious, Brain climbed the stepladder and peered inside.

It was just warm water though.

He tried not to feel too disappointed. But even if it was mundane right now, surely it had to be here for a reason, right?

Or Pinky didn’t have any reason at all and he just wanted to fill a mixing bowl with boiled water. Both options were possibilities.

As he continued his search for Pinky, he walked past rows upon rows of test tubes filled with brightly colored substances. Electric green, dreadful purple, deceptively calm cerulean…

He wasn’t sure what kind of chemistry experiments they were running, but he wished someone had enough sense to label the test tubes.

Beakers and tubing distorted his reflection, a prickling sensation traveling down his spine and forcing his fur to stand on end. He smoothed it down so he didn’t bear a passing resemblance to a cotton ball. The slightly colder than normal temperature wasn’t helping.

The distortion was simply a natural refraction of light passing through liquids. That’s all. There was no reason to get worked up over natural phenomena.

That didn’t stop him from leaping back when a wide, smiling human face suddenly appeared as he navigated a sea of flasks.

His heart threatened to leap out of his chest, his breaths growing heavier.

There weren’t any humans in the lab right now, he reminded himself. And the smiling face was frozen and unmoving. It wasn’t real.

Brain cautiously poked his head around the flask, keeping it as a buffer between himself and the unknown threat.

Against the wall, several of Pinky’s Barbie and Ken dolls sat in a row. The one whose face appeared on the flask was on the far left, her blonde hair in a ponytail. All of the dolls were in colorful swimwear. One of the Ken dolls had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head.

The dolls were normal. No creepy alterations or missing body parts.

But as Brain approached and inspected the dolls closely, their positioning seemed...odd.

Yes, their plastic visages displayed smiles as if they were en route to a Miami beach party, but their arms were stretched above their heads or out to the sides in warning. Their legs laid flat against the ground. Duct tape trapped their legs to the ground and wrapped against their torsos, sticking them firmly to the wall and preventing them from falling over.

An interesting choice for decor, to say the least.

But enough was enough. Time to find Pinky and force a coherent explanation out of him.

One of the Barbie's arm pointed to the back of the room, so Brain followed her instruction. It led him straight to Pinky’s dollhouse, and Brain cursed himself for being so taken in with the environment that he’d neglected to check one of Pinky’s favorite toys.

The pink plastic door was wide open, a deadly invitation into danger. Brain’s ears pricked as a song floated through the air.

“Things are working out according to my ultimate design,

Soon I’ll have that little rodent and the planet shall be mine!”

The melody was accompanied by a sinister cackle.

Brain wanted to barge in and demand Pinky to cease his foolishness immediately, but his fingers curled against the doorframe instead, urging him to heed caution.

“I can hear you!” Pinky singsonged from behind a section of dollhouse that was curtained off with jingling Mardi Gras beads. “Won’t you come inside so we can talk properly?”

Brain rolled his eyes, sweeping the bead curtain away. “Pinky, I’m aware of our deal, but this is rather excess-”

Then his mind registered the scene that lay before him.

Pinky perched on a stool in front of a mirror as he applied a red coating of lipstick. That wasn’t unusual for him.

But he was also clad in a backless floor-length dress with thigh-high slits. The dress was dark as night, leaving his shoulders and arms exposed. His fur was dyed a light lavender, save for his messy white tuft, which was gelled so that it stood straight up.

A small seashell necklace sat just above the low cut dress, purple earrings hanging from each ear. Pinky didn’t turn around, blinking coyly at Brain in his reflection, which sported heavy blue eyeshadow.

He set the lipstick down, and Brain stared at the enchanting movement of manicured, polished red nails as deft fingers picked up a small brush and dipped it into a makeup kit. Then Pinky applied a beauty mark next to his lips.

The next thing out of Brain’s mouth was a very intelligent ‘um’.

“You shouldn’t lurk in doorways,” Pinky purred, his voice low and sultry. “It’s very rude. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”

She didn’t have time to teach him a lot of things, given his kidnapping at an early age, but that wasn’t the point.

“Why in Ptolemy’s name are you Ursula out of all villains?” Brain asked, once his voice came back.

At least it explained why Pinky had redecorated the room to resemble an underwater cavern that doubled as a villainous lair. It was an excellent use of space.

And the Barbies and Kens...those were the stand-ins for the helpless sea polyps.

Pinky must’ve been deriving a lot of satisfaction at seeing that realization dawn on Brain.

“Why not?” Pinky shrugged. He puckered his lips and kissed his reflection, leaving a red lip-shaped mark behind. “Besides...isn’t there something you’re after? Something you want oh so very much, but haven’t been able to get?”

Brain scowled. “You know perfectly well that I’m trying to rule the world, Pinky.”

Pinky snapped his fingers. “And that’s what I can help you with! The only way to get what you want...is to become a human yourself.”

Well, he’d never considered that before in the pursuit of world domination. There was something about manipulating his genetic code and changing his species that didn’t sit well with him, even though he detested the challenges that came with being a lowly lab mouse.

But it made sense.

Humans only respected humans. Becoming a member of the dominant species would be an asset for sure!

But Pinky didn’t have the means to make that happen...right?

“You don’t know how to manipulate mouse DNA into a human one,” Brain said.

“Oh my dear, sweet Brain,” Pinky crooned as he stood up, slinking over to Brain. Brain crossed his arms, forcing himself to stare Pinky straight in the eye and not show any signs of yielding. He made a point out of not watching those sashaying hips and tail. “Helping poor, unfortunate mice like yourself is my one passion in life! Why, without it, I’ll have to slink away and become a crazy cat lady! And then who will those poor souls turn to?”

“A glass of alcohol, I presume,” Brain replied.

Pinky’s tail came to rest around Brain’s shoulders. The tip tickled Brain’s nose, and he held it away from his face as Pinky pulled him out of the dollhouse and back to the tied up Barbie and Ken dolls. “Maybe, maybe...but a real person they can lean on, I mean. One that knows a little...magic.”

He flicked his finger at a beaker filled with a lavender substance. The beaker sailed through the air, dumping its contents into the mixing bowl. A purple haze rose from the bowl.

“That’s telepathy, not-”

Pinky gently pressed a finger to Brain’s mouth to hush him. “Oh, ye of little faith,” he scolded. “It’s true that I did some rather — how would you phrase this gently — unsavory things before. But I’ve repented! Turned over a new leaf! Seen the light! And now I use my talents for those lonely and miserable enough to seek my services.”

Then Pinky moved away from Brain, flicking his tail against Brain’s nose to direct his attention to the wall. Pinky wrapped his arm around the Barbie with a red polka-dotted bikini. “You see, Barbie here grew up where she didn’t have much opportunity. Poor girl had to work two jobs to make ends meet, and hardly a cent to show for it! So I offered her a chance to get away from it all...and she took it.”

Brain gulped as Pinky moved onto the Ken doll next to Barbie. He was awfully convincing, even when the subject in question was inanimate. Pinky played with the ascot around Ken’s neck. “And this young man? Well, he wasn’t having much luck with the ladies. So I gave him a few pointers, maybe a knickknack or two to help speed things along. However…”

Pinky indicated the tape that bound the dolls to the wall. “I wouldn’t worry about this too much, since you’re a mouse of your word, but sometimes...they couldn’t pay me back in time. So I found a different way to collect their debt.”

“Yes, I’m sure you have much to gain from restraining children’s toys,” Brain said, tilting his head up to hide his uneasiness.

They looked less marketable and more like hapless victims wallowing in despair, despite their smiling faces. He chalked it up to the wall’s resemblance to a dimly lit marine cave.

“Oh, I get some odd complaints every now and then,” Pinky shrugged. “But alas, that’s what happens in this business.”

He plucked a purple sash from Barbie and wrapped it around his head, fluttering his eyelashes innocently.

Not that he was fooling Brain.

But he didn’t have time to process that nonverbal gesture, for Pinky threw the sash around Brain, his tail looping around Brain’s waist. With the sash locking his arms against his sides, he was helplessly corralled to the mixing bowl. He dug his feet into the surface beneath him, but it was no use. Pinky was far stronger than he.

In physical terms of course. He tried to keep his eyes on Pinky’s face and not his...well, he was a male mouse...he didn’t have...unless he padded...

Stop, Brain.

A finger slipped under Brain’s chin, tilting his head up. “Not to worry,” Pinky purred, and the room suddenly went from cold to sweltering. “I have your solution right here.”

To emphasize his point, blue and green test tubes poured their contents into the bowl. The colors melded together, the resulting haze forming a rough image of the world.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll make a potion that can turn you into a human for three days,” Pinky declared, dragging his finger along Brain’s chin. Now that Pinky’s grip had loosened, Brain ripped the sash out of Pinky’s hands and threw it aside.

The stroke of Pinky’s finger along Brain’s fur was enticing, and he pushed it away exactly for that reason.

“Before sunset on the third day, you’ve got to find someone of royal blood,” Pinky said. A golden liquid swirled out of a beaker and formed a crown in the center of the world. It was an image of which Brain had dreamed of for so long. He tried to touch it, but it was far out of reach for him. “Then this charming person has to fall in love with you.”

That sounded...feasible. Three days was a rather generous deadline. Most of the time, they were on a time crunch between eight to twelve hours.

Pinky produced a pink felt heart and held it between two fingers. “Then you have to seal your love with a kiss. And not just any old peck on the cheek, but a kiss of true love.”

A what?

Brain huffed. Of course this plan would have such a ridiculous stipulation. He’d gotten his hopes up for nothing.

...and why was he treating this like it was real?

Because Pinky.

Yes, that was the only explanation. And not even a rational one.

“Oh dear, don’t pout so,” Pinky smirked. The expression was fogging up Brain’s mind. “What else is there to seal amour but with true love’s kiss? It’s a tried and true method, after all.”

He chuckled at his own joke. Brain rolled his eyes.

“If this certain someone kisses you by sunset on the third day, you’ll have the world permanently. But if they don’t, you turn back into a mouse.”

Pinky tossed the felt heart into the mixing bowl, the solution emitting a pink puff of smoke.

“And you belong to me.”

A dangerous edge crept into Pinky’s tone as he whispered into Brain’s ear, and the appendage fluttered uncontrollably until Brain forcefully snatched it to cease its movement.

Pinky tossed a hair tie, penny, and eraser nub into the mixing bowl, then leaned against a long pencil case as he awaited Brain’s reply.

“Suppose I agree to your deal. What then?” Brain asked.

“Well, there’s the matter of payment,” Pinky admitted. He stretched his lower limbs and tail as he rolled onto his stomach, exposing his long lavender-dyed legs. Brain tried not to watch the motion too closely for fear of hypnotism. “If you want something so badly, something of equal value has to be given. Equivalent exchange, as they say.”

“And what exactly do you want?” Brain asked, though he knew the answer.

He’d seen the movie.

“Your voice.”

Pinky’s smile was too wide and manic for Brain’s comfort.

“In other words...” Pinky hummed as he leaned forward, his nose was just an inch away from Brain. “...no more talking, singing, zip!”

He popped the consonant and mimed zipping his mouth, throwing away an invisible key.

It was so warm that Brain couldn’t feel his face.

“Now, now. Don’t be alarmed, Brain.” Pinky stretched luxuriously as he stood up. His tail slinked around Brain’s waist again. “You have your pretty face. And you shouldn’t underestimate the importance of...body language.”

Pinky’s hip bumped into Brain’s, his leg sliding all the way out of the slit of his dress. He batted his eyelashes and blew a kiss to an invisible audience.

Brain covered his face, ears flat against his back. He was fine. Just had to think about...something. What was he trying to picture exactly?

No mathematical formula could save him from the horror that was stupid, sexy Pinky. Curse those mathematical miscreants! They abandoned him in his time of need!

Pinky climbed up and down the stepladder, tossing chemicals and liquids and all sorts of things inside. The bowl rocked back and forth dangerously, bubbles spilling down the sides.

Brain didn’t dare get close. The inside of the bowl surely were an unholy abomination.

But that didn’t stop Pinky.

“Now a dash of zort, a sprinkle of poit! Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble! Fire burn and cauldron bubble!” Pinky cackled, throwing his arms up in the air. “Abracadabra troz! Bibbidi bobbidi narf!”

The mixture now to his satisfaction, Pinky flicked his finger at a notepad and pen, sending them hurtling towards Brain.

“Just sign on the dotted line, you poor unfortunate soul,” Pinky said.

Well...playing along couldn’t hurt. Even when there was a biohazard right in front of him.

And no, the bowl’s contents weren’t the biohazard here.

Brain took a deep breath and signed his name.

The moment he finished, the notepad and pen flew out of his hands and into the bowl.

Pinky wiggled his fingers over the bowl, green smoke rising to the ceiling and seeping past the edges of the blackout curtains to the outside. No smoke detectors went off, though Brain wasn’t surprised. ACME was rather lax on safety protocols.

“Beluga sevruga, come winds of the Caspian Sea!

Larengix glaucitis

Et max laryngitis

La voce to me!”

With a wide grin that spread from ear to ear, Pinky climbed down the stepladder and placed one hand on his seashell necklace, the other tickling the base of Brain’s neck. Brain ducked his head instinctively to stop the ticklish sensation, trapping Pinky’s hand under his jaw.

“Now sing.”

It was rare that Pinky commanded. Brain hated taking orders, yet something compelled him to obey.

Those coy blue eyes demanded, so Brain willingly gave.

And he sang.

Though he was hoarse from surprise at first, Pinky’s finger traced the outline of his neck, up his chin, to the corner of his mouth. Brain imagined his voice growing stronger...could see his voice taking physical form, flowing out of him and into Pinky’s seashell necklace.

Pinky doubled over in laughter as an explosion rocked the counter. The bowl sparked and smoked, its base clattering against the surface with loud metallic bangs.

Brain broke out of his trance as a sludge-like wave with various melted objects slithered down the rim, creeping ever closer.

He wasn’t taking any chances.

Grabbing his maniacally howling companion by the arm, Brain quickly bopped him over the head to halt the laughter, then dragged him over to the window for a quick escape. Pinky recovered from the bop and shimmied past the blackout curtain. Brain took a moment to collect the ACME credit card he’d pilfered from an employee several weeks ago, then followed Pinky onto the windowsill.

Pinky jumped first, safely landing in the bushes below. Holding the credit card above his head, which was no easy feat since the card was about the same size as him, Brain jumped as an explosion rocked the building, and his ears flattened instinctively to shield him from the worst of the noise.

As predicted, he landed in Pinky’s arms.

And it was somewhat mortifying now that Pinky’s eyes had gone from coy to blindingly innocent, even with the heavy eyeshadow. Shoving the card between himself and Pinky’s face, Brain climbed out of his arms.

“Narf! So how’d I do, Brain?” Pinky asked. “Was I convincing?”

Brain dusted off a bit of lavender dye that had rubbed onto his arm. He hoped it was fur-friendly. “You created a dangerous biohazard, toyed with my perception of reality, and overall you were a flirtatious nuisance.”

Pinky’s tail stopped wagging.

“So yes. You were indeed a convincing villain,” Brain said. He tapped the credit card. “And to fulfill the conditions of our original deal, I shall now treat you to Denny’s.”

He was a mouse of his word.

“Hoorah!” Pinky cheered. He twirled around in excitement, his black dress swirling around him as he danced all the way to the sidewalk. “Let’s go, Brain! I wanna look at all the lovely pictures on their menu!”

“You’re going like that?” Brain called after him. Didn’t he want to change out of the Disney villainess ensemble?

“Well you’re naked! So there!” Pinky stuck his tongue out at him.

With a sigh, Brain joined his companion on the sidewalk. Pinky skipped over to a patch of white flowers blooming next to the sidewalk, gently cupping the petals and cooing at a ladybug which landed on a blade of grass next to his foot.

Truly a convincing villain.

And Brain’s poor unfortunate soul was helpless under his power.

End AN: I deny selecting Poor Unfortunate Souls over other villain songs specifically for the body language line. You can’t prove anything.

I HC that Brain would hate Pettigrew more than any other Harry Potter character. I was trying to write a villainous Pinky...somewhere along the way he turned into Pinky Suavo. I don’t get it either XD

There's some folks taking care of the biohazard the mice left behind. Don't worry, the lab's still standing. It's just their problem while the mice get Denny's.

#patb disney #patb fanfiction #pinky and the brain

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gayenerd · 4 years ago

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An interview with music journalist Paul Zollo. I believe this is from 2000. I’m a sucker for Billie Joe talking about his songwriting process.

By PAUL ZOLLO

SEVEN STORIES ABOVE THE SUNSET STRIP in Hollywood is the Chateau Marmont, an old hotel rife with the ghosts and scandals of Hollywood’s recent and not-so-recent past. Famous for the elegant, old-world discretion it affords all its guests, for decades it’s been a safe harbor for stars seeking to circumvent the squall of media surveillance. It’s where John Belushi died, sadly, back in bungalow three, and where Jim Morrison wrecked his back by swinging Tarzan-like from the roof, using a drain pipe as a vine. Every star, it seems, from Chaplin and Bogart to Dylan and Lennon have hidden out here while in Hollywood. “If you must get in trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont,” Harry Cohn, the first boss of Columbia Studios, once told William Holden.

So it’s an appropriate setting for Billie Joe Armstrong, the lead singer, songwriter and guitarist of Green Day, to be holding court. Armstrong and the band are no strangers to scandal – they’re the ones who started a mudfight that bordered on insurrection at Woodstock II; they’ve been outspoken about their fondness for drugs and alcohol; they’ve been especially harsh in their expressions of scorn for many other bands; and they’ve frequently “redecorated” hotel suites, bars and Tower Records stores alike with a flair for creative demolition that brings to mind the heady decadence of the Doors and others.

In fact, parallels between Armstrong and Jim Morrison abound. Like the leader of the Doors, Billie Joe is the creative catalyst of his group, but only writes within the fold of his fellow musicians. Like Morrison, Armstrong has been known to walk on the razor’s edge of life, bringing an authentic, expansive passion to every song he sings. He’s also been known to match his inclination to strip his soul bare in song by taking off his clothes in concert. The difference is that when Jim Morrison did it, all hell broke loose, the country was shocked and the singer was arrested. But when Billie Joe does it, he gets acknowledged on the MTV news, Kurt Loder smirks, and that’s about that. Being shocking these days is just not like it used to be.

‘It’s something unpredictable,

But in the end is right

I hope you had the time of your life.”

From “Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)”

By GREEN DAY

Few things seemed more unpredictable than the thought that Green Day would have a Number One hit with a pretty ballad of all things. Even more unlikely would be that the song, officially entitled “Good Riddance” but better known as “Time Of Your Life,” would become as ubiquitous in the American consciousness as the Star Wars theme. Used on “Seinfeld,” two episodes of “E.R.,” and extraneous sporting events (as when Mark MacGuire became the king of baseball’s home-run derby), Green Day’s ballad quickly became more famous than Green Day itself.

“Good Riddance” now stands alongside Springsteen’s “Born In The USA”, Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” and Sting’s “Every Breath You Take,” as one of the nation’s most misappropriated hit singles. Like all of those songs, which are much darker if you examine their core than the mainstream ever seemed to recognize, “Good Riddance” actually comes closer to condemnation than the kind of nostalgic celebration for which it’s been used:

“Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial

For what it’s worth, it was worth all the while

I hope you had the time of your life. “

From “Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)”

By GREEN DAY

Though Green Day’s presence on the world stage shifted from popular to astronomical because of this song, many of their old fans felt alienated by their secret heroes’ injection into the mainstream. “[`Time of Your Life’] was a drastic change for us to record,” Billie Joe said. “We knew that there were going to be some people that weren’t going to like it because it’s not a 1-2-3-4-Let’s-go-punk-rock tune. Mike [Dirnt] said, `This is a real beautiful song, who cares what people think?’ So we just went for it. Long term thinking, you know. Punk is not just the sound, the music. Punk is a life-style. We’re just as much punk as we used to be.”

Of course, definitions flow fast and fluid, as purveyors of punk, such as Armstrong, play along the borders of pop. “A lot of punk rock bands are always trying to be so hard all of the time,” he said. “Macho brutality doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a good songwriter. I think that some of the Beatles’ songs are way more punk rock than most punk songs written today. Like the song `Yesterday.’ It’s such a bittersweet song. “

Billie Joe was born in 1972 and grew up in Rodeo, a little Californian town just outside of Berkeley. His father and uncle were both jazz drummers. “I was a guitarist in a house of drummers,” he said. His father died when he was ten, the same year he met a neighbor named Mike Pritchard who shared his passion for making music. Together they decided to drop out of high school to start a band, which they called Sweet Children. It was a decision Billie’s mother encouraged. “My mom sort of let me do whatever I wanted,” he said. “When I quit school, she thought that was a good idea because I was really ambitious to play. So I started touring when I was seventeen.”

Pritchard changed his name to Mike Dirnt, Tre Cool replaced Al Sobrante as official drummer, and they called themselves Green Day, a Bay-area euphemism for a day spent smoking pot. Their first release was an indie EP called 1000 Hours, after which they signed with Lookout Records to make 39/Smooth and Kerplunk. In 1994 they ascended to the major leagues, signing with Reprise, and released Dookie. They soon became an MTV mainstay, and their mudstorm performance that year at Woodstock cemented their reputation as a band on the edge. Three more singles followed, as did sales of more than eight million albums worldwide, and a Grammy Award for Best Alternative Music Performance.

Insomniac was released in the fall of ’95, but instead of going on a European tour as planned to launch it, they elected instead to stay home and write and record more songs. The result was the most popular, and most critically acclaimed album of their career, Nimrod, which included “Time Of Your Life.”

Warning was the new album at the time of this interview, and the impetus for Billie to talk. Inspired by the rich lyricism of Springsteen’s The River and Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home, Green Day went away for a while to write and play the songs before recording them. It’s their first self-produced and most sonically adventurous album to date, blending layers of acoustic guitars in with the electrics, and with some unexpected detours, such as the German beer-hall stomp of “Misery,” and the Clash-meets-Kinks pop-punk of the title song.

“Caution police sign you’d better not cross

Is the cop or am I the one that’s really dangerous?

Sanitation expiration date question everything

Or shut up and be a victim of authority

Warning, live without warning…”

From “Warning”

By GREEN DAY

Today Billie Joe is ensconced within an overstuffed burgundy couch in his hotel suite. Although he’s drinking coffee from china cups, and eating fresh fruit and croissants from a silver tray, he’s remained loyal to the punk lifestyle, and is wearing a black t-shirt and baggy jeans. Prior to our talk, rather than linger in the luxury of his suite, he ducked down into the hotel’s bleak back stairway for a cigarette. Though he’s undeniably a star of the first degree, he’s uncomfortable with such designations, and shuns all the trappings of stardom. As opposed to the Ferraris and Lamborghinis driven by his peers, an old Ford Fairlane remains his vehicle of choice. He did admit to one extravagance, however, which he revealed somewhat sheepishly. “As soon as I could afford it,” he confessed, “I went out and had it primered.”

BLUERAILROAD: You write all the songs together in the band. Do you start songs on your own and bring them in?

BILLIE JOE ARMSTRONG: Yeah, sometimes. I’ll come up with the song with the chord changes and the lyrics, and then I bring them into practice, and then we sort of restructure them together. I like to come in with a tune. I’ll just play guitar and sing it for them, and then we start to learn it. And as soon as we start to learn it, we can make changes and come up with a different structure. Move the chorus around, make the verse a little longer. That kind of thing. I definitely like to think of it as a collaboration between the three of us.

Do you always change the songs?

Well, we have a lot of songs. There have been some that I have brought in and nothing really needs to be done. Sometimes I’ll suggest a part that needs to be worked with, and we’ll try some different things. And then they’ll write their bass-lines and drum parts around it.

Do you ever have a problem sharing credit on songs you wrote alone?

Well, we’re a band. We’ve been able to stick through a lot of years because the three of us support each other. The songs come from Green Day, and I like to stick by that. We like to just keep things equal in the band, and I think it’s what has made our band healthy over the years. We give each other respect. There is no one who stands out more than the other one in this group. Especially since we’ve known each other for so long.

These days do you write on electric guitar?

No, on acoustic. I have a Silverine Harmony. But it sounds good. I just have it around the house, so I’ve written most of the songs on it.

Do those songs then shift a lot when you bring them to the band, and play them on electric?

No, because I always have it in the back of my head about the dynamics of electric guitar and drums and bass. Between me and Mike and Tre, I always have that dynamic in my head – what am I going to bring to the table that they’re going to be able to play, and which will have our certain energy. I always keep our energy and our music in mind, sort of subconsciously. But I think that’s the beauty of this. That not only can I play these songs with a band at full volume, but also that I can play them on a cheap, acoustic guitar. And it can have the same kind of impact.

“Warning” would work that way.

Yeah, it does. That kind of came all together at the same time. I think lyrics on this record were really important to me, and to have a well-rounded record as far as what kind of topics I wanted to write about, and sing about. That was one of those songs that seemed to just write itself. It just came really naturally.

Is that unusual for you, the feeling that a song writes itself?

Well, I try to go for inspired moments. But if I want to write a song that sounds like it has a pop kind of edge to it, I really want to be able to say something. I have to say something – it’s vital for me. I can’t just write something that would be sugar-coated, and have a pop song with nice lyrics that go along with what everyone is doing on the radio these days. It’s very important for me to have a message that goes along with the writing. So, you know, what comes to mind for me is a song like “The Ballad of John & Yoko,” where [Lennon] had this really nice sounding song. But the lyrics penetrate like a knife. “They’re gonna crucify me…” That’s kind of nice way — nice, I mean, in an oxymoronic sense – to put forward something you want to attack.

You’ve done that in many songs.

Yeah, I think it adds a sort of demented side a little bit, sort of like a clown in a circus. But it also makes the lyrics a lot stronger. If you take a band like Rage Against The Machine, the music is aggressive, and the lyrics are aggressive at the same time. And I love Rage Against The Machine, but sometimes it feels like you getting bombarded by someone’s else’s point of view. The person is not telling you to think, but what to think. And that’s one thing that I really wanted to come across in the music and the lyrics. To think about the world around you, and not what to think, so to speak. And at the same time, to have my opinions coming through at the same time.

Are you always clear about the meaning of a song while writing?

No. That’s hard. I mean, sometimes I’ll have things in the back of my head that I want to write about. But I never want to come across as pretentious or preachy. So I just wait for my thoughts to settle. To a certain extent, you have to be a little self-righteous and I think it’s healthy. Especially when, nowadays, there’s so much stuff that is about decadence. And when it comes to rebellion, a guy who has a Rolex watch and is driving around in a Porsche, talking about that he really wants something to break, I don’t really think of that as rebellion, I think of that just as a decadent rock star.

Do you have any kind of routine for songwriting?

Last record I was just sort of pounding songs. Anytime I had any inkling of an idea of anything at all, I would just grab my guitar and play it and work on it no matter what the song was like. Whether it was inspired or I just got drunk and started playing. But this time I waited for inspired moments. And I think it took me a long time just because of that. I wanted everything to sound refreshing, and something that would make you want to turn it up a little more.

Did you have times when you tried to work and nothing would come?

Oh yeah. You get frustrated. You feel, “Man, I just want to write a fucking song.” And sometimes it’s just not there. And you can’t dwell on that when that happens. You have to just let it go.

I don’t ever want to try to outdo myself. I feel like if you try to outdo yourself from the last thing, instead of just working on your inspiration, I think the music kind of suffers a little bit, sometimes. Sometimes I’ll just get a very general idea about the kind of song I want to write. And I’ll just sort of store it in the back of my mind and see what comes out. It can come out in five minutes, it can come out in five days, five years, five decades.

Are there songs you worked on for years?

Yeah. “Longview” was one that we worked on for years. We knew what we wanted to write about. I told Mike to write a bass line and one day I came home. This is when we lived in the same house. He had just dropped some acid (laughs) and he said, “Listen to this.” And I said, “Okay, I guess it sounds good.” He came up with this bass line that really worked well, so we ended up practicing and came up with the song.

Are there many songs you start that you don’t finish?

Yes. And I’ll just wait for the right time and the right place for it. There are some songs I finish but then I think it’s not right for the record we’re working on. There’s a couple of songs like that off of Nimrod. “Time of My Life” had been written a couple of years before.

That song resounded in enormously with the public. Was it just a fluke, or did you sit down with the intention of writing that kind of song?

Both. I think that anyone can sit down and write a song. Whether or not it’s any good is another thing altogether. You know, there’s no school you can go to that will help you learn how to become a songwriter. But you can sit down and do it. Especially with rock & roll. But to put something down that is actually really great, it does go beyond you a little bit, and sometimes it takes patience.

Do you write all the time?

Yeah. Whether it’s good or bad, I don’t know. Or if it’s appropriate for what kind of idea or sound that we want to get across on the record.

Where do you think the great songs come from?

I don’t know. I really don’t. It comes from somewhere deep down inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. It’s kind of like seeing a shrink or something. (Laughs) There can be a lot of anger, or sadness, or joy, that you had but you didn’t even know you really had – but it can all come out. You feel a connection with it, and so other people can, too. You strike a nerve.

Does songwriting get easier the more you do it?

I think so. I think you definitely learn more as you go. I think you find new ways to motivate yourself. You test yourself a little bit more and see what comes about. And you challenge yourself in new ways to see what comes out. You learn new ways to get the engines going. But whether or not it does get easier, it’s what I do. And I love doing it.

#'I don’t ever want to try to outdo myself'#HE'S SUCH A FUCKING LIAR #at least he knows the music suffers from it #BUT HE'S A GODDAMN LIAR #article #articles #interview #billie joe armstrong

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laurendone120 · 4 years ago

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Heal

Summary: Reader has healing powers, but one day on a mission, she overuses them.

Warnings: Angst, fluffy ending, passing out, mentions of anxiety, some cuss words, mentions of nudity (not smut)

Ship: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Platonic!Steve x Reader, Platonic!Sam x Reader.

AN: Not gonna lie, I’ve already written this fanfiction twice, but my computer didn’t save it. So sorry it’s late.

Y/N’s POV

You were an Avenger, kind of. You have healing powers, and before that you were a well-trained doctor. You had been an Avenger for a couple of years now, and while every Avenger had to complete grueling physical training to be on the team officiaily, you were much more of a lover than a fighter. On missions you would stay behind in case something went wrong, which happened more than you would think.

This mission was meant to be hard, that is why Steve, Sam, Bucky, Natasha and Clint went. You and Bruce normally would stay behind. Being the teams to main doctors had you two work close together, so you were great friends. He would stay with you on the plane in case there was a code Green. You and him would like to play little games with each other to pass the time.

But not this time. The stakes were high on this mission, having some of your best friends and your boyfriend on it. You and Bruce both have had trouble with anxiety in the past, and this was not one of the missions to be joking around.

For 20 minutes you sat in the jet waiting for the worst. This was not the fun part of your job, just waiting. But 20 minutes in you got the call.

“I’m sending Sam back. He has been shot.” You hear Steve’s out of breath, but still calm voice says. The calm in his voice calmed you down a bit, knowing that it wasn’t bad, or at least that he trusted you to heal him.

About a minute later, Sam stumbled in. Bruce was still setting up the stretcher, which was mainly used for naps, so you helped Sam up. You gently laid him on the stretcher, quickly going into doctor mode.

“He was shot in the stomach. There is no exit wound.” You mumble to Bruce.

Your power has its limitations. For example, if someone broke a bone, the bone would have to be set back in pace before you could heal it. If not, the bone would be healed weird, and ultimately cause more problems. In this case, bullet holes, the bullet would have to be taken out before you could heal him, because otherwise, you would heal around the bullet, keeping the bullet inside. So, when this happened, Bruce would work on taking out the bullet.

While you were a great doctor, and for sure could be a big help to Bruce, it was easier to slowly heal Sam, not enough so that Bruce couldn’t work, but enough to take his pain away. It was just faster and more productive than waiting on pain medicine to kick in or than to just knock him out altogether.

Bruce had cut his uniform around the hole, giving him plenty of room to work. You gently place your hands just above Sam, just hovering over the wound, before you started to heal, you then after a moment spread your hands apart, giving room for Bruce to work.

You heard Sam gasp at the feeling, but you weren’t listening to him, instead just focusing on your moments, and not using to little or too much of your powers on him. You also were focusing on your breathing, in for five, out for five. It was an easy thing to put extra concentration on, and it made sure that you were breathing properly, which was something that you used to do on accident.

Soon enough, Bruce was done, and started to clean up, so as soon as he pulled the bullet out, you got to work. You quickly moved your hands fully over the wound and started to heal. Sam gasped at the slight pulling sensation, before relaxing.

Sometimes when you healed, it was nice to visualize what you were doing. Just regenerated all of the cells, and almost forcing mitosis. You could feel the slight headache from your powers growing, but you ignored it, instead just focusing on Sam.

You were almost done just some three minutes later. You healed the top layer of skin before stepping back slightly, making sure that he was fine. Once you were one hundred percent sure he was fine, everything hit you at once. When you healed, you were using your energy, so it always took a toll on you.

You fell down. You don’t know how long you were sitting there, trying to catch your breath, before a hand reached down. After a moment you took Sam’s hand, and walked over to the bench against the wall. You heard Sam’s thank you’s, on the way over, before waving your hand as if to say don’t mention it.

You sat down, leaning your head against the walk, doing nothing. At one point you started to hum, prompting Sam to chuckle. Healing always left you tired, but you always tried to stay awake. Bucky had always told you that you always could fall asleep, and no one would care, but you always felt weird making someone, usually Bucky, carry you up to your room after a mission. So, you always tried to stay awake, even though your effort only works part of the time.

Sam sat with you the entire time. He wasn’t allowed to go back, no one was after you healed them. After you healed someone they were left with a whole bunch of excess energy, they are just wound up with adrenaline for days, that could make them prone to making reckless decisions in the field, so it was protocol for them to stay on the jet for an hour, unless absolutely necessary.

After a bit, you could feel your energy returning. A bullet wound isn’t the most extraneous thing to manage, so you weren’t completely exhausted. You could fully pay attention to your surroundings, and you could listen and comprehend what was going on, even on the other side of your coms.

Sometime later, you heard Steve’s voice again. “Y/N, Bruce, I’m coming back.”

“Why.” You heard Clint voice. “We aren’t done yet.”

After a moment of silence, Bucky spoke up. “What did you do?”

Sam stiffled a laugh next to you at the tone in Bucky’s voice.

“What happened Steve?” You ask, a bit nicer than Bucky’s previous words.

“I may or may not have gotten stabbed,” Steve said, voice getting smaller as he went on, “Twice.”

His words caused multiple curse words to come from various people’s mouths.

“Where are you?” Bucky asked, being the closest one to him.

“I’m fine, I swear, you should see the other guy.” Steve tried to joke. No one believed him, not about the other guy, but him being fine, you could hear the slur in his voice slightly through the coms, he was not fine.

“Where are you?” Bucky asked again.

Steve sighed before answering, “Hallway B.”

“I’m not too far from there, don’t move.”

Everyone could tell when Bucky reached him. Everyone could hear him cursing out Steve, the other guy, the universe, whoever when he saw him. It didn’t do much to calm your nerves.

“We are going to come back later, or get someone else to finish, we are going home.” You hear Steve say.

On the way back you heard Steve’s many failed attempts at saying that he was in fact fine, only to be proven wrong by Bucky. At this point all exhaustion had dissipated. You were too worried about him to be tired. Your headache was still there, but that wasn’t stopping you.

Soon enough, Bucky came back with a weak Steve strung on his shoulders. The stretcher was already set up, so he laid him on it. Natasha and Clint had already made it back, both of them now in the cockpit, ready to take off.

You quickly scan over him, locating the two stab wounds. “How did you manage to get stabbed in the shoulder?” You jokingly ask, mentally prepping yourself.

“I don’t know, can you just fix it.” Steve quietly said.

You nod, before hovering your hands over the wound on his shoulder. Steve gasped at the feeling; never getting over the way it feels. You concentrate on regenerating everything, the muscle, tissue, everything injured. The headache only increased, and you made a slight noise at the umcomfort. Stab wounds were normally more difficult, because normally the knife or whatever was used doesn’t come cleanly out. You felt something wet drip down your face, but you don’t pay attention to it, instead focusing on your breathing and the wound. You think you hear movement behind you, but your ears are ringing, so it’s hard to tell.

After a couple of minutes, the wound is completely healed. Both of your hands fall to the stretcher bar closest to you, using it as your main support so you can continue. You wipe whatever the wet substance was, only to find that you nose was bleeding. You hear both Steve and Bucky talking, but you don’t hear what they are saying.

After a moment, Steve tried to sit up, before failing, and you snapped back into your thoughts. You again hover your hands over the other stab wound, and you start to restore the cells underneath. You focus on mending the cells beneath your fingertips.

At one point, you realize that you had forgot to breathe, causing you to gasp all of a sudden, before you remember that you actively have to focus on your breathing.

It takes longer then normal for your exhausted form to heal him, but you do. Finally healing the skin on top, you step back. He sits up and allows you to search his face for any evidence of pain. Once you find none, you allow exhaustion to take over. All of the adrenaline dissipates, and you fall.

Bucky’s POV

You slowly drag Steve’s body up the ramp of the jet, quickly locating the stretcher, and laying him down. You step back, allowing your girlfriend to heal him. She doesn’t look as tired as she normally does after she already healed someone. Originally, you were a little worried that she would be able to heal both Sam and Steve, but you learned a long time ago not to underestimate her.

“How did you manage to get stabbed in the shoulder?” You hear Y/N asking almost mockingly, you and Bruce chuckling softly.

“I don’t know, can you just fix it.” Steve asked in surrender.

Y/N nods before bringing her hands up and over his wound. Once he gasped you know she has started. In the small space between her hands and his body, everything was disoriented, almost like when you look at something above a fire and everything looks to be moving slightly. After about a minute she moans very quietly in discomfort. You look at her face, seeing her concentrate heavily on the wound. That’s when her nose starts to bleed. But she doesn’t even notice, telling you that she has already used a lot of her powers already. You step around to the same side as the stretcher that she is on, ready to catch her is she falls, which happens frequently.

Once she is done, both of her hands fall to the stretcher. She doesn’t look all there, seemingly lost in space. She brings her hand up and wipes her nose, finding the blood. “

“You really don’t have to.” Steve lies.

“Doll, are you sure?” You ask, but she doesn’t hear either of you.

Steve tries to sit up, only before groaning in discomfort and falling back down. Once he was laying back down, her hands come up again. Steve gasps again at the sensation. Her face pales as her nose starts to bleed again, only causing you to worry more. Bruce also clearly gets more worried behind you.

About 30 seconds in, both you and Y/N realize that she isn’t breathing, and she gasps. You and Steve share a look of worry. But she is still going strong, and you have to remind yourself never you estimate her, as she has reminded you so many times before. You take a deep calming breath before looking back at her. The blood has reached her chin now.

After a couple of minutes, Steve is completely renewed. He looks at Bruce making sure he is fine to sit up, before doing so. She stares at him, making sure he is fine, before her knees give out.

You catch her easily, having expected her to fall, but you see that she has completely fainted. You nod for Steve to move, him quickly moving off the stricter so you can place her on it. Bruce steps up,

“FRIDAY, what happened?”

“She appears to have fainted as a result of overusing her powers, sir. She should be fine with lots of sleep.” She politely says.

“Would you alert me if anything changes?”

“Of course.”

“You good?” Bruce asks Steve. Steve nods before swallowing. Bruce then steps away, looking for something.

Bruce comes back about a minute later with a wet washcloth. “Can you get her to sit up?” He asks. You go around the table, closer to her head, lifting her shoulders up. She barely stirs. You sit on the edge, bringing her upper body closer to you, so she is resting on your chest.

Bruce steps forward again with the washcloth and wipes the blood from her nose. He makes sure the skin is dry, before stepping back again.

You lay her back down, anxiously waiting for her to wake up.

“How long until we get back FRIDAY?” Steve asks from the other side of her.

“About an hour sir. Would you like me to request Clint go faster?”

“Sure.”

About ten minutes later, she starts to stir. Her eyes open, squinting at first because of the light. Once adjusted, she darts her eyes across the room in search of some answer to the questions she can’t fully form.

“Hey,” You whisper gently, her eyes now finding yours and smiling slightly.

“You passed out when healing Steve.” You briefly explain, her eyes now going to Steve. “He’s fine, but you need rest.”

She barely nods her head, before drifting off again. She wouldn’t wake up again for another 14 hours.

Y/N’s POV

You wake up in something soft. Your head is blissful mush, it’s hard to form thoughts, but you don’t care. After a bit, you somehow realize that you weren’t falling back asleep, so you peek open your eyes. You squint at how bright it is, and burry your head in the nearest thing it could find. Something cold and firm reaches down and touches you gently, something metal you brain finally puts together.

“Y/N?” You hear someone faintly ask. It takes a good moment to remember that it’s talking to you. You nod your head, not enough to reveal your eyes to the bright light intruding on your sleep.

“You okay?” The voice asks again. Wait why would you not be okay? You realize that it’s Bucky next to you, but not much else. A dull headache is blossoming from the thinking, and honestly you just wish you could go back asleep.

But you not answering must have worried Bucky, because he moved slightly underneath you, letting you know that it was him you buried your face in. His metal hand runs his fingers through your hair, almost like he knew you had a headache.

“Hey.” He calls again.

“Hi.” You hoarse voice manages to whisper.

“Do you know what happened?” He gently asked.

No, you don’t. You don’t know where you are, why you are there, or why you can’t thin straight. Why can’t you think straight?

You shake your head, still not opening your eyes.

“We were on a mission yesterday; do you remember that?” He asks. You do, so you nod, him still playing with your hair.

“Sam got shot.” You twitch at the thought of one of your best friends being hurt. “You healed him, he’s fine.” He reassures. You tentatively nod, not sure where this story is going. You think you remember this happening, but right now it felt like millions of years ago.

“About 20 minutes later, Steve was stabbed twice. I brought him back and you healed him.” He says, slow enough for your brain to process it. You do remember that, but nothing else. You finally open your eyes to look at him with a questionable expression. He was sitting up, and you were resting against his thigh. He smiled down at you, happy you have your eyes open now.

“You must have overused your powers, because you fainted.” He states. It makes sense, why you can’t think, or why your limbs weigh 1000 pounds.

“How long have I been asleep?” You ask.

“You woke up for a minute after a bit, but other than that you have been sleeping for,” he pauses to look at the clock, “14 hours.”

You nod, the both of you sitting in silence for another couple of minutes. In those minutes you really came back to reality, your headache hitting you like a truck. You brain was functioning better though, and you could focus better.

Bucky must have noticed you shifting around, because he asked, “Do you want to take a bath?”

You mutter a quick yes, prompting him to get up. Once his thigh moved out from under for, you felt the cold air and immediately you reach out for him again.

He chuckles. “Do you not want me to?” He ponders.

“Just stay here a bit longer.” You say.

He studies your face for a moment, before getting back in bed. “You would think that after being in bed for 14 hours, one wouldn’t want to stay in it.”

You try and smack his thigh, giggling, but it came out as more of a tap. He continues to mindlessly play with your hair and goes back on his phone. You try and go back to sleep, but it wasn’t working. Eventually you must have let out a sigh, because Bucky chuckled asking if now you were ready.

You really didn’t want to, but you knew it would be better for you, so you hesitantly nodded. He once again got up and walked towards your shared bathroom. You hear the water turns on, and soon after Bucky walked back in.

“Can you walk?” He muttered. You really did want to be able to. You hated being carried, it felt like such a burden to be carried by another person, but you still couldn’t walk, so you agreed.

He picked you up and walked you into the bathroom, setting you on the counter. This is when you notice he was naked. He started to undress you, leaving you in your underwear, before setting you in the tub, him slipping in behind you.

There was nothing sexual about this. You were grown adults, God knows you’ve been naked together countless times. This was simply about relaxation.

After the water got cold, which took like another half an hour, you both got out. James got out first, grabbing a tower before helping you out. You could now stand at least, but you still leaned against the countertop while he dried you off. Once you were dry, you said a quick thank you, before you went to get some clothes. Once Bucky was dry, he too got some clothes.

When he saw that you weren’t picking pajamas, he was confused. Normally, if given the opportunity, you would gladly chill at home.

“We going somewhere?”

“Just to the kitchen.” You respond. You were referring to the Avengers shared kitchen. Yes, everyone has small kitchens in their room, but the one in the tower was always stocked, and there is normally someone there to talk to. It is where most of you socialize.

“Did Bruce check me out?” You ask.

“Hm?”

“Did Bruce say that I’m good, I just haven’t fainted from using my powers in a while.”

“Yeah your good. When had you fainted before?” He asked, now also fully dressed.

“Umm.” You thought, raping your arm around Bucky, for support and because you loved him. “A couple of years ago in Budapest.”

You walked into the elevator door when getting on it. You chuckled. At one point, the ride down felt like it took a lot longer than normal. You started to sway a bit without realizing. James lightly shook your arm, causing you to wake out of your trance. You offer a reassuring smile, his worry only slightly decreasing.

“Are you sure your okay?”

“Yes.” You say confidently. You were fine, other than your pounding headache that just got the better of you.

The bell dings, which sounded a lot louder than normal, and you stepped out. When you turn to the kitchen, Sam, Steve, and Wanda were eating there, talking about God knows what.

Once Steve sees you, he runs over.

“Oh my gosh Y/N, I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have been so stupid, you shouldn’t have had to do that.” He rambled.

Bucky looked at you, silently asking if you were good handling Steve by yourself. You nodded, “Could you make me something?” He nodded, before walking off. You luckily quickly found your balance without him, before addressing Steve.

“Hey, hey, hey.” You cut him off. “It’s my job to heal you. Would you rather me not. Look at me, I’m fine, just a little tired. You could’ve had numerous problems. I personally think that a headache is a hell of a lot better than two stab wounds.”

He opens his mouth, before shutting again. He knows your right; he just still feels bad.

“Nobody did anything wrong, and I would do it again if I had to.” He nods, sheepishly looking down at his feet.

Suddenly, you remembered that you still had a headache, and walking took way too much energy. “Mind helping me over there?” You ask.

He quickly nods, happy that he can help. He walks to the side of you, putting his arm under your shoulders, and helped you walk to your seat.

“Thank you.” Sam offers.

“Anytime.”

“Not only for me but for saving this dumb ass as well.” Steve playfully hits him, and everyone laughs. This was going to be a good day.

The End

AN: Requests are open and welcomed!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes one shot #marvel #healing powers

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veloxaraptor · 4 years ago

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Long Time Coming

I’ve kept my mouth shut on this for a very long time.

Last year I cut ties with an incredibly toxic player in the FFXIV community. Most of you know them as either Yosei Ittetsu or Vincent Arius.

Sometime around the end of September/beginning of October I ended a long running RP Ship with the player and quit his FC. This came after months of gas lighting, lying, manipulation, and just down right being used.

I’d spent some time getting to know them and their RL Partner so as to get the blessing to ship our characters together as Koa’s (the name the player goes by) partner didn’t feel comfortable with them shipping with anyone but themselves.

I later learned that once I got the approval to ship with Koa, that they then went behind my back and their partner’s back and attempted to ship with other people under the guise of “I’ve been allowed to multi ship”. The timeline for that was around Mayish of 2019.

Throughout the tenure of our friendship and RP, Koa insisted OOCly that their partner was abusive and controlling. Something I have come to doubt. A partner feeling uncomfortable with their SO shipping/ERPing with other people isn’t all that uncommon or unreasonable.

That being said, Koa would share screenshots with myself and others of fights they would have with their partner, carefully cropped to show certain parts of the fight that would cast their partner in the worst light. So naturally, we believed him.

So other friends and I agreed to help Koa ship/ERP in secret because we wanted to find a way to give them autonomy over themself. I regret this. Not only because it was incredibly disrespectful to a RL relationship, but because of the hurt it eventually caused other people later on.

This is going to get wordy, so please bear with me as I place the rest under a read me.

Koa and I agreed to a poly ship. One that would include myself, their RL partner’s character, and a third--my friend Noise. The agreement with the ship was that Tegah, Gan, and Noise would all be a “Table” poly setting and each could have extraneous partners if--and only if--we were comfortable with it OOC and our characters were comfortable with it IC. Meaning, there needed to be communication. This agreement extended only to the three as Koa stressed that they were only shipping with their RL partner to keep OOC peace and because they felt obligated to.

Very quickly things became very odd. I say that because often times Koa would wait until I needed to go to bed, and/or their RL partner would be at work (they worked nights) to initiate ship or ERP related RP. And if I was around for any of that RP, I was always shoved to the side and made to feel more like an accessory than an actual RP partner.

I tried several times to address this with Koa only to be gaslit and told that he was the one always feeling left out because he had to work around the confines of his “Abusive” RL partner and because Gan and Noise had a more in-depth story driven background with one another and knew each other better than Yosei and Noise knew each other.

My complaints would be invalidated and I’d always end up trying to help Koa find ways to solve their issues. Only for the circle to repeat itself.

Twice my character Gan found external partners. Both times I made sure going forward that both Koa and Noise were okay with it. And I was given their blessings. Both times, Koa attempted to insert their character into the relationship and sleep with the partner. The first one was successful. The second time not so much.

As time progressed, it became more and more clear that Koa’s main focus was drawing attention to themself and ERP. Mostly the latter if I’m being honest. Every time I turned around, I was learning of a new character that Yosei was gunning for and trying to sleep with. And it was always played off as a joke until it actually happened.

At some point one of the infatuations turned into another possible ship partner for the group. This is where Batu, one of my dearest friends comes in to the story. Koa had been selling Batu to Noise and I under the understanding that Batu was happy to simply be a fling/fuck buddy for the group. Meanwhile, he was selling to Batu the story that the group was looking for a 4th member. All the while neglecting to explain the truth to Batu as to how the ship worked despite him asking IC and OOC.

One very awkward night of RP where Gan brought over her side partner and Koa made many pointed comments about how we should all have an Orgy. (Which their RL partner asked about and Koa flat out lied to them). Batu learned how the ship worked on and IC and OOC level and had revealed that he’d been lied to the entire time. Or at the very least, misled.

So Batu decided to leave the group on an IC basis. Naturally, feelings were hurt OOC. And very much so IC as Gan and Batu had begun to fall for one another, and Noise and Batu were starting to grow close.

During this period of time, Batu ICly went to the Steppes to deal with the loss. Tegah/Yosei’s solution was to “fuck away the sad”. Because... yeah.

At this time an FC member had their character go check on Batu and inform him of some RP stuff that had left Gan unwell. Batu returned and relationships were able to be repaired between Batu, Gan, and Noise. Batu expressed OOC that there was no desire to attempt with Koa again as he’d left feeling very used IC and OOC.

Naturally the characters did run into one another and it ended in conflict at which point Koa decided to metagame. He chose that moment to decide that it was his character that sent our FC member after Batu. There’d been no discussion over the course of the two weeks that all this had happened. Koa had just decided on the spot, something that was verified by the FC member.

When called out, Koa lied about meta-gaming. We even offered up logs to which he still lied and denied, saying they’d been talking about it for a while. Our FC member firmly refutes this and gave us logs to support.

At that point, after months of being pushed to the side for other RP’s, gaslit regarding my issues, lied to, etc, I decided to end my RP partnership with Koa. I offered to stay around for the FC as I was the one running events and pushing for things to happen. But the day after that decision, Koa decided that we’d been leading the FC in the wrong direction (Despite being the one to tell us to go in that RP route) and that he wasn’t happy with how things were going.

Admittedly, I took this as a stab at me. Because I was the one running events, the one trying to keep things active for our FC members, and had suggested stepping back from Suisei Ramen the first time as there would be no way to balance it, FC RP, and personal RP all at once. It was then that I closed the book on all ties with Koa. I wanted nothing to do with them IC or OOC. He was immediately blocked from all my social media accounts and all websites I’d hosted on behalf of him and his FC were handed over.

This is where things become most important. Months after the fact, Koa openly admitted in a google doc he was spreading around in an attempt to defame me, that he’d been stalking my accounts either personally or through mutuals looking for anything he could use against me.

I--in my naivety--had kept my mouth shut for the most part in the hopes that we could end things amicably and just move on. Almost a year later and I’m making this post because I’m still being harassed by Koa.

Since October of 2019, Koa has attempted to stir the pot time and again. Trying to oust me from RP communities. defame me, accuse me of plagiarism. (Most of this was while knowing I was heavily pregnant IRL and under a lot of stress) As recently as July 5, 2020, this person has been trying to cause issues. On the date mentioned, he attempted to insert himself into RP with Noise and I. Both of us have expressly stated we want nothing to do with him and want him to leave us alone and knowing that, still tried to put himself in our small group of RP.

Since leaving Koa, a lot of things have come to light. First and foremost, he was badmouthing me to my closest friends. Insisting I had an OOC affair going with a ship partner of mine. I’m married IRL. Koa knew this. And knowing this, attempted to spread that lie to push people away from me. Specifically, my friend Batu who was the one he told this to.

He blamed Batu’s IC/OOC departure on me, because I was uncomfortable with a concept he was trying to push for the second time. The concept being to have his character Yosei/Tegah gender swap to a woman and sleep with Gan’s partner. The first time it occurred was with a side relationship Gan had with another player. Koa wanted to have their character gender swap, sleep with Gan’s partner without the character knowing and possibly get pregnant. When asked about my opinion, I expressed that I wasn’t all that thrilled with it and that Gan would be angry/jealous. To which he insisted I was wrong and that Gan would find it funny.

The second instance was because Batu had more interest in Gan than Tegah/Yosei. At which point Koa decided it would be fun to try and force a race between his character and Gan as to who would have our ship partner Noise’s children first, knowing that there was a plot point set up for when that would inevitably happen. Again he adamantly stated that Gan wouldn’t be upset and find it funny, and that if she didn’t want it to happen she should just get pregnant back to back with each partner’s children. (At this time she was supposed to be pregnant with Yosei/Tegah’s baby. A fact that I later retconned.)

Koa continually went behind mine and all our ship partners backs to ERP with other characters. Ship with other characters. Shit talk me, and other people. When he’d be denied ERP, he’d turn and try to convince people that the person in question was actually after HIM for ERP and not the other way around.

Many people have come forward to me with information regarding his behavior. Unfortunately I don’t have permission to share their stories as they’ve asked to be left out of any public call outs.

All I can safely share are these logs here

Koa/Yosei/Tegah/Vincent Arius is nothing more than a toxic individual obsessed with ERP, Attention, and playing victim as much as possible. Almost a year later and he is still harassing me, blaming me when things go wrong, defaming, and causing me drama. I’ve had enough. If even ONE person finds comfort in knowing they aren’t the only one he’s caused problems for, then it’ll be worth it.

And as always, I’m more than happy to answer any questions regarding this post that people might have. I’d love to share more logs and screencaps, but I do respect people’s privacy and I still don’t want to shit on their RL relationship any more than revealing this stuff will do.

#call out #toxic person #I've held my tongue for far too long

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lesbeet · 4 years ago

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so a former co-worker from the english dept at the hs i student-taught at last year has been hiring me to do a bunch of editing work for her (stuff from academic essays to sports articles to blog posts to poetry lol it’s a whole lot of various types of writing), and right now i’m working on an academic paper she wrote about the mistreatment and misplacement of “heritage language learners” (students who grew up speaking a native language other than english, but who were never formally instructed in that language—so for example, a native spanish speaker growing up in the u.s. who never had access to formal spanish language education, as opposed to a student born in a different country who learned their L1 formally in that country’s school system before moving to the u.s.)

and while i’ve learned a lot and am excited to contribute even in this small way to bettering the educational experiences of these students (and bilingual students in general), it’s been so difficult to edit the paper, mostly bc the original version she gave me was not organized effectively at all. so i had to start by trying to map an outline of the original structure so i could re-organize it pretty much from scratch.

so i’ve spent the last like 3.5 hours attempting to start filling in the actual content within the new outline i put together. i started by assigning highlight colors to each of the big topics/sections and then i went through the original version and highlighted different parts/sentences/quotes accordingly so i could find them easily when combing through the paper to look for specific pieces of information

and doing it this way has shown me how REDUNDANT the essay is lmao like i feel like it’s going to end up significantly shorter than what she gave me bc there are so many points restated in several places, or like unnecessary additions/explanations of things that don’t need explaining, and extraneous information...the quotes she used are like almost as a rule twice as long as they need to be, and usually only one part of the quote is actually relevant to the topic at hand

like it’s not BAD i’ve seen much much worse, and the language itself is fine (nothing particularly special but definitely coherent and clear most of the time), but editing for organization is so much more difficult logistically lmao like especially doing it digitally on google docs. i know i technically COULD print it out and cut it up and physically move things around, but that’s even worse than doing what i’m doing on the computer, which requires that i have like 4 different docs tabs open at once (outline, old copy, new copy, extra page for copy/pasting stuff i need to come back to) and i have to have a split screen so i can copy and paste stuff directly from one doc to the other without constantly having to switch tabs

i do like this kind of editing though, like i kind of trained myself to really understand what makes certain types of organization effective and just in general like how to reveal information in the order that will best convey my points with the desired effect, and now whether it’s a story or it’s an expository essay i’m always kind of re-arranging things in my head to see how it might change the end result

but usually my editing is very light-handed in the sense that i don’t often go into the doc and change things directly (unless it’s grammar stuff or simple diction/syntax changes), i usually just leave comments with questions and suggestions, and oftentimes explanations for why a certain element isn’t working, along with several options that might work better. because when i go in and just directly edit sometimes it’s hard to stop myself from rewriting it to the point where the author’s voice has kinda been replaced by mine, and i really try hard not to do that

but for giant structural changes like this it gets so difficult NOT to edit directly, bc it’s not as easy to try and convey macro-level arrangement suggestions through google docs comments bc they often affect bits that are scattered throughout the whole work. and it’s such a conceptual thing that sometimes it just makes things way more confusing to try and get the person to put things where you want them, and it makes more sense to do it yourself

idk this got long i just needed to ramble a bit to sort out what’s been frustrating me w this paper ksdflksdj

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snowdice · 5 years ago

Text

Gaps in His Files (Part 5) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton

Appear: Remy, Virgil (but only in the epilogue)

Summary:

Logan Berry has learned many things the last 10 years: a lot of math and physics, a bit of humility, and how to be a hero being just a few. Through his education, his experience teaching, and his exploits as the superhero Bluebird, he’s changed in a lot of small and large ways. He has recorded these changes in well-organized documents and files. He’s even had to create two new file designations: a red one for files about his moonlighting at Bluebird, and a light blue one dedicated to his boyfriend, Patton.

When Bluebird is targeted by a memory device and all of those 10 years of progress suddenly disappear, Patton Sanders and Logan’s extensive files are left as his only resource to get those memories back. But what is Patton supposed to do when there are clear gaps in his files? And what does he do when he is one of them?

This is set 25 years before Sometimes Labels Fail though it’s story is completely independent of it and it is not necessary to read that one first.

Notes: Superhero AU, memory loss, past child abuse, past child neglect, unhealthy ideas about ones place in relationships, emotional suppression, self-deprecating thoughts, medical procedures mentioned, very brief unhealthy views of sex

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Logan contemplated his new companion, Patton, he’d said once they were in the car. The man had removed his own mask when they’d switched cars in some underground location and had given Logan cloths to change into in the back seat of a much more normal SUV. The cloths fit perfectly, and he imagined they must be his. The large and soft sweater was one of the most comfortable things he could remember wearing.

Not that he could remember much of anything.

To distract himself from that concerning thought, he once again refocused on studying the man driving the car. He appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s and the dark marks around his eyes indicated that he was likely exhausted. It was only a little past 6pm, so Logan had to wonder why. Of course, the man had to have been out searching for Logan for hours. He was surprised the man was able to find him at all in such a large city when Logan himself was hiding. It was likely good that he did however considering that Logan had no idea where to start with dealing with whatever had happened to him on his own.

He seemed vastly more comfortable driving the SUV than he had driving the other strange car. His hands moved to buttons without looking for them and he sat back against the seat instead of sitting up straight and attentive. Logan deduced this must be either his car or one he drove frequently. He also clearly knew the path from the underground garage to wherever their destination was well as he anticipated turns and stoplights despite the fact that it was getting quite dark.

He glanced over at Logan and noticed him watching. He gave a small smile. “Yes?” he asked. There was something different about the way Patton often spoke to him, but Logan could not put his finger on what. A type of familiarity perhaps that was strange coming from someone who was to Logan all but a stranger.

“That phrase was a code I made up when I was a child in case a time traveling future version of myself needed to gain my trust.”

Patton laughed lightly. “Yes, I know. You read The Door into Summer when you were eight and came up with a time travel protocol.”

“Why do you know it?” Logan asked. “Why do you know the context?”

“I’ve been briefed on all of the Logan Prime Directives even the silly ones though…” he contemplated, “I guess that one wasn’t as silly as we both thought it was, all things considered.” He shook his head. “I did not think I’d ever use that one when you told me that story.”

“No, but…” he said. “Why would I tell you about it? I never even talked about it with my parents and certainly not with my peers.”

“We…” Patton glanced at him. “We’re close. How, uh, how far back do your memories go? You clearly have some of them if you remember being eight.”

He hummed in thought. “Many things are rather fuzzy, though I don’t know if that is an effect of the device that erased my later memories or just an effect of those memories having aged. I have a good impression of most of my childhood. The latest memory I can access was from when I was 18. I don’t recall graduating high school. How old am I now?”

“28.”

“That is a concerning amount of my life to be missing,” he commented. It was more than 1/3rd of his life and likely an important 1/3rd. He would have graduated high school and college, moved away from home, and, if things have gone to plan, entered a doctoral program. He felt as though he should be hurrying home for dinner with his parents, but he likely hadn’t lived with them in many years. He does not even know if his parents still live in his childhood home; many people downsize when their children move out, and he highly doubts they anticipate grandchildren which might have prompted them to retain the home. His parents might not even be alive. They were both in good health, but much can happen in 10 years. His mother would be approaching her sixties, his father already well into them. The average life expectancy was in the 60s and he’d never really thought about that in the context of his parents, but he’d likely had to confront that fact sometime in the last 10 years even if they weren’t yet deceased and…

“Are you alright?” Patton asked.

“Of course, I am,” Logan said.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his tone softening.

“I am simply contemplating the possible information I am missing.”

“I can answer questions if you’d like to ask.”

Logan thought about it for a long moment. “Are my parents still alive?”

“Oh sweetie,” Patton said. “Yes, your parents are fine and in good health. In fact, after your mother retired, they’ve been going off on hiking trips together. They’re probably more fit than I am at the moment.”

Logan let a slow breath out. “That is good,” he said, his voice level.

Patton reached over a hand to touch his knee, startling Logan a bit at the ease at which he casually touched him. “It’s okay and I’m sure we’ll get your memories back soon.”

“That is rather optimistic,” he replied. The hand still on the steering wheel clenched just barely, but the one on his knee didn’t even twitch. He slowly took the hand touching him back.

“Nothing wrong with optimism.”

Logan didn’t respond and they soon pulled into a parking garage. Patton parked the car and then let him to a 3rd floor apartment. Logan was careful to memorize the path in case he needed to retrace his steps for some reason. Patton reached into his pocket for a key and unlocked the apartment door.

The second he walked into the front room, Logan knew this had to be his space. Perhaps it was the repressed memories or perhaps it was simply that everything about it was exactly how he would have organized it himself. The couch was positioned perfectly based on the position of the door, window, and air vents that he could see. There was a small television screen set up on a stand made for that purpose at a reasonable distance and angle from the couch and the recliner next to it. There were no blankets or pillows in sight, likely stored away in a closet, the two pairs of shoes by the door were plain and carefully straightened on the rug, and there were no extraneous papers anywhere, but there was one single notepad on the table between the couch and the recliner with a capped pen laying parallel to it. It was exactly right. Any doubt that somehow Patton was lying and did not truly know him fled completely.

Tension he hadn’t even been aware of leaked out of him like water swirled down a drain after a bath, but apparently that tension had been the only thing keeping Logan on his feet. The body aches and headache that had been looming behind the adrenaline and survival instincts swamped him for the first time since he’d first awoken. It suddenly felt as though he had not slept in the 10 years he did not remember. There was a tingling feeling between his ears and forehead. He turned to the other man calmly as he finished locking and bolting the door. “I am passing out,” he informed him, and then he did.

Thanks for reading!

Also, self-plug, I’m doing a special event for my 10th dice roll fic. If you look at the rules here, you can give me prompts in my AUs including the Labeled Universe. I’d really like to get some more prompts for the event! You can also vote on ones people already sent it!

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 6

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #tsss #superhero au #memory loss #past child abuse #past child neglect #emotional suppression #self deprecation #gaps in his files #labeled universe #relabeled; refiled #adriana writes

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judgmentofcorruption · 5 years ago

Text

Episode 5–The Relationship Chills; Scene 4

Judgment of Corruption, pages 163-170

Their extramarital affair proceeded to continue on for about half a year.

It finally began to meet its end when Bruno took notice of their relationship.

“—How unusual, for you to call me here like this.”

Ma and Bruno had met in a back alley at midnight.

Bruno’s expression was calm, but the way his face was flushed made clear the anger he was feeling within.

“I think I know what you’re doing…Ma.”

“Oh, have we been found out already? But my, how unsophisticated of you, a servant butting into his employer’s private matters.”

“I know. I have no intention of paying any mind if Gallerian does anything with a woman who isn’t Mira from this point forward. However…You alone I cannot allow. And—you know why that is more than anyone.”

“Thanks for the warning as an old friend, Bruno. But love takes many forms.”

“…What nonsense are you trying to…” Bruno grew enraged. “You two…You and Gallerian are—parent and child!”

“…”

“—The sorceress ‘Elluka Ma Clockworker’ does not age…And because of that, the Freezis Conglomerate tried to find the secret to immortality from you.”

“…That was around the time I first met you. Back then you were still a child, with some innocence left.”

“I was. But during the ‘witch trials’ you vanished, and then reappeared before me ten years later—as the scriptwriter, Kayo Sudou. Elluka never died. She may have been executed on the surface, but she survived, given a new identity.”

“And so—I became your ally in defeating the Freezis Conglomerate. How nostalgic. It was so recent and yet it feels like such a long time ago.”

In contrast to Ma’s calm, Bruno’s face twisted with anguish. “Ma…No, Elluka. I can’t understand a being like you. How could you do such a—”

“I’m just that kind of person.”

“Part of me can see what you’re saying, but part of me can’t understand it either. Every time I meet you, you seem like a completely different person. It’s as though there are several personalities inside you…” As he spoke, Bruno pulled at his hair.

“That’s correct, Bruno. I am—‘impure’. And I don’t mean in the sense that I’m having an affair with a married man. It is exactly as the word means…I have various, extraneous things mixed into me.”

“…”

“I wish to become a ‘pure’ Ma. By removing the ‘impurities’ inside me, and only taking in the ‘power’ that I need…There is a certain ‘process’ that is necessary for that goal. The matter with Gallerian—Well, I won’t deny that it’s a result of that process.”

“…I don’t understand. I suppose it’s just too difficult for someone like me to comprehend a being like you.”

“You don’t have to, and I don’t wish for you to either. –Anyway, what is it that you want of me, ultimately?”

“…I want you to leave the country. And—I want you to never meet with Gallerian ever again, if possible. I can’t help but feel that…if you’re near him any longer, he’ll be done for.”

“Ha ha…I can do that. If that’s what you wish.” Ma gave a thin smile. “You’re so very loyal, Bruno…No, that’s not all it is, is it?”

“…”

“—You’re taken with Gallerian.”

“…He’s never shown any prejudice towards me, despite my being a ‘Black Valkyria’. When I first met him he openly held out his hand, never hesitating to shake with mine—to touch my black skin. …He has a great determination, and the will to put it in motion. It’s true that at some point I’ve found myself charmed by that.”

“Gallerian must be happy to have such a good servant—or rather, a good friend. …You take good care of the boy.”

When Bruno did not reply, Ma turned her back on him and left.

The next morning.

After leaving the inn, Ma appeared to consider where she would go next.

“Lucifenia, Asmodean—Beelzenia might be nice too. Jakoku…is probably too far,” she murmured to herself as she walked; but as she finally arrived at the Dark Star Bureau she stopped there, as though having remembered something.

“While I’m here—I’ll go consult with him before I leave the country, shall I?”

The Dark Star Bureau, the director’s office.

Hanma did not hide his surprised expression at this sudden visitor.

“…Now isn’t this something. I never thought that you’d come here to see me yourself—Ma.”

“Long time no see, Hanma.”

“Because Gallerian’s been looking after you so much...Oh, is it strange for me to put it that way?”

“—Actually, I’ve decided to leave the country. I’ve figured now is the best time, for various reasons.”

“I see…That’s unfortunate, but it is what it is. There’s nothing more to worry about with the reform of the ‘witch trials’. Gallerian should be able to handle it no problem, even without you,” Hanma replied with a grin.

“Ha ha, true. He’s been working so hard. –He’s accomplished the revolution that you failed to achieve.”

“Indeed. Though his methods greatly resemble mine…Gallerian succeeded, and I failed. There must be some deciding difference in there. Perhaps it’s time for me to retire soon.”

“That was almost twenty years ago now…You presumed to hand me a death penalty verdict at that trial. --To create a precedent for Elluka to have been executed.”

“Under the laws established by the Dark Star Bureau, the same person cannot be given the death penalty twice. …Regardless of whether or not the execution has actually taken place. It should have allowed you to escape from the World Police and the Freezis Conglomerate hounding you. But—” Hanma’s expression faintly twisted. “—The Freezises found me out. All I was able to do was give you a new identity and hide who you were. The plan that I had come up with came to nothing.”

“And Gandalf—your friend—wound up hating you for something you didn’t do. When it rains, it pours, eh?”

“Well…That was a long time ago.” Hanma stood from his chair and aimlessly gazed out the window. “Ma—When were you planning to depart from this country?”

“I’ve already moved out of the inn, so I could even go today.”

“That’s good. The sooner the better. Looks like you had some bad timing coming here today.”

When he said that to her, Ma seemed to notice something, and peered out the window with Hanma. “Is that—”

“The World Police…A Justea special task force. It seems that they’re planning to force their way into the bureau. They’re after you—and me. They’ve been sniffing around here for some time now, you see. They must have finally figured out my true identity.”

“…What will you do? Shall we take them on together?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’m capable of handling them alone. And—” Hanma glanced Ma’s way. “—You look a tad peaky today.”

“…”

“Escape through the back entrance. There are a few Justea officers there, but they’re not in so great a number. You should have no trouble escaping from your pursuers, even as you are today.”

“And what will you do?”

“Right…I think I’ll let loose for once. Hopefully I haven’t gotten too rusty.”

“Understood…Though I would have liked to be able to shoot the breeze about the old days a little.”

“If we both survive this, we’ll have the chance to again.”

“True. Well then—See you later, Hanma.”

Ma rapidly left the room.

The morning was still early, so there were no trials being held in the main courtroom.

Hanma was sitting alone in the head judge seat.

“I suppose I’m parting with the Dark Star Bureau today… And the most appropriate stage for Bureau Director Hanma Baldured’s final moments--is here, of course.”

After a short while, the Justea special task force broke down the door and entered the large courtroom, wielding guns.

“He’s in here!”

There were about twenty of them in all, and they surrounded Hanma in an instant.

Hanma pounded the gavel in his hand twice.

“Silence. This is the sacred courtroom of the Dark Star Courthouse. It’s not a place where a gang like you can just tromp all over with your shoes.”

The man who appeared to be the head of the unit cried out, ignoring Hanma’s words, “Hanma Baldured! You are under arrest!”

“My my…What are the charges?”

“—Violation of the special laws on magic! You are under suspicion of being ‘Elluka’s apprentice’!”

“Ha ha ha…’Elluka’s apprentice’, huh? It’s been—quite some time since I was called that.”

Hanma stood from his chair, smiling.

“Don’t move!”

“Now now, calm yourselves down, gentlemen of Justea—It may be winter out but today is quite warm. Personally I don’t care for this sort of climate. Winter should be cold enough to freeze.”

“Put your hands up and turn around!”

In accordance with the leader’s words, Hanma obediently put his hands up and then turned his back to the unit.

“Yes yes…You’re quite a hot-tempered man, aren’t you? I don’t really like that much either. So—I’ll cool things down a little.”

--There was no one aside from Hanma who noticed the change occurring.

And…by the time they did, it was far too late for the Justea special task force.

“—Ahhh, isn’t this much more refreshing?”

In the span of ten minutes, the great courtroom had completely transformed into a world of ice.

All of the officers had been frozen solid, encased in that ice.

Hanma alone was standing there, with a literally cool expression on his face.

“The ice will thaw eventually…You’ll be able to move again when that happens—Assuming you survive, hah hah hah.”

While booming with laughter, he left the courtroom and departed from the Dark Star Bureau.

--He never came back.

Thanks to this event, the relationship between the Dark Star Bureau and the World Police grew even more deteriorated.

The deputy director was promoted to assume Hanma’s vacated position.

Gallerian was treated warmly by him, and steadily rose through the ranks of the courthouse.

<<prev------directory------next>>

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luthienebonyx · 4 years ago

Note

Can I have B, K and Q for the fanfic ask meme, please?

Fanfic ask meme

B: Any of your stories inspired by personal experience?

My stories come from the characters first, but there is also stuff in them that comes from personal experience. The Aussie coffee verse is set in some very specific places that I have visited more than once in the past. The Personal Touch takes a little from my own experiences with various kinds of physical therapy (though I never had that sort of relationship with any of my therapists!). In the past I’ve written stories that included stuff like bodysurfing, which I know about from growing up by the beach. There are other little bits and pieces of personal experience littered through my fic, but they’re generally not anything particularly important.

I guess History Never Repeats has potentially the biggest part of my real life in it, because I’ve given Brienne the profession that used to be mine, a long time ago. That was inspired partly because lately I’ve been encountering fiction in various media that keeps portraying that profession as the most boring job in the world/a cover for something ‘more interesting’/something done by unhinged megalomaniacs before they go completely off the rails. And yes, while I have met the odd unhinged megalomaniac in that profession, I wanted to present it in a more true way - so we’ll see what happens as the story progresses!

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

In my reply to one of the other asks, I mentioned that I’d written a major character death in a HP fic, long, long ago. That was The Rain Keeps Falling. I doubt anything I’ve written since tops that in the angst stakes, though one or two things have come close. When it was originally posted on LJ, it got several pages of comments that were pretty much all variations on: Your story made me cry. Still proud...

Q: Do you have any discarded scenes/storylines/projects?

Oh, loads of them. Most are handwritten in notebooks, but just a quick look through my googledocs shows ones I may yet get to, like the rockstar/musician AU, and ones I’d forgotten all about, like “angry sex draft” - whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Here is a bit from a half-written Rivers of London story called Stripping Off, which will never be finished because the canon has now moved on from the moment in which the story is set:

Nightingale always dresses well, in a strictly first-half-of-the-twentieth-century kind of way. It was one of the first things I noticed about him, that night we met in Covent Garden, and not just because, as a police officer, I’m trained to notice distinguishing details just in case they might be needed later. I thought he was going to try to pick me up, if I’m being honest. And it turned out I was right that he had an interest in me, but not in the way I thought.

He was wearing one of his beautifully tailored suits the first time I saw him, a bespoke number courtesy of Dege & Skinner, Savile Row, established 1865 - like all of his suits and most of his shirts, as I later found out. The perfect fit of his suits draws subtle attention to the width of his shoulders before nipping in closely at the waist. His shoes are handmade, because of course they are, by Crockett & Jones in Jermyn Street, which is handily situated just a few streets away from Savile Row and has been in business nearly as long as Dege & Skinner. And he carries a silver-topped cane, which fits the whole pre-war man about town aesthetic, but its origins and uses are… well, let’s just say that those are a bit more esoteric.

Nightingale’s entire look, not forgetting his Burberry coat, was more than familiar to me by the time I’d spent a year or two at the Folly, so I’m really not sure why his new driving gloves came as any sort of surprise – but they did.

Gloves of all sorts are a necessary evil in our line of work, but of course Nightingale’s driving gloves were nothing like anything that comes as police standard issue. They were made of thin, high quality brown leather, very supple, with ventilation holes along the knuckles, and lined with some sort of soft wool fabric – probably cashmere. But the day came when the quality of the materials and workmanship couldn’t disguise how well-worn Nightingale's gloves were. Not even Molly’s careful ministrations could make them look even remotely at their best, so eventually Nightingale bit the bullet and ordered – probably from some fifth generation family business with an ampersand in its name – a new pair of driving gloves.

I didn't even know that Nightingale had finally got… I'm sorry, procured, the new gloves until the first time we took the Ferrari for a spin, the one that used to belong to the practitioner formerly known as the Faceless Man and recently revealed to be one Martin Chorley. I'd been itching to take the Ferrari for a test drive since the moment it was impounded in the garage at the Folly, awaiting 'evaluation'. Nightingale still hardly ever lets me drive his Jag by myself, though - one of these days I'll actually get to the top of the priority list for that advanced driving test, but I'm not holding my breath - so I didn't bother asking if there'd be any chance that I could take the Ferrari out without him. Fortunately, he was almost as keen as I was to find out what the Ferrari could do.

I was vaguely aware that Nightingale was wearing his new gloves when he turned the key in the ignition, but at the time most of my attention was on the way the engine effortlessly purred into life. Russell Square isn't exactly the best place to drive, well, anything, let alone a Ferrari, so I waited as patiently as I could while Nightingale negotiated the London traffic and pointed us in the general direction of Oxford.

We were on our way to visit Professor Postmartin, a typical, even stereotypical Oxford don in every way, except that he moonlights as the official archivist for the Folly. He'd phoned the day before to let us know that he'd discovered some uncatalogued volumes in a hat box in a forgotten cupboard at the top of a cobwebbed spiral staircase - or somewhere like that - and he wanted us - well, Nightingale - to take a look at them.

"There's no great rush, Thomas. You can look them over the next time something brings you up to Oxford," Postmartin said.

Nightingale and I exchanged a look at that - he had speakerphone turned on, wonder of wonders, though it's possible he'd just hit the button by mistake - and decided without a word being said that the Ferrari was the thing that would bring us to Oxford.

The thing about being a passenger in a Ferrari? It's totally different to driving one. Those cars were designed for speed before anything else, which means a stiff suspension, thin tyres, and cutting back on extraneous extras like much in the way of padding beneath the beautifully finished black nero leather upholstery. All of which is fine if you're sat behind the wheel and feeling the thing rumble into life beneath your hands, and then having it do your bidding with every tiny change of course. But when you're in the passenger seat you feel it rumble to life beneath your arse, and you feel every. single. dip and pothole.

Apparently, my idea of patience is somewhat different from Nightingale's, because we hadn't even made it as far as the M40 when he glanced at me and suggested that perhaps I could find some way of keeping myself occupied on my phone until we got out of London.

I realised I'd been drumming my fingers on the leather-lined passenger door, and hastily returned my hand to my lap, trying to look the picture of innocence. It turns out that I'm no better at that than I am at pretending to be patient, because Nightingale snorted - actually snorted! - softly before he returned his attention to the road.

I really was intending to do what Nightingale had 'suggested', and I shifted in the seat so that I could reach into my pocket for my phone, but just as I did, Nightingale's arm moved and caught my eye - and I forgot to breathe.

I honestly didn't know why. I'd seen Nightingale drive before, many times. It should have been such an ordinary movement that I didn't even consciously register it, but his hand flexed as it closed around the gear stick and I swallowed. Hard. I probably should have looked away then. Okay, I definitely should have looked away then, but instead I took my first proper look at Nightingale's new driving gloves.

The new gloves were similar to the old ones, except in every way that they weren't. They were soft, high quality leather, and covered his hands as if… well, they had been made for him, but where the old ones were a worn brown, these were midnight black. At least, they were on the part that covered the back of his hand. Underneath, on the palm, they were smooth red leather. Not the fire brick red of the Ferrari's paint job; Nightingale wouldn't be caught dead wearing such a flashy colour. No, the leather of the gloves was a few shades darker than the red of the Ferrari, but there was no denying that the new gloves fitted this car - just as the old gloves had been a perfect fit with the brown leather upholstery and wooden trim in the Jaguar, I realised.

And damn, did they fit Nightingale.

I choked on the thought in utter horror before I even got to the end of it, and quickly turned it into a coughing fit. I hadn't really… had I? About my governor? About Nightingale?

"Everything all right, Peter?" Nightingale asked in mild concern.

I nodded, my eyes watering as I croaked out a not very convincing, "Fine." I reached down into the bag of supplies at my feet to see what Molly had packed for us. Anything not to have to look Nightingale in the face right then. Suddenly, being in the Ferrari was absolutely the last place I wanted to be.

#fanfic ask meme #intoni

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unpopularly-opinionated · 4 years ago

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My friend shared with me this reddit thread where someone outlined a list of features they claim are “missing” from CP2077, and because I’m me and like to rant, I wanted to go through it and agree/disagree based on what I think should or shouldn’t be in the game.

So probably spoilers below, at least for gameplay.

- Walk toggle for keyboard.

Agree.

- Key re-mapping for certain elements.

Agree. The game has some rebinding functions, but not enough to be honest.

- Accessibility features missing (ie: text scaling for menus).

Agree.

- In-game benchmark feature.

Personally, I think this is somewhat extraneous and I wouldn’t knock a game for not having it since most games don’t, but sure if they add it I wouldn’t complain.

- Dash should be a separate key and not a double press of walking key.

HARD agree. It’s beyond me that they thought it was okay to have that as-is, honestly. It makes moving around while sneaking a huge pain because you accidentally dodge which puts you into a standing position which can reveal you easily. At the absolute least, they should disable dodging when crouched, but ideally allow it to be rebound to something else.

- Crouch and skip dialogue should not share the same key.

Again, HARD agree. It’s possible to rebind the key (I certainly did) but something I noticed is that, while the dialogue no longer skips when I press crouch, it doesn’t seem to register the crouch button at all while in dialogue, meaning you can’t uncrouch if in dialogue.

- The minimap is too zoomed in to be helpful in many cases.

I only noticed this as an issue while driving, personally. You’ll be going 90mph down the freeway and not know that your turn is coming up until you’re already 90 miles beyond it. Outside of that, I’m not sure why you’d need the minimap zoomed out but hey if it fixes it while driving, I’m for it. Agree.

- Missing a toggle aim feature.

Quality of life, sure. I won’t use it, but agree.

- Ability to respec attributes (Note: Existing item respecs perks only)

Personally, I disagree with this. I think respeccing perks is fine because some of the perks are kinda lame so I can understand wanting to undo that, but I feel like respeccing attributes would sort of negate the purpose of developing a character a certain way. It makes multiple playthroughs more valid, forcing you to develop your different characters different ways. Sooo disagree.

- Ability to disable objective marker.

Agree. Mild nuisance to be sure, but still a nuisance never the less.

- Ability to lower ADS sensitivity.

Quality of life, sure. Agree.

- Add proper ultrawide (21:9, 32:9) support.

Quality of life, sure. Agree.

- Add loot by area or/and autoloot feature.

Eh... I don’t know. I think there should be a “scrap item” button when looting added but I’m unsure about a loot all or autoloot feature. It’s a change that I personally think falls under “optimizing the play out of the game”. Disagree.

- Add “stash all” feature.

And then some. Inventory management is atrocious in this game, it’s actually unreal how they thought it was okay to ship it like that. You can only manage one item at a time, and the UI needs to completely reload each time you do. It’s obscene. Hard agree.

- Add transparency option for HUD elements.

Quality of life, sure. Agree.

- Add way to remove mods from unequipped weapons.

This was actually sort of news to me. I’ve just been scrapping weapons I unequip with the mods still attached, assuming the mods were just going back to my inventory. Evidently that’s not been the case, but I haven’t actually noticed it as an issue because mods are so frequently found. A bit arguable, to be sure, but I don’t see why guns couldn’t return their mods automatically when dismantled. So agree, I guess.

- Add toggle mouse acceleration.

Quality of life, sure. Agree.

- Driving markers and onscreen trajectory (alternative GPS).

I don’t actually know what this means. Does this mean have the line leading to your objective be in-world as opposed to the minimap? I can maybe see that being a thing, I guess. If that’s the case, agree.

- Body slider customization (height, weight, muscle mass).

Eh...I’m ambivalent on this one. It seems extraneous in that it’s unnecessary and just something someone wants rather than something the game strongly needs, but at the same time, with as much marketing that went into how customizable your character is in this game, it’s sort of depressing how poor the character customization really is. Because of that, part of me wants to agree with this, on the grounds that the game was sort of sold to us this way. So I’ll say I tentatively agree.

- Very few options for some of the character creation features (hair colour, tattoos, skin complexion, scars, etc).

See above.

- Animations for eating and drinking (excluding scripted ones).

The problem with adding animations to consumables is that not only would you need one for each type of consumable but that the animation would then need to completely play out each time, which can give players burnout. Going to have to disagree with this one.

- Unable to remove underwear outside of inventory.

I assume this means giving the player the ability to run around stark naked as opposed to in your underwear, and weirdly enough I have to agree. Much like the character customization, a significant amount of attention was paid to the fact that this game has nudity, and yet nothing is done with it. Even in the areas where you’d expect nudity to play a part (I.e. having sex, showering, etc.) it doesn’t, so it begs the question why even implement it?

- Vehicle customization.

This is going to maybe sound odd given my next answer but I kind of agree with this one to an extent. You can buy a fair amount of vehicles in the game, but you can’t customize any of them. At the very least, changing it’s colour and/or design I think is warranted.

- Apartment customization.

This I disagree with, again, to an extent. This isn’t Fallout 4 or the Sims, I don’t think there needs to be a fleshed-out feature to decorate your apartment. I do however think that some changes to it would be nice, even if they’re just preset changes. Like maybe the layout of misc. objects in your apartment changes as time goes on. Shit moves around, I don’t know. Or maybe you can pay for preset additions, like buying a lamp or poster or something that always goes in the same spot, but lets you feel like you live there I guess. Ultimately though, this is completely extra and unnecessary. Disagree.

- Cosmetic slots or transmog feature.

Hard agree. Again, customization of your character was made out to be a big deal, so let us wear the clothes we want to wear. The number of times I’ve had to run out in a skirt that says “Bitch” on it and a bra as a man simply because they’re my best clothes is unreal.

- Very few actual merchant stores in quantity and variety.

Quantity, I somewhat agree. The map could do with a few more of each type of merchant, although the map does sometimes already feel cluttered so perhaps not. Variety however, I disagree. I think there’s plenty variety in terms of merchants, I’m not sure what else you’d need. There’s merchants for guns, clothes, hacks, cyberware, resources, and consumables. What else is there.

- No garages or parking lots.

I assume this is related to owning multiple vehicles which I don’t yet so I’m not sure I understand where this argument is coming from. There is a parking garage at your apartment, so I don’t see why that couldn’t be a garage you can use, but ultimately I can’t weigh in on this without more information.

- Crowds have low level of reactivity and awareness to the game world.

This one bugs me because it’s like how much reactivity do non-interactable NPCs need? They run away from cars and violence. They say “oh shit” lines when you’re driving into them or shooting near them or they see a body, etc. What more do you need? Gonna have to disagree.

- Very few interactive NPCs outside of missions with meaningful dialogue.

See above and literally every open world game ever.

- Very few options to meaningfully construct a personality to V. You get to choose mission endings, but not an actual persona.

I disagree, I think you can pretty comfortably pick a persona for V. I mean it’s not the most advanced system in the world, no, but every game is going to limit your options. You can choose to be an asshole, a scumbag, a nice guy, honest, a liar, competent, incompetent, etc. It all depends on your attributes and what dialogue options you pick really.

- Lack of non-action oriented stories and quests about meaningful themes of cyberpunk dystopia.

This one I sort of agree with, but then again I’m a huge philosophy nerd so I generally can’t get enough philosophy in my games. I want every game to be as deep as Bioshock. I still have a long way to go in CP2077, so perhaps the quests get better, but many of them I’ve not found super interesting. Some have been memorable, sure, but very few, and of those not many are memorable for fitting the Cyberpunk theme explicitly.

- Player cannot smoke.

This one is just funny to me because, yeah in an RPG it’s not ideal to railroad the player, but because of the way the story goes, V doesn’t smoke. All so they can have a few funny lines of dialogue in the story, but w/e I’m okay without smoking.

- Weapon mods and skill trees largely irrelevant outside of marginal and mostly numerical improvements to combat.

I kind of agree with this. To be honest, I don’t even look at any of the stats outside of DPS and I get along just fine. I am playing on normal, so perhaps at a higher difficult these things matter more, but I can’t imagine how much more. So sure, I agree.

- Lack of emergent gameplay events in the game world (ie: dynamic and random triggers).

This falls under “how much is enough”, similar to the bit about the NPC interactions. From what I’ve seen so far, the only in-world ‘events’ that transpire are shootouts between cops and gangs that aren’t marked on your map as predetermined events. Could there be more? Sure, I guess. Does there need to be more? Eh, not really.

- Unable to alter character’s appearance (barbershop, tattoo parlors, plastic surgeon).

Agree. One mission I did, one of the rewards I received was a tattoo which made me think I was going to frequently unlock new customization aspects like that, but it ended up being a piece of cyberware for some odd reason. I think it would be neat if you didn’t have every bit of customization unlocked from the start and could change your appearance as you go unlocking more things.

- Lack of character reflection outside of the few mirrors available. This furthers the disconnection between the player and the character.

This was something I was thinking about genuinely, when standing in front of a mirror. A mirror has to be ‘activated’ in order to start showing your reflection, which I thought was odd, but I assumed it was because of performance issues which makes sense. At one point, even though my PC can’t run the game at ultra graphics, I switched over to it to see if mirrors would reflect all the time but they do not. I don’t however think we need to see our character all the time but more would certainly be better.

- No ownership of items (you can rob NPCs under their nose).

Yeeeeah, this bit I find kinda odd to be honest, especially because the UI for looting items is red which is commonly the colour used to denote “this item is owned and picking it up constitutes as theft”. Part of me thinks that the reason items don’t have ownership though is because of how clunky the stealth system is. There’s no way of knowing if an NPC can ‘see’ you or not. I feel like this is also why when you break a glass bottle or something, it doesn’t alert enemies because that would be so broken in this game because things explode all the time for no reason at all, you’d never be able to steal period. So I feel like no item ownership is because the developers know their game wouldn’t be fun with it.

- No prison or lasting crime system.

The lack of a prison is sort of explained (very briefly) in-game. The prisons are just way too overcrowded, and the police are basically a paramilitary organization who shoot on sight anyways, so there’s really no need for prisons. That said, committing a crime doesn’t have lasting consequences but again I think this is because the game knows that it’s too clunky to punish players for that. Driving is so wonky in this game, imagine if running over an NPC punished you beyond the small threat of police intervention? It would be unbearable.

- Wanted system is largely underdeveloped, with cops spawning out of nowhere and disappearing shortly after.

Yeah it is a little scuffed how cops just appear, that I will agree with.

- Cybernetics lack variety in meaningful choices that alter gameplay (except for limb weapons). Deus Ex has far more impactful mods that actually change the way you approach combat.

While I do sort of agree with there being a lack of variety, I feel the comparison to Deus Ex is a bit unfair. Deus Ex used cybernetics as it’s skill tree/progression system. When you leveled up in Deus Ex, you installed new cybernetics. That’s not the case in CP2077 though. I do however believe that outside of the legs, arms, and hands, not much really changes. I’m not sure what else they could do, but more would certainly be nice.

- The lifepaths are frustratingly brief and have little impact other than dialogue choices. V is essentially the same character regardless of path.

I can’t speak much to this because I haven’t even finished my first playthrough yet, but I will admit that there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot that comes from your lifepath. I’m playing as a Street Kid, and as someone who supposedly grew up on the streets, running with gangs, getting to know everyone, etc., it seems like there should be a bit more maybe. Like maybe Street Kids start with more gang rep because everyone knows who you are because you grew up together. The game tries to explain this away with “you went away for two years and have just recently come back” but right off the bat you meet one of the fixers who you knew and worked for before you left as if you were old friends, and two measly years is not enough for everyone to just forget who you are.

The traffic AI is lackluster and there are too few cars driving around for a large metropolis.

Disagree. There are plenty of cars for a reasonable driving experience. I don’t know if this guy was expecting bumper-to-bumper LA traffic or what, but there are plenty of cars to make the world feel alive and full while not being obnoxious and make driving impossible.

- Trains were obviously cut, even though the whole infrastructure is visible.

I genuinely don’t even know what this is referring to so I won’t comment on it.

- The world interaction is quite minimal. Among items that should be interactive: chairs, benches, toilets, stools, sinks, gym equipment, light fixtures, restaurant menus, smartphones, taxi, trash bins and dumpsters, most merchant stalls, microwaves, dancing floors, gaming tables, arcards.

This is a lot but some of it I agree with. You should be able to sit down on a lot more chairs, but at the same time I kinda understand why you can’t. The world is littered with places to sit, so much so that “Press F to Sit” would be on your screen 99% of the time. Taxis I was actually extremely disappointed were not in the game. The game literally sets up from the beginning that being a passenger in a car is a thing which gives you the impression that it’s a thing that can happen often, and that you’re able to either sit through the car ride or skip it altogether. I thought for sure that fast travel was going to constitute you hailing cab and it taking you to wherever you’ve marked on your map, with the option to sit through the ride or skip it at-will. It’s actually a huge disappointment that that’s not the case (I even had my friend who is playing as a Corpo test whether Delamaine was specific to Corpos-only but alas, it didn’t work).

- You cannot preview wardrobe and weapon purchases.

I’ve not actually bought any guns or clothes so I can’t comment on this.

- There is no reliable cover system.

This one is odd because there is a cover system, but it’s only a weird hint of one. If you’re crouched by a low wall and you aim your weapon, you will peak around the wall, but it’s very finicky and poor. I think the game could do without one altogether, but the fact that there’s a hint at one already implies it’s intended, so it needs reworking.

- Loot system is overdone, invasive and distracting. You are constantly showered with redundant and marginally better items and have no attachment whatsoever with your fashion and weapon choices. (Dear god, I hate this one).

Hard agree. This seems like somewhat of a repeat to an earlier one about not being able to really customize your character out of necessity to wear whatever is best. Loot is prevalent, but hardly ever relevant.

- Enemies are too spongy and level design forces frontal assault way too often.

This one is interesting because I almost agreed with it until I played the game a bit more. In fact, I might’ve made a post about this before, I can’t recall, where I said that it didn’t feel like stealth was always an option. In many cases, I stand by that statement. The stealth gameplay specifically isn’t always an option, which is frustrating. If you’re like me, and you’re using stealth with quickhacking, then it becomes way more relevant. Being able to breach into a camera network and kill everyone with quickhacks is amazing. However, the game seems to somewhat punish this style of gameplay for some odd reason. I will go through and systematically kill everyone via cameras from outside the building, but the moment I step into the building, more enemies will show up out of nowhere. It’s not just that they’re hiding in areas outside of the cameras view, no they literally spawn into existence the moment you go inside. It’s really jarring, odd, and kind of unfortunate. Oh and as for sponginess...eh, yes and no sometimes. Weirdly my quickhacks sometimes one-shot enemies, and other times it takes like 8 quickhacks to kill one enemy. It’s seemingly random, or a bug, or something. I’m not sure.

- Robotics and drone control largely absent (outside of scripted missions).

Hard agree. I was genuinely shocked to find out I couldn’t control turrets when they started popping up more frequently. Drones I can let pass because they’re mobile and therefor a bit more complex to code properly I guess, but turrets are child’s play to code. They’re literally the same as cameras but with guns. It’s really odd that you aren’t even given a perk that’ll let you control them.

#random rant #cyberpunk 2077 #holy shit this is long #I'm sorry #don't read this if you aren't ready lmao

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stormears · 5 years ago

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AO3 Author Tag Meme

I’ve used FFN since 2005 and still do, but lately it’s almost entirely to update 1 Naruto story that’s also cross-posted on AO3. For this, I’m using my newer, more frequently used AO3 account, which has the Naruto story and a handful of others.

AO3 Name: UmbreonLy [Umbreon if it was an adverb?]

Fandoms & # of Fics: 4 Fandoms, 7 fics

Naruto (link) 3

Haikyuu (link): 2

My Hero Academia (link): 1

Star Wars Sequel Trilogy (link): 1

Final Fantasy VII Remake (1 coming soon I swear to god)

★・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★

Fic you spent the most time on: Chasm (Naruto, Sakura-centric, pretty dark) has technically been going since 2015, though I didn’t post it till 2018! I started it as a oneshot for MadaSaku week 2015 and it became far too big, which is my most common fanfic problem. I adore it though.

Longest Fic: Chasm. 4 chapters and about 75k words. Chapter 5 is in progress and has about 2k. Chasm has always had very long chapters which I love, but the disgustingly slow updates are making me consider chapters in the 6-8k range instead of 11-14k.

Shortest Fic: Dragoneyes. About 5k. I saw a MadaTobi aesthetic/moodboard post with dragons in it, made by a total stranger, and decided to write fic about it, because I love those characters and I love dragons. It felt fun to write something random, unconnected, barely structured...made me feel like one of those peeps who write 500 word prompts on a whim. Even though it took two weeks.

Most Hits: The Long Walk, about 7400 hits. Chapter 1 of an MHA fic I’ll never finish, where ABO is a worldwide epidemic that caused mass panic and destruction before people started to settle into the new ways. Pro hero and newly minted alpha Bakugou comes across quirkless(????) Izuku in a random danger zone, but quirkless Izuku acts deeply suspicious. Written because I hate PWP ABO, wanted to put a plot into that trope, and wanted a tense and evenly matched fight scene between an alpha and omega. The fic is mostly Bakugou and Midoriya stepping awkwardly around their bad past relationship and beating each other bloody with ABO trimmings, and I think people appreciate that mix.

Most Kudos: The Long Walk again. Every day I check my email eagerly for chapter updates on stories I like, replies to reviews I’ve written, reviews/comments on my own stories, but three out of every four AO3 emails I get is a kudos alert for this story.

Most Comment Threads: Probably Chasm.

Fave Fic you wrote: I love Chasm...but Darcia (Haikyuu fantasy AU) makes me proud in a way that feels unique and so worthwhile. I rewrote this thing 8 or 9 times across 6 months, struggling, succeeding, failing, hating my work, actually crying at least once because I felt so inadequate...and at the end came away with Chapter 1 of a story that read like a crown jewel to me. It has JUST the vibe and words I wanted. It’s a piece where the struggle was actually worth it.

Fic you want to write: Gonna write a FFVII Sefikura fanfic where legitimate SOLDIER Cloud Strife comes to Midgar and slowly, with trepidation and confusion, gets close to respected General Sephiroth, who, at the point of gaining Cloud’s trust and love, begins to drop larger and larger hints that he had evil machinations all along and will now possess and keep Cloud like a puppet.

Share a bit of a WIP or share a story idea you’re planning:

Excerpt from wip possibly titled “Day of the Navigator” , a Haikyuu horror/space AU. Iwaizumi Hajime is an astronaut, or “navigator”, who was preparing to help evacuate Earth from incoming predatory aliens when the aliens came early. He is forced to flee Earth alone but is soon followed by a party of different aliens who bear a strong resemblance to the Seijoh team and alien Oikawa is going to break in and fuck him.

Tried to write with a “distant, vague” POV because I thought it might help cover more events in less time/paragraphs. This was a good idea because at first this was a oneshot for IwaOi Horror Week. In October 2019. It’s still not done, goddamn me. I don’t love the writing of this scene but MEHH

They stalked him.

He tracked them by their body heat and by the vibrations they emitted. They floated around the solar panels like eels through coral. Their claws tapped along the hull, their heads butted it. When they came too close or when a careful maneuver of the controls was possible, the navigator pushed back. With drills, hammers or projectiles, he punished them for their bullheaded pestering by mauling them.

Once their bodies were torn, they floated limply away—for a while. Even when he shot wires into their flesh and electrocuted them till their flesh started to cook, they returned. Once two of them drifted into range of extraneous thrusters that burned them till they cooked entirely. Their crisp bodies floated end-over-end into space. Two more of them whirled frantically about them as they floated away.

Godspeed, cunts. Hope you die.

They never did.

Each part of the body crushed or torn returned, even if it took weeks. Even bodies ripped in half grew back or stitched together again. And after one period of many weeks, he could not put off a walk to the water filtration tank any longer.

He kissed Tory the tyrannosaurus and set him on an elliptical to wait for him. Iwaizumi would find him happily in the gym once he was done. He suited up for a spacewalk from the midpoint of the ship to the aft end.

The airlock door opened. There was nothing around but a drifting comet in the far distance, silent and white. He was safely alone in the infinite dark.

The journey was quick, unfettered. Past the soldier-like battalions of solar panels, past the engine block and heavy storage armor. Three-quarters down the ship by the aft was the main water filter. Its panel came unlocked easily, dispensed easily, took a replacement receptor easily. From this view, the ship’s many dents and scars were visible. Nothing had ever come close to rupturing, but there were dozens of minor dents from impacts with debris and—and predators. His skin crawled under his suit.

A sudden alarm in the helmet told him to run for his life. The predators were coming.

Iwaizumi followed the route faster than ever before: hand over hand on the handholds, nearly requiring the air jets to realign himself when he missed one and nearly floated off. None of the creatures were in sight yet.

Take me to victory, Ushijima had said, so he did not stop.

Iwaizumi instead took himself off the usual route to a different airlock entrance than usual. It was closer, but with a longer code required for entry. While he punched digits into the panel, the alarm in his suit sounded quadruple signals of four unique heat signatures.

He foolishly spared a glanced up. One of them was crawling between the forest of solar panels above. Atop its head was brunette-colored hair. It was the outcast attacking first, pupils shrunk to nothing.

The airlock opened and Iwaizumi pushed inside with a helpless cry that fogged his helmet.

Over his head there was metallic clattering and bumping as the being crawled down the hull to him—no, two of them did. One of them grabbed at his suit as the door automatically closed.

Iwaizumi’s mind quit all efforts, longed to faint. It left him to protocol instead of thought—he twisted in the thing’s grip, executed a lean maneuver to flip and kick the attacker in the chest. There was a harsh vibration pulsing into him like an indignant scream near his head.

He rocketed into the airlock foyer, unable to breathe. He struck a wall. The door closed and sealed but he still wasn’t breathing.

Air was evacuating the suit through a horizontal tear in the arm. Pressure was returning to the chamber at the same time, beating on his ears and throat. Iwaizumi collapsed to the floor. The helmet fell off and hit the tiles with an undignified clank-clank-CLANK.

Outside the little window in the door, a man’s face looked in: the red-mouthed outcast, now with narrowed brown eyes and an open, conniving mouth with lips. It was a face he’d seen as a boy many a time when he had time for play, when he cared about sports. It was the face of a rotten bastard looking at him through a net, who’d almost seen a cheating plan to fruition. And it was the knowing smile of a man plotting. Finally the navigator, too, became knowing.

How foolish to label this one an inept outcast. How shortsighted, to not see that it danced with danger first and most often, received the most wounds and that it led its pack in these hunting parties in pursuit of him. It had followed him and brought the others to follow him. It knew how to smile. It was truly intelligent life, almost human in its persistence. Its humanity made the animal nearly able to capture and destroy him.

Take me to victory was such a fucking stupid thing to say when he had nearly been pulled away from his escape and into an open mouth. The smiling thing twitched its fingers by the round window to catch his attention. Its hand briefly seemed to be inside the glass.

Iwaizumi squinted his eyes and recognized that he was beginning to hallucinate, that his heartrate was lightning-fast and nauseating. His arms and legs shook so hard he could not control them. He gritted his teeth and tried to move them anyway, watched by the leader of the hunting pack. He rose by grabbing the nearby staircase railing and pulling forward. With it, he began a stiff, horrible walk up the short metal stair steps to the hall beyond.

The walk was short and then the railing was gone and then he could no longer stand. After turning the corner, he fell onto his knees. He sat just out of sight of that window, shaking for hours and then days.

#self #fanfiction #IwaOi #MadaSaku #Nobody tagged me for this I do what I want

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astralaffairs · 5 years ago

Text

freedom of the press 01 | thomas jefferson

title: freedom of the press

pairing: thomas jefferson x reader

tags: @stargazelaurens @ivory-haired-queens @exoticxchicken8@assbuttstyles777 @superbarriobrothers lmk if you want to be added to tags

words: 5.8k

warnings: thomas jefferson

desc: you’d just moved to d.c. full time, a promotion at your publication leading to a transfer to another district chapter, and you were more than thrilled to be there, more than ready to immerse yourself in the world of politics. what you weren’t ready for, though, was how the campaign trail you were following made your heart flutter and your stomach turn. you also hadn’t expected it to be so... gaudy? magenta? — or perhaps, though you wouldn’t hear of it, that wasn’t the campaign’s effect at all.

THOMAS JEFFERSON WAS an arrogant, pompous prick. Holding an entire press conference just so he could make a big, extraneous speech on "making the world a better place" was just about the most conceited thing a person could do — the fact that he expected people to show up was another thing entirely. The worst part was that so many people did.

And that was how one Y/N L/N found herself at the press conference of a man whose political views she absolutely despised, who she'd heard nothing but malice about from one of her best friends, and who she'd hated; his presence didn't make hate seem like a strong enough word.

At that particular moment in time, as she could feel the skin of her feet blistering in the heels she'd shoved them into early that morning, as she was fighting not to be pressed flush against the scratchy blazers of reporters within inches of her every side, as she could feel her thighs beginning to chafe under her pencil skirt, she was seriously regretting her decision to be a political journalist.

Yes, we get it, world peace, reducing poverty, bullshitting your way through a speech you wrote not twenty-four hours ago, she thought, but when can we get to the questions?

She huffed as he continued to his next point, frantically scribbling down his every last word despite the knowledge that every line was drawing her closer to insanity. She had a bottle of wine and a family-size bag of Takis waiting for her in her pantry upon her arrival back at her apartment. However, it wasn't long before she found that the brink of insanity was almost worth it. And it only took seven words.

Secretary Jefferson was nearing what sounded akin to a conclusion. While Y/N hadn't perhaps understood the purpose of the public address (if there was one at all), she was itching to get to questions so she could finally gain the material needed for her article. For her first serious article.

But that was when he said it.

"So, with these noble goals in mind, I find that it is in our nation's best interest that I step down from my position as Secretary of State." He cleared his throat, closing his eyes as though gathering his wits before flashing a confident smile, his gaze sweeping through the expanse of the crowd. "I'm stepping down to run for president."

A collective gasp ran over the crowd. Stepping down to run for president?

There was a skip as everyone jotted the words down, a moment marked only by a quiet buzzing of reporters before all hell broke loose, and everyone around Y/N started pushing toward the stage, demanding answers to their countless questions. (All she wanted was not to get trampled.)

She clutched her camera tightly and hunched her shoulders to shield herself as Jefferson called for order, though he could hardly be heard over the cacophony of a crowd. It didn't take long the man snapped, for better or for worse. Y/N couldn't complain; it stopped the journalist beside her who'd begun to storm the stage, and she was already bracing herself for impact.

"Hey!" he yelled, an annoyed expression painting his face, before the cacophony faded, and Y/N finally found herself able to stand straight up without fear of being KOed by another writer channeling their inner MMA star. "No questions will be taken today," —Y/N's eyes widened— "as we feel that the public should be given time to process the news. However, a full statement will be released from my office later this evening."

That was what elicited the rising discord from the sea of reporters, that time including Y/N.

"What?!" she breathed before pursing her lips. If she'd thought she'd resented the Secretary of State before, it was nothing to how she felt now. A press conference, as defined in all its exactitude, invariably included a period of time dedicated solely to taking questions from the press. Whatever Mr. Jefferson was trying to pull was not that.

She heard him yelling for order, urging the journalists to calm down, but the words seemed to be from a degree of removal; she'd begun to spiral in her thoughts, mind racing as she deliberated how in the world to turn the little she'd gained that afternoon into a real article. And all around her, Jefferson's call for harmony was the furthest thing from what manifested.

"You'll all have time to get a more extensive story throughout my campaign." Somehow, the man didn't look distraught, but simply annoyed as he exited the stage (which was, of course, met with outrage) and climbed into his car.

Y/N wanted to scream. She'd been transferred to D.C. to cover gritty, dramatic, headline politics; it was supposed to be a promotion. But, of course, if she blew the first assignment she was given, she wouldn't exactly be at the top of the list in the future, especially as the race for the presidency began. From her perspective, Thomas Jefferson was single-handedly ruining her career as a political journalist. She was thoroughly convinced that he was Beelzebub incarnate.

Despite her fury, as everyone around her rushed the stage, Y/N began trying to push her way out — if Thomas Jefferson said he wasn't taking questions, he meant it, regardless of how many people he'd spent hours inconveniencing with it. As she emerged onto the sidewalk from the mass of bourgie young-adults who reeked of cheap cologne, all she could think of was how the secretary had wasted her beautiful day. She could've been relaxing in her apartment with her roommate. Perhaps her sister could've been over, too, if she wasn't too busy with her kids. The lost possibilities were all she could focus on as she made her way down the street.

She'd worked with her roommate Angelica since they both started at the Washington Post, and they'd grown close quickly, not wasting much time before splitting rent on an apartment. Over the years, she'd become nearly as familiar with Angelica's sister, Eliza, as well as her husband, Alex — that is, her husband who conveniently happened to be the Secretary of the Treasury. The connection had proved helpful, as his network had pushed her career forward on more than one occasion. However, she couldn't claim that his constant bad-mouthing hadn't soured her opinion of Secretary Jefferson.

Y/N wasn't far from the building she and Angelica lived in, but in her tall heels with the weather bleak, the walk was considerably unpleasant. As she put in earbuds to drown out the din of the masses, her train of thought was only spiraling closer and closer to Dante's Inferno of partisan resentment — she couldn't pinpoint exactly where her emotions lie; she was torn between needing to scream until her throat was raw and wanting to curl into herself and softly weep. If this was her big, exciting, breakout article, she wasn't feeling too optimistic about the rest of her career.

It was only when the crowd thinned and she turned down an alley, taking a shortcut home, that she was torn from her mental soliloquy. As she turned right, venturing to throw herself onto her couch and bury herself in blankets as soon as possible, a black van turned into the other side of the lane, headed directly towards her at breakneck speed. Her eyes widened, cold panic shooting through her veins, and she stood frozen much like a deer in unfortunately-literal headlights, unable to do more than cover her head and brace for impact in the milliseconds she could only assume she had left.

She didn't hear the car screeching to a halt in front of her. It was ten seconds later when she realized that she wasn't splattered against the pavement, and tentatively, she opened her eyes, brow knit tightly in confusion.

As Y/N saw the motionless van, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing as she bit her lip, as her heart thumped in her chest. Her moment of relief passed nearly as soon as it arrived, the accumulation of anger that the afternoon had left her with now radiating from her in waves. Her eyes narrowed and her upper lip curled as she began walking toward the van, fists tightly clenched as she yanked out her earbuds, stuffed them into her pocket.

"Hey, asshat!" she yelled, "Maybe next time consider not trying to drive down the alleys meant for people to pile their trash in?" She let out a bitter laugh as her face twisted into a sardonic smile. "Actually, my deepest apologies; I retract that. I suppose having no regard for the lives of pedestrians does make you trash, so maybe you do belong here. Forgive my oversight."

By then, she was nearly leaning over the hood of the car, directing her sneer and accusatory glare to whoever sat behind the tinted windshield at the driver's seat. It was then that a door began to open in the periphery of her vision, but she didn't notice, consumed wholly by her furious rant.

"Oh, and what's more—"

A man off to her left cleared his throat, and the sight before her as her gaze snapped to the sound nearly felt like a physical blow. Her words caught in her throat; her eyes grew wide. Thomas Jefferson folded his arms across his chest, clad in a burgundy three-piece suit, raising an annoyed eyebrow.

"What, exactly, is more?" He furrowed his dark brow, offering her his mocking interest, and Y/N's jaw ticked as she narrowed her eyes.

"Of course, it's you. Isn't that just perfect?" she huffed, and he raised his eyebrows, taken aback.

"Excuse me?"

"Please, you can't expect me to be feeling great about you right now," she scoffed, staring daggers into his expression of surprise, "You literally just held a press conference where you refused to take a single question. In the future, go waste someone else's time whose career doesn't depend on it."

"I just gave you the week's biggest news to report on. You should be thankin' me." His jaw hung slack as she shook her head in indignation.

"Don't flatter yourself; the fact that you're resigning from office doesn't mean that speech had even a fragment of substance. Instead, now all we know is that Thomas Jefferson wants world peace and enjoys kissing babies!"

"I was layin' out goals for the world when I'm elected!"

"'When'? When you're elected?" She scoffed. "Please. You won't get the nomination."

"I—" Jefferson scowled, cutting himself off before he could retaliate. He took a deep breath. "Look, can you just move? I've gotta be at the capitol of our country, and I don't have time to be arguin' with you."

Y/N raised her eyebrows, plastering on an expression of contrived surprise. "Oh? The capitol? Y'know, I seem to remember you issuing a very public resignation, like, less than an hour ago, no?"

He sighed. "C'mon, ma'am, I'm not kidding."

"I'll move," —His face lit up, and she crossed her arms— "if you give me an interview."

He let out a soft groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. Finally, he shrugged. "Fine. Whatever."

"See, this is exactly what I—" Y/N stopped herself short, her eyebrows shooting up as she processed his words. "Wait, really?"

"I mean, you're not goin' anywhere." A grin flitted across his face, and he added, "And I mean, I could always have Secret Service move you outta the way, but I don't think that'd be great for public relations."

She smiled in spite of herself, pursing her lips in a weak effort to smother it. "Alright, Mr. Secretary. If nothing else, I appreciate that."

"Oh, so now you're bein' nice to me?"

"You are giving me what I want."

"I'm a man of the people, Miss... ?" He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"... Just Y/N," she supplied with a soft smile.

"Then call me Thomas."

She nodded, withdrawing her notepad with a cheeky smile playing at her lips. "Well, who knew it'd be this easy to get on a first name basis with the Secretary of State?"

"Are you gonna interview me or not, Y/N?" He raised a playful eyebrow, and she rolled her eyes.

"I can assure you, I'm not letting an exclusive go." She flipped to an empty page in her notepad, clicked her pen, and pulled out her phone before hesitating. "Do you mind if I record this?"

"So, I'm an exclusive now?" His smirk only grew, and she had to suppress a laugh.

"If you'll let me record this, you're whatever you want to be."

"Have at it, sweetheart." He leaned back on the hood of the van, arms crossed with a smile that was smug without a cause. She smiled as she tucked her phone into her pocket, having pressed record, and began asking questions.

"So, when exactly does your resignation go into effect?" She looked up at him with a raised eyebrow, ready to start writing.

"Well, that was the public announcement, but it's been known in the capitol for a month now. Just now, that was me officially issuin' my one month's notice, 'cause it's a little harder to fill a federal government position than it is to fill a desk job." He chuckled lightly at his own words, but he cleared his throat when Y/N looked less than impressed.

"Alright, and if elected, what policies of the current administration would you see to protecting?"

"Well, our relationship with France has been rocky at times, but I think our maritime alliance is gonna continue to serve us well, considerin' how isolationism has been spreadin' overseas, and..."

As he began to drone on about foreign policy, the pair went on like that for several more minutes, Y/N's pen scratching furiously on her paper as Thomas just stood there, occasionally raking a bored hand through his hair. And soon, she was out of questions, and soon, he had no more answers to give.

"Well, thank you, Secretary Jefferson," she said, tucking her notebook and pen back into her purse and ending the recording on her phone. "I'll get out of your way, now."

He raised a teasing eyebrow. "Didn't I ask you to call me Thomas?"

She rolled her eyes. "Forgive me, but I'm not used to being on a first-name basis with presidential candidates."

"Better get used to it." He shot her a quick wink, pushing himself off the hood of the car before walking back around to the door. "Nice meetin' you, Y/N."

She hummed her agreement, wearing a knowing smile. "We'll see whether you're singing a different tune by the time you actually see my article."

"That a threat?"

"Just thinking out loud." She shrugged, hardly sparing him a glance where he stood by the passenger seat of the car, appearingly amused. "If you're that concerned about it, maybe your next close call with vehicular manslaughter shouldn't involve a journalist."

"Can't make any promises. I do seem to have a hard time avoidin' the press."

She was glad he couldn't see the egoistic smile she wore at hearing the skepticism that drenched his tone as she walked off. "Then maybe this won't be the last you see of me, Thomas."

She looked back over her shoulder to see the bemused look he wore, eyes narrowed in the slightest, arms folded as he leaned against the side of the van. Of all the ways to cheat death, she decided this one wasn't so bad.

_______________

"OH MY GOD, Angelica, I'm freaking out." Y/N rushed into her apartment with her heart pounding, all her movements erratic as she dropped her bag, nearly tripped as she ran to her laptop. Her roommate's eyes widened as she met her where she stood.

"What? What happened?" When Y/N ignored her, she grabbed her arms, pulling her to a stop. "Talk to me."

She took a deep breath. "I just got the first interview with Thomas Jefferson after he announced he was running for president, and I need to get the article out within the hour."

Angelica's eyes widened. "Oh god, what? How did you— I only saw the live broadcast, but he didn't take any questions, did he?"

Y/N shrugged, ego pervading her smile. "Perks of the Secretary of State almost hitting you with his car, I guess."

By then, Angelica's eyes were bugged out. "He what?!"

"Well, technically it was his driver's fault, but still." Y/N finally found where her laptop had been charging and surged toward it, breaking from her roommate's grasp. Angelica could only watch in horror as she frantically slammed the power button, urging the computer to go faster as she emptied the contents of her bag onto the kitchen counter.

As the computer turned on, they both let out sighs of relief, though for different reasons. Angelica was just glad Y/N hadn't quite Hulk-smashed her own keyboard.

The remainder of the night was a blur, with Y/N hardly aware of the time that flew by as Angelica nearly had to force-feed her any sort of dinner (it was ultimately several individually-packaged bags of chips and a few glasses of gas-station alcohol, really) and Y/N proceeding to push just a few yards past the medically-advised limit of coffee in her bloodstream, just to the point where she was shaking, her fingers a blur as they glided across the keys of her laptop.

The article was finished by 7:30 pm, hardly proofread in her eager haste, and forwarded to her editor the moment the last word was typed. Y/N's eyes widened as she sent the email, and she proceeded to close the laptop, taking a deep breath as a grin played at her lips.

"Guess who just sent in her article?" she sang as Angelica glanced back from the living room. She snorted.

"Finally. Maybe now I can stop hearing Thomas Jefferson's voice played on repeat from your phone."

Y/N only shrugged. "Internalizing what was said is part of the creative process, Angelica."

She rolled her eyes. "Alright, whatever. Just go eat some actual dinner, and do your very best not to pass out from the caffeine in your system."

"No promises." Y/N walked over to the fridge, rolling her shoulders after she pulled the doors open. "Damn, I feel like I could run a marathon."

"But it might be just a bit better for you to take a nap," Angelica interrupted, and Y/N pursed her lips.

"I mean, either way," she agreed, and Angelica rolled her eyes. "Alright, now I've just gotta wait for my editor to read it, and I'm golden."

"Or, you have to make several edits and accept thorough draft feedback, and then you're golden," Angelica pointed out, and Y/N rolled her eyes, running a hand through her hair as she rummaged through the fridge.

"Always a cynic." Her eyes widened slightly, and a moment later, she withdrew a bottle of champagne. "Hey, can we crack this open to celebrate my first exclusive?"

"Hmm?" Angelica craned her neck back from the couch, and smiled when she saw what her friend was holding. "I mean, sure, but I think you'd be obligated to invite Alex and Eliza over."

Y/N scowled. "You're right; you're right."

The pair had been gifted the bottle by Angelica's sister and her husband, but only on the condition that they opened it only when it really merited the celebration (it's an excellent vintage bubbly; 1920 was a long time ago, as Alex had lectured them) and that Alex and Eliza were there. It was a strange choice of housewarming gift, but Angelica and Y/N appreciated it nonetheless.

But in that regard, there was nothing left to do with the evening except drop herself onto the couch and wait for the green light to publish (in extreme apprehension, of course).

And Y/N was far from aware of the fuse she'd just lit.

_______________

@Y/N_L/N: My new article is up now, direct from the Washington Post! First hand news not only about the future of our government, but about the 2020 presidential race.

The First Steps Into the Race

https://washingtonpost.com/veryreallink/presidentialrace

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@Thomas_Jefferson: Just so you don't have to read the article, here's a spoiler: I'm running for president 🎉

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: why can't you just let me do my job

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@Thomas_Jefferson: Where's the fun in that?

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: The fun is that people read the article I worked hard on????

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@Thomas_Jefferson: So should I assume I can't count on your vote?

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: why are you like this

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@A_Hamilton: See this is what I've been telling you

Replying to @A_Hamilton:

@Y/N_L/N: can't you stay out of this

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@A_Hamilton: Ok but where's the fun in that

Replying to @A_Hamilton:

@Y/N_L/N: God, you're just like him

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@AngelicaSchuy: 👀 that's serious shade, considering who you're talking to

Replying to @AngelicaSchuy:

@Thomas_Jefferson: call him out

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: You're literally a politician, why are you part of this

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@Thomas_Jefferson: This is called public relations, last I checked

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: this literally started with you telling people not to read my article; you're awful at public relations

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@Thomas_Jefferson: I was just saving people time. I haven't even been elected yet and I'm already making steps for the public interest

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: Spoiler alert: Thomas Jefferson's election will cause unemployment rates to spike because he thinks he's better than everyone at their jobs

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@AngelicaSchuy: oh shit

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@A_Hamilton: can i sponsor your feud with him yet

Replying to @Y/N_L/N:

@Thomas_Jefferson: yeah, I'm definitely counting on your vote :)

Replying to @Thomas_Jefferson:

@Y/N_L/N: leave

...

@Thomas_Jefferson started following you.

________________

AFTER THAT FRIDAY, life itself quickly began to escalate.

Her 79 twitter followers became 150, which soon became 300, and it wasn't long before she hit 1000. Her inbox was flooded with messages about her article (something which had never used to happen before). She had blown up—-to the extent that a political journalist could, of course. But regardless, she was a hit.

So the scattered congratulations and pats on the back she received when she arrived at work that Monday shouldn't have come as a shock. In fact, she'd nearly grown accustomed to it by the end of the day. What did come as a shock, though, was her boss approaching her as she was finishing up in the afternoon.

"L/N, you did some good work on the Jefferson article."

She looked up from her laptop to see Ashley, her editor, standing in front of her at the entrance to her office, hands folded across her chest and a small, proud smile resting on her lips. Y/N matched her stance, giving a self-satisfied grin.

"Why, thank you. Maybe there are advantages to nearly being hit by the Secretary of State's car." Y/N shrugged, and Ashley pushed herself off the doorframe, walking further into the office with an eyebrow raised.

"You're kidding, right? Are you— Can you explain?" she asked, and Y/N just grinned at her.

"A lady never tells," she taunted, though her tone erased any possibility that it might not have been in jest. Ashley rolled her eyes as she reached her desk.

"You've gotta be kidding me," she said, "And to think, I was coming in here to give you quite the enviable long-term assignment."

She perked up at that, eyes widening as she looked up to her from her desk chair. "Wait, seriously? What is it?"

"A lady never tells," Ashley mocked her in an overly-dramatic voice, and Y/N just scowled.

"Oh, c'mon, I don't talk like that," she complained, "Don't be like this."

"Just following suit," Ashley shot her a wink, and she rolled her eyes. "Anyway, the first article you published in D.C. was an exclusive with the Secretary of State announcing that he was running for president. That was the first time people saw your name around here. So, their knee-jerk reaction next time they see it will be to believe what you're saying, especially if you're talking about the same thing."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, and Ashley grinned. "What I'm saying, Y/N, is that, because this is how you started your career, people trust you, especially about the presidential race, especially about Secretary Jefferson."

"I like the sound of that," Y/N said, and Ashley laughed.

"So do I. Trust me when I say it's good for business."

"I can imagine." Y/N hesitated, flipping her pen about her thumb, her brow furrowed, before asking, "So what, then? What's this 'enviable assignment'?"

"I want you to cover the Jefferson campaign through to the election." Y/N's eyes widened, and Ashley was quick to continue, "Now before you say anything, I want to elaborate. This would be a primary assignment. You'd have to build a network exclusively for information on the campaign. You'd have to spend your time digging up dirt on Jefferson and staying updated on his campaign, ideally from near to the source. Essentially, you'll have to structure your life around paying attention to his."

Y/N wrinkled her nose; she agreed with neither his rhetoric nor his policy, so being paid to think about him every waking moment wasn't the most appealing idea.

"But on the other hand, you'll quickly become the person that sources reach out to with pertinent information, your name will become known in our field, and you'll be able to get... well, just about whatever role you want as a journalist after the election, assuming you do the job well. It'd be something of a shortcut to the top."

Y/N sighed, her eyes wide, and pursed her lips. "Sounds like... a lot. It'd be a lot."

"I know," Ashley said, "but I want you to consider it. It'd be good for the Post and for you."

She let out a dry chuckle, raking a hand through her hair and looking back up at Ashley. "It would be good for me, wouldn't it?" Y/N said softly, a small smile resting on her lips. Ashley nodded.

"It'd be more than good."

Y/N pressed her lips into a thin line, dropping her gaze to the floor wordlessly. Ashley folded her arms. She recognized Y/N's blank expression — as stunned as she herself had been when promoted to manager of the Washington sector. She knew she'd need time.

"Just... think on it. You have until Friday," she said softly, tapping on Y/N's desk as she turned to leave.

__________________

"SO HOW LONG did she give you to decide?" Angelica stuffed another chopstick-full of takeout noodles into her mouth as Eliza struggled to get Netflix running on their TV. Y/N sighed.

"Only the next four days. I have to tell her on Friday."

"You shouldn't do it. Can you imagine having to spend a whole year dealing with that dick?" Alex asked, scrunching up his nose as he entered, popcorn and glasses in hand. Eliza shot him a glare as Y/N groaned.

"Language!" she hissed, and Alex rolled his eyes.

"C'mon, Philip's with the sitter," he whined, "It's, like, not that deep."

"That doesn't mean you should make it a habit of cursing about Jefferson! Our son is impressionable," she huffed, whacking his knee as he reached the couch. He pursed his lips.

"Also, for the last time, Alex, you hating him isn't an argument for me not to do this." Y/N yanked the dumplings out of his hands, angrily stuffing the entirety of one into her mouth as she glared at him. "Anyway, ar'n't you a politician? Ishn't talking about your coworkersh like that, like, illegal?"

"You're lucky we understood any of that with how much food you're eating." Eliza sat down next to Y/N, stealing the takeout container from her lap as Y/N whined in protest. Alex scoffed.

"I can talk about that asshole any way I want. He's resigning, anyway." Alex took a seat next to Eliza, absentmindedly draping an arm over her shoulders. "Besides, you hate him just as much as I do; don't even pretend."

"Hate's a strong word for it," she protested, "How could I hate him? I don't even know him."

"Sure, but you hate what he stands for," Alex said reasonably. Y/N huffed.

He was far from wrong; that was the exact thing that'd left her with such heavy reservations, but she couldn't give him the satisfaction of saying it. At that point, Angelica rolled her eyes, chucking a chopstick at him.

"Can you think about the positives for a half second?" she asked, turning to Y/N, "This would be such a good career move for you—"

"But at what cost?" Alex interjected.

"Don't start," Eliza scolded, whacking his chest lightly.

"And almost anyone else would jump at an opportunity like this. I know I would," Angelica continued, ignoring him, "And Alex could get you great connections and sources for your articles. Your networking is just about done for you."

Alex narrowed his eyes at that. "I am so not going to—"

"Yes, you are." Eliza narrowed her eyes right back. Alex scowled.

"Anyway," Angelica continued, "I think you should do it. Don't let Jefferson's horrible personality get in the way of your success."

Y/N scrunched up her nose. "I dunno; his horrible personality is a pretty big factor."

"Y/N, just know that I support your decision either way. It's your career, not these two's," Eliza said, giving Y/N a comforting smile as she reached over to squeeze her hand. Y/N met her expression with a soft smile of her own, though it didn't quite meet her eyes.

"Thanks, Lize," she sighed, "I just feel like, y'know... I might regret it if I take the job, but I'll always wonder if I don't."

"There's no good option, honey; we know," Angelica said sympathetically, "But look at the pros and cons, alright? What's the worst that happens if you take the job, hm?" She raised her eyebrows, and Y/N pursed her lips, holding back a scowl.

"I spend over a year miserable while tracking Jefferson's every move," she grumbled. Eliza sighed.

"And what's the realistic worst outcome?" she asked, "Because first, you really oughta think about whether this is honestly something that's gonna hold your interest for over a year."

Angelica nodded her agreement, her lips pursed at Y/N's sullen expression. "If you really think you're gonna be miserable, then by all means, don't do it. But if the assignment sounds like it could really be appealing..." She shrugged. "I think it's worth it."

Y/N sighed, raking a hand through her hair. Angelica's words were reasonable; they always were. And really, did she think she'd be miserable?

"For what it's worth," Alex added, interrupting her train of thought, "I still think it's a bad idea. Jefferson's trouble; you don't wanna spend that much time around him and his life."

Eliza whacked him, eyes wide and scolding, and Y/N huffed. "Thanks, Alex, real productive," she said bitterly, as both her friends glared at him. He held his hands up in defense, eyes wide.

"Hey, I'm just saying!" he protested, "If you take it, you have to be careful with him, alright? If he doesn't like what you report, I wouldn't put it past him to pull some underhanded bullshit."

Y/N scoffed, raising her eyebrows at Alex in disbelief. "What's he gonna do, set a hitman on me? Make me 'mysteriously disappear'?"

"I'm just saying!" he defended, and they all shared a laugh, Angelica rolling her eyes at Alex.

Y/N sighed, gave him a patronizing smile and patted his knee. "Alright, I'll keep it in mind." He scowled in response.

"But really, Y/N, Angelica's right," Eliza said, circling back, "You really need to think about whether you'll enjoy covering this. 'Cause if you won't, the career benefits shouldn't be the biggest factor, okay?"

She drew in a shaky breath, nodding. Would she enjoy it? She wasn't sure, and really, she had no way to be. But she couldn't deny the thrill that ran down her spine when he broke the news, when she had run into him, when she was writing the article, every time she thought of it. Was that enough to know?

She wasn't sure. She couldn't have been; she couldn't have known everything it would spiral into, how tangled her life would become into his. But she knew very well that, even so, there wouldn't be a single dull moment if she took the assignment. The past few days had already served to prove that.

She hoped that it would turn out to be enough.

_________________

"I'LL TAKE THE project," Y/N announced on Friday as she marched up to her boss's desk, surprisingly confident for having spent all week tearing her hair out over the decision. Ashley raised her eyebrows, not overly surprised, but entirely pleased.

"Oh really?" she asked, her expression only showing hints of conceit. "And just what made you decide that?"

Y/N gave a small smile, shrugged. "Couldn't throw away an opportunity like this on the off-chance that I got bored with Jefferson," she said, "Wouldn't be worth it."

Ashley grinned up at her. "Well, Y/N, I'm glad you think so. And I agree with you, for what it's worth."

"Well, good. Makes me feel like I'm making the right decision." She matched Ashley's expression, committing herself to optimism.

"And even so," Ashley added, folding her hands atop her desk. "You will not be getting bored over the time between now and the inauguration. I promise."

Y/N cocked a brow. "You sound like you speak from experience." Ashley only shrugged, a sigh escaping her lips.

"Yeah, I've had a few projects not too far off from this in my day," she admitted, "And the one thing they always are is interesting. Especially with politics."

"So I should strap in for a wild two years?" Y/N quipped, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Ashley grinned.

"Just know that you won't be surviving it standing up."

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evilrubberducke · 5 years ago

Text

IzuMina Week Day 2- Let Me Count the Ways I Love You

And here’s day two of IzuMina week. This time around, the prompt I chose is ‘Night-time Stroll’. A little bit happier and fluffier than the last prompt, so hopefully it will help you fell better in this trying time.

As I said in my last post, I finally made another blog for my writing/Mina obsession. If that’s the content you follow me for, feel free to go give it a follow so you don’t get quite so many extraneous/personal posts from me.

Read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302390

Or on FF.Net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13530836/2/IzuMina-Week-2020

"Blergh!" Mina exclaimed in frustration, collapsing back into her chair, "Midori, I can't take any more of this. Can't we be done?"

Izuku leaned back in his own chair, and set his pencil down. The two of them had taken over one of the common room tables for a study session that afternoon, and had hardly left the table since. For Izuku, that was a fairly normal study session, but for Mina it was the kind of epic studython that she rarely engaged in.

They had gone through each and every subject, with Izuku meticulously explaining each part she didn't understand with the same patience and kindness that he always displayed when helping her study.

If it weren't for him, she never would have made it this far. She had always found it hard to concentrate on studying when there were so many other interesting things she could be doing. Even if she sat herself down in front of a textbook and refused to get up until she had finished a chapter, the words often refused to stick in her brain, and her eyes had a tendency to glaze over as she skimmed through the book without really understanding any of it.

Studying with Izuku was different though. She swore that her boyfriend could read the phone book to her, and he would still find a way to make it interesting. She wasn’t sure if it was something about his voice, or just the way he explained things to her without seeming like he was talking down to her that did it, but whatever the reason was, having him read the material to her was way more effective than any study method she had ever tried before. It wasn't a perfect system, and she still needed plenty of repetition to actually cram everything into her head, but it had helped her raise her grades significantly.

“We have been studying for quite a while,” Izuku admitted, “I suppose a break could be good, so long as you don’t make it too long.”

“Yes!” Mina cheered, hopping to her feet. She was happy that her grades were rising, especially since it meant her parents had upped her allowance significantly, but she had always been an active person, and sitting still for so long had been driving her a bit stir crazy.

She stretched her arms out above her head, leaning to the side as she did so to help work some of the kinks out of her back. As she did so, the light of the full moon pouring in the window caught her eye, and she was suddenly struck with the perfect idea for how to relieve her stress, and maybe buy a little extra break time for herself too.

“Hey, Midori, want to go for a walk with me?”

He cocked his head in confusion, then turned to stare out the window into the night beyond. “Ummm, isn’t it a bit late for that?”

“Nope!” Mina chirped, “We’ve still got tons of time before lights out. And there’s plenty of light, cuz of the moon. It’s the perfect night for a stroll!”

“Mina, I really can’t. I still haven’t started on the essay for English, and I really should go over this section ahead of time for when we review it together,” Izuku said, gesturing at the textbook that was in front of him.

Mina blew a raspberry in response. “C’mon Midori! That essay isn’t due till next week. Besides, you’ve been studying for even longer than I have. You need a break as much as I do.”

He wavered for a moment, and Mina seized the chance. She put on her best pleading face, knowing that Izuku was helpless when it came to resisting a pair of puppy dog eyes. She’d realized that little tidbit rather early on in their relationship, and had made great use of it.

Their eyes met, and his resistance crumbled as a small smile spread across his face. “Okay, okay. I’ll come with you. But we are going to finish studying when we get back.”

“Fiiiiiiine,” Mina said with a sigh. Having that hanging over her head would bring down the mood a little, but she would manage.

Despite how warm the day had been, the night air was cool and crisp as Mina stepped outside. She had pulled on a light jacket before heading out, but she still cuddled up to Izuku’s side and pulled his arm around her before they could even start their walk.

Even though they had been dating for several months now, Izuku’s cheeks still flushed slightly from the contact. She liked that look. It made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know that no matter how much time they spent together, and no matter how many times they cuddled, Izuku still cared enough to get flustered over something so simple.

She didn’t really have a destination in mind as the two of them set out into the evening. She just wanted to move around and spend time with her boyfriend thinking about anything but homework. Thankfully UA had plenty of walking paths for them to explore.

The one they ended up choosing wove around the edge of the campus and through the carefully maintained trees there. With the only light coming from the moon overhead, Mina felt like they were walking through an isolated patch of forest instead of the nearly urban school grounds.

“Pretty romantic, huh?” Mina said, glancing up at her boyfriend. He wasn’t that much taller than she was, but the difference in height was noticeable enough when they walked arm in arm.

“Yeah, it really is,” Izuku said, turning his own gaze up to look at the night sky.

“Sooo, why don’t we make it even more romantic?” Mina asked, giving him a light poke in the ribs to pull his attention back to her.

“How so?”

“Like this!” Mina said, stopping in her tracks and turning slightly so she and Izuku were face to face, arms wrapped around each other.

“I like you because you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. You never make me feel stupid for not understanding something, even though it takes me forever to get math. I like you because you’re so passionate about everything you do. You never stop giving it your all, even when things are super tough and it's honestly so inspiring. Everyone in the class looks up to you, me most of all. You make me want to do better, to be better all the time. And even when things are tough, you always help me out. I really, really, really like you, for all of those reasons and a bunch more!”

As she finished, she pulled Izuku in close and planted a kiss on his lips. She put all the feeling she could into the gesture, wishing that she could convey even a tenth of what she felt for the wonderful, adorkable boy who had stolen her heart all those months ago. She couldn’t, of course, but she still tried her best.

By the time she pulled back, Izuku had turned completely red. Mina had thought she had seen him at his blushiest before, but that had been nothing compared to this. Honestly, he looked like he was going to keel over from the amount of blood that had rushed to his head. Not that she really had any room to judge. She could tell her own cheeks were flushed

“Th-That’s not fair,” Izuku mumbled, “You need to warn me before you say stuff like that.”

“No way,” Mina said, “That would mean I don’t get to see your flustered face anymore, and that’s way too cute to never see again.”

“I’m not cute,” Izuku protested, “I’m just… plain.”

“You are a cutie-patootie, mister,” Mina replied, booping him on the nose to forestall any protest, “And sure, I’m a little biased because we’re dating, but that doesn’t change facts. Besides, being cute is more than just looks. It’s how you act too, and that’s something you’ve got down pat. I’ve never met someone who acts quite as cute as you do.”

To her surprise, that last line didn’t send Izuku into another spiral of blushing. Instead, a soft smile bloomed on his face as he locked eyes with her.

“I can think of someone,” he said calmly, “And she’s standing right in front of me.”

Now it was Mina’s turn to be reduced to a blushing mess. There was something about seeing the change in him, from shy and awkward to surprisingly smooth that never failed to set her heart racing.

He wasn’t done there, though. “Mina, I really, really, really like you too. You’re the kindest, sweetest, happiest girl I’ve ever known, and just being around you is enough to make me smile. But that’s not enough for you. You keep getting stronger, and faster, and more amazing every day because you never give up. Even when it’s tough, you just keep smiling and making the world around you a brighter place, just by existing. You’ve taken my breath away since the moment we first met, and I can’t wait to see how you’ll do it next.”

Whereas Mina’s kiss had been quick and passionate, the kiss Izuku laid on her lips was slow, gentle, and so loving that it was all Mina could do not to melt into a happy pink puddle right then and there.

Thankfully, she resisted the urge, and they spent several minutes simply standing there, arms wrapped around each other as they enjoyed the simple intimacy of being close to the person they loved most in the world.

Eventually, however, they did have to break their embrace and return to the dorms. Neither of them were in Aizawa’s good graces at the moment, so any curfew violations would see them cleaning the dorms for a week.

To Mina’s surprise, however, she wasn’t as reluctant to return to the dorms and the pile of unfinished homework within them as she had expected to be. Hearing Izuku’s confessions of affection had been exactly what she needed to recharge her batteries.

It was still going to be a long evening, but she felt like she could handle it. After all, she had her favorite person in the whole world to help her out, and together they could conquer anything.

#izumina #midoriya izuku #mina ashido #izuminaweek2020 #day two #Night-time stroll #fluff #two dorks in love #dekumina #minadeku

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