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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Black lace and property damage

Summary: With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side. Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: SMUT, 18+. Sweet sex, awkward sex, some dirty sex, some sex on a car. Basically sex. Swearing. Bucky wearing a white t-shirt and dog tags. My sketchy automotive knowledge.

A/N: This story is sort of an ode to anyone struggling to make time for your person. Life gets busy, so don’t be afraid to get creative. Also sometimes sex goes smooth and perfect, but often it comes with mishaps and giggles. Both ways are great, Bucky says just roll with it!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

The porch light above the front door is out.

Was he supposed to change that before he left?

“I’m not touching it Bucky, there are spiders up there. Big ones. The kind that give you rabies.”

“Spiders don’t have rabies.”

“No one’s ever proven that.”

Dammit. Yeah, he was.

Picturing you stumbling up the porch, using the pathetic flashlight on your phone to light the way, Bucky feels like a world class, Grade A jackass. He needs to make it up to you.

Good thing he has plenty of ideas for that.

“Please be home,” he mutters, “please be home, please dear god be fucking home.”

Fingers crossed, he kicks the door open and calls out a hopeful hello.

An empty echo returns.

Bucky blows out a frustrated breath.

Figures.

Slogging down the dark hallway, he slings his bag on the kitchen table with a thud. Grenade pins, bullet casings, fun size candy bar wrappers, and handfuls of beer bottle caps rattle loose in the army green canvas and he grimaces.

One of these days, maybe, just fucking maybe, he’ll convince Natasha to stop using his bags as her garbage bin.

Ignoring that disaster zone (a problem for future Bucky), he wanders over to the sink, where he spies a small tableau on the counter. Propped up beside his favorite coffee mug, the one with sparkly pink letters proclaiming “Bitch, I’m Fabulous”, is a folded piece of paper, his name scrawled across the front.

He flips it open.

“Hey Bucky Bear. Don’t let your sexy ass fall asleep before I get home, I have a surprise!”

Drawn under your bubbly letters, he finds two stick figures entangled in an outrageously lewd sex act. Tracing tender fingers over the very obviously male stick figure (you never were very subtle), he grins so hard his cheeks ache. Leaning on the counter, he sniffs the letter because he’s a sentimental sap and it smells like your Cherry-Almond lotion, and drops his head in his arms.

“So tired,” he whines softly, voice muffled against sleek granite.

Three weeks. That was the last mission. Three weeks, even though Steve guaranteed Bucky three days max. Of course, two days into the mission Bucky remembered that Steve Rogers is an accomplished liar, so instead he spent three exhausting weeks dodging bullets, rewashing all his underwear, and hysterically rationing his bag of fun size candy bars.

Finally home, he wants to forget everything and sink into the post-mission domesticity he dreams about when he’s stuck in some dank motel on the corner of Fuck This and No One Cares. The routine is simple. A scalding hot shower, burrito wrapping himself in the feather duvet, making out with you for a few hours, taking a break to eat some pizza, and then fucking you so hard he breaks the brand new headboard he made for you last month (actually the third headboard he’s made...a fact he smugly reports to anyone and everyone).

And after all that fun, he wants to sleep. Maybe two full days. Or five. Tops.

Is that asking too much?

“No,” he sighs out loud. “It’s not.”

Carefully folding the cartoon and your sweet message, he kisses the paper and tucks it in his back pocket.

No way he’s falling asleep before he sees you. Nope. Nada. Negative. Totally not happening.

Pepping himself up, he goes to work, whizzing through his homecoming task list.

Blood-stained tac clothes go in the washer with three cups of bleach. Guns and knives are wiped down and polished. The contents of the dirty green canvas bag are unceremoniously trashed. The spider infested porch light is changed (with only three furry sightings). The shower is set to a blistering temp and he hangs out in there for an hour, soaping his hair into a foamy mohawk, belting out a few showtunes with his shampoo bottle microphone.

Scrubbed fresh and clean, he flops on the bed with his Starkpad and opens up Netflix, searching for something to keep him awake. Several scrolls later, he finds Brooklyn 99 and settles in for a laugh.

Confident in his ability to resist the appealing pull of sleep scratching at his brain, he takes a slurp of the Super Double Big Gulp sized coffee on his nightstand and stretches his eyes wide open.

Staying awake. Piece of cake.

Ten minutes later, Bucky’s fast asleep.

*****

When his eyes pop open, the room is dark. He feels tipsy, sleep drunk on his first uninterrupted hours of rest in weeks.

Beside him, he feels the cozy pressure of another body. Glancing down, he finds you curled under the sheets at his side, your face smushed against his arm, steady breaths fogging the gleaming metal.

Asleep.

Bucky grits his teeth. Squeezes his eyes shut. One thing. You asked him to do one thing.

God. Dammit.

Furious with his lame old man ass, he almost wakes you up. Almost. But then he swallows that desire and thinks.

Before he got married, Bucky read every relationship advice book under the sun. He gets the importance of keeping the romance alive. He knows you need to cherish your person, make them a priority, shower them with love. He knows. He gets it. He watches Oprah, for fuck’s sake. Relationships take work.

But lately? This is life.

With your messy work hours, Bucky’s consistently inconsistent mission schedule, and those basic life tasks you’re both ignoring (when was the last time he actually bought a new toothbrush?), the simple act of just being together has been shunted to the side.

Bucky’s officially starting to panic.

Although, he muses, eyes lingering on the innocent curve of your mouth, the chaos has forced both of you to get more…creative.

He grins.

It was you who instigated it the first time. He was lying in a dingy motel bed when you nervously offered.

“Hey, um…do think maybe you’d…like…would you…uh…”

“Spit it out babe.”

“Doyouwannatryphonesex?”

An anxious slur so fast, he nearly misses the question. He remembers that beat of hesitation, before you dove in headfirst, telling him in obscenely explicit detail exactly what you wanted to do to him. He was so shocked he dropped the phone and had to naked crawl under the grimy mattress to fish it out.

He must’ve jerked off five times that night. Replaying your filthy words. Remembering the quiet whimpers as you came on your fingers, gasping out his name. What a treat.

Sexting soon followed, accompanied by a plethora of nudes. None from you of course, because as you always remind him, you’re a lady, but Bucky? He gets irrational joy from sending them. They come in a variety of close-ups and poses, several which Sam accidentally discovered when he walked in on Bucky prancing around naked, searching for his best angle.

Sam always knocks now.

But sometimes words and pictures aren’t enough. Sometimes you need the soothing weight of someone in your arms. The scent of sweaty skin beneath your nose. Hot breaths of pleasure in your ear and the touch of a cool tongue licking across a heated body.

Sometimes he just needs you.

Could he wake you up? Sure. He knows you wouldn’t mind, you’ve told him a thousand times. But he also knows how tired you’ve been, and he can’t bring himself to shake you awake, selfishly stealing those bits of recovery you need.

So instead, he searches for something to keep him occupied.

He tries reading Game of Thrones again and gets nowhere. Thinks yet again someone needs to get George R.R. Martin an editor.

He flicks on his phone and covertly watches PornHub on mute. Seriously debates whether he can get away with jerking off while you’re sleeping because hey, Bucky Barnes is nothing if not stealthy.

He stares up at the ceiling and tries to see how long he can hold his breath. He gets 2 minutes and 8 seconds (a new record) before giving up.

In the end, he rolls onto his side stares intently at you. Wills you to wake up on your own. Come on baby, please.

But nothing works, and when sleep still doesn’t come, he decides to be productive. Crawling carefully from the bed, he smothers a laugh when you curl instantly into the warm mattress dip of his body, burrowing further under the blankets and unconsciously stealing his pillow. Most mornings Bucky wakes up hanging off the bed, no blankets or pillows to his name, while you’re swathed in comfort, cold toes shoved beneath his belly.

Maybe he should be annoyed. Except every time he looks at you, he forgets how to scowl.

Love is weird.

Rummaging silently through the closet, he unearths a threadbare pair of jeans and an oil stained t-shirt, slips into his worn leather boots. He drops a light kiss on your forehead, brushing a finger down the curve of your neck. Smiles to himself when you snuffle a quiet snore.

And he heads out the backdoor, down the weatherworn brick to the garage out back.

It was an added bonus when he bought the house. An unanticipated domestic perk. Hell, he never thought he’d find someone would actually date him, let alone someone who wanted to marry him and buy a house with him and accept his penchant for hoarding things in a rickety old garage (come on, I grew up in the Depression and I need this, he whines every time you take him to Target).

Thank god you said yes. He’s the luckiest jerk in the world.

Flicking on the garage light, Bucky still gets a little thrill. The entire place is an homage to eclectic, random artifacts, from the box of ugly 1970s vases he found at a flea market, to the fishing equipment he insisted on buying and has yet to use, to the sack of broken seashells you drunkenly collected on your honeymoon in Costa Rica.

In the midst of the swirl sits his pride and joy. Cherry red paint, black leather seats, a tad dusty, full of potential.

The 1969 Camaro looks like a teenage wet dream.

He remembers the day he brought it home, that surge of macho pride when your eyes lit up. After you slapped his ass and told him how sexy the car was, he reveled in your admiration for maybe 10 seconds, before hauling you back to the house and under the sheets. Took several hours before you both came up for air.

That was a good time, he thinks dreamily.

The car attracted his friends as well. Sam and Steve brought over a celebratory case of beer and stood by while Bucky explained the changes he had planned. Steve gave a few sage nods, while Sam helpfully threw out words like fuel injector now and then. Neither had a fucking clue what was happening, but Bucky graciously let them fake it.

Tony also saw the car once. Got a fervent gleam in his eye and started to say the phrase jet fuel, before Bucky ushered him out the door. Tony doesn’t get to see the car anymore.

There are still plenty of fixes to make, but for tonight he takes it easy. Flips on the ancient radio perched above the workbench and flops down on a rolling seat, sliding under the Camaro to tinker around. He goes to work, lets the crackle of the radio and the mechanical puzzle lull him into focus mode.

So intent on the task at hand, he barely hears the garage door opening.

The click of a shoe alerts him too late and he freezes, gripping his wrench tight. Muscles tense, garage floor plans and fight scenarios flooding his brain.

“Bucky? Do you have a sec?”

His breath whooshes in relief at your voice. A silly grin bubbles up because you’re finally awake, until he tilts his head sideways, peering out from under the car to see your feet.

Black high heels.

Stomach sinking, Bucky closes his eyes. Back to work then. Motherfucker. He missed his chance again.

Swallowing down the bitter disappointment, he croaks out a plea.

“Hey babe, do you gotta go back to the office so soon? Can you just - “

Click click and you step between his legs. Firm hands clutch the oil stained fabric at his knees and you pull. The seat rolls easily and he slides free, squinting up at you in the dim light.

The words die on his lips.

Black high heels, yes.

And.

Lacy black underwear, the sides held together with thick satin ribbons. A lacy black bra, your breasts threatening to spill out.

Gorgeous, devilish smile.

Fingering the wide satin bow between your breasts, you tease a light tug and Bucky starts sweating like a virgin on prom night. His wrench slips from numb fingers, thunking him in the nuts and clattering away.

“Shit,” he grunts. There’s a moment of confusion on whether the fresh ache in his balls is from the punch of the wrench, or tantalizing swathes of skin before him, but then you say his name and he figures it out pretty fucking fast.

“Hey Bucky Bear,” you purr, in that raspy voice he loves. “Still want that surprise I promised?”

Palming himself roughly, Bucky adjusts the suddenly tight front of his jeans, eyeing you with a lusty smile. Fuck yes, he wants his surprise. He wants everything about you.

“You bet your sweet ass I do. What’d you have in mind?”

“I have some ideas,” you say playfully. Stepping closer, slipping your fingers into his silky hair, he leans into the touch. “And I promise we’ll get to them. But first, how about you stay down there and maybe show me how much you missed me?”

Torn, Bucky looks down at his oil stained fingers. They spasm, clutching the edge of the seat so tight the metal bends. His voice drops several octaves.

“Babe, I - shit, I’m gonna kill the mood here, but my hands are all dirty, I should wash ‘em first,” he apologizes. Rolling your eyes, you shift closer until the edge of his nose is a mere inch from the delicate lace panties.

“I’m not asking for your hands, soldier. You have a mouth. Get creative.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. Sassy and domineering? And nearly naked?

Hell yes, his dick shouts. Here we fucking go.

Warm and cool, tentative fingertips press into the smooth skin behind your knees, stroking higher until he’s plucking the satin ribbons and pulling. It feels like Christmas morning when the knot slowly breaks apart, whispers of satin and lace floating to the ground.

Nosing against your core, he inhales, long and deep. A low growl rumbles, rough hands gripping your hips tight and heat explodes across your skin when his tongue presses into your folds, licking over your clit.

“God,” your moan is dark, desperately breathless, “keep - that feels so good, Bucky, keep going, please, been way too long.”

Bucky gives a fervent nod of agreement, strands of his dark hair tickling your thighs. When was the last time he did this? Nah, you know what? If he has to ask, it’s been too long.

From now on, the only correct answer should be every damn day.

He feels you moving his head, guiding him exactly where you need him most, and he hums hungrily. Shoves his tongue deeper. He adores when you take charge, using him, his mouth or his fingers or his dick, to get yourself off. He loves it, dreams about it, wishes you would let him film it just one time (because sometimes missions last three weeks not three days Steve).

But until then, he devotes himself to making it perfect because you deserve perfect.

Fast, firm flicks of the tongue. Long, leisurely strokes, licking you slow and sweet. Rough pressure, his plush pink lips sucking tight around your clit. So good.

Your eyes fall closed as his tongue moves faster, quicker, pushing you closer closer closer -

No, that won’t do. Cold metal lightly pinches your ass, a bid for attention. Chest heaving, you open your eyes.

Bright eyed and eager, Bucky gazes up from between your legs, looking thoroughly debauched. White t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, dark hair mussed in your fingers, an obvious erection straining his jeans.

So close, you’re so close, right on the edge, just another second -

He knows, of course. Could always play you like a fiddle. He cocks a challenging eyebrow, sucks your clit between his teeth -

“Oh god, Bucky, fuck,” you moan. Weak knees buckle and his hands clutch your ass, keeping you upright and open. He never stops licking, swirling that talented tongue to draw out the bursts and shocks of pleasure until you’re gasping. When he’s wrung every drop from you, he kisses the sensitive bud and tips his head back with an arrogant smirk.

Legs like jelly, you promptly collapse into his lap.

The momentum of the fall sends the rolling seat flying. Busy being chivalrous and keeping you from tumbling headfirst onto dirty concrete, Bucky lets the wheels send him whizzing backward. His head smacks the door handle with a sharp thwack.

“Ow,” he grunts.

“Sorry,” you pant. Struggling for breath, wrapped in the haze of post orgasm bliss, you cuddle against him, soaking up his warmth. “Want me to rub it?”

Massaging his head, he wrinkles his nose. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re offering to rub.”

“Dealer’s choice,” you sass, and Bucky barks out a laugh. Wandering hands skim lightly over your shoulders, fingering the straps of the lacy bra, feather light trails along your collarbone, to the satin bow between your breaks. Tugging impatiently, he smiles when it unwinds, your breasts spilling free.

“Well, how about I take my pants off, we get in the backseat of this car, and you rub whatever you find.”

“Intriguing. What happens after I finish rubbing whatever…pokes my fancy?”

Bucky dips his head, takes your nipple between his lips, sucking gently. The feel of his wet mouth has you squirming closer until he pauses to offer an option.

“Maybe we fuck like a couple horny teenagers?”

“You’re killing me with the romance here, Barnes,” you say drily and he chuckles. “But I was maybe thinking something different.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?”

Licking a lazy strip between your breasts, he kisses up, up, up, until his tongue finds the hammering pulse of your heartbeat. Bemused, he hears your voice falter, before bravely offering your idea.

“I was thinking maybe I sit on the hood of your pretty red car, and – and you spread my legs and fuck me so good, I can’t walk for a week.”

Startled, Bucky pulls back. Excitement explodes in his chest.

“You - really? Seriously? That’s what you want?”

“Yep,” you confirm, palpable relief at successfully executing the dirty request. “That’s exactly what I want.”

Bucky plants a sloppy kiss on the tip of your nose. Wiggles his eyebrows and winks.

“Well god damn. You got it sweet cheeks.”

Wasting no time, he pushes off the ground and you kick your heels off, wrapping your legs around his waist. He huffs out a blissful moan when you suck a string of hickeys down his neck, grinding against you as he stumbles to the front of the car. Without thinking, he drops you on the shiny red hood and -

“Cold!”

Icy metal meets your bare ass. There’s a panicked scramble back into his arms and he manages to catch you, until your flailing upper cut cracks his jaw. It sends him off balance, tripping forward to smack his kneecaps on the Camaro’s fancy new grill. A grating screech tears the air and the grill rattles to the floor, the metallic clang bouncing off the walls.

Flinching, you peer up at him as it fades away.

Bucky’s nose twitches.

In all his fantasies (and there are many, because you are one sexy piece of ass), this shit never happens. Every sexcapade is effortlessly smooth, sensual and steamy, where you both look great, not a hair out of place, no oil-stained hands or unintended destruction of expensive vintage cars.

In reality, it seems like something always goes sideways. One of his nipples gets gouged by your fingernail or the silk from your negligee gets caught in the plates of his arm, or one of his perfectly aimed thrusts sends you both toppling off the bed. Sometimes he wonders if this is just the two of you? Do other people have perfectly orchestrated sex lives? Is porn not a true mirror of real life?

Is porn a lie?

Maybe he should watch more porn and form a more educated opinion.

For now, he takes in your crestfallen expression, vehemently shaking his head when you try to apologize.

“Buck, I’m sorry, I -“

Holding up a stern hand, he stops you cold. Sets you on your feet, gallantly whipping off his shirt, and spreading it on the shiny red paint. This time when he sets you on the hood, you lay back until the familiar scent of his cologne hugs you close. Bucky lifts your feet, propping each on the hood, spreading your legs open. He leans in close, a pink flush spreading over his chest, crawling up his throat, blue eyes turning dark.

“Listen to me. Don’t ever apologize, okay? You’re worth more than this old junker.” A crooked smile tilts his mouth, his voice as soft as the lips now brushing yours. “You’re priceless. You understand?”

“Okay,” you murmur. Fingers dance lightly up the hard planes of his stomach, wrapping around the chain of his old dog tags. “I understand.”

Bucky nods, watching your eyes drift down, drinking him up. He lives for that look. Sets him on fire, to watch you ogle him. When your eyes skate down his right side, he flexes his forearm a bit, because he knows it turns you on.

A swift tug of the chain and he dips easily, mouth slanting over yours. There’s a faint sound of teeth clacking together, and he stifles a laugh at your excitement. Deep kisses, stoking that simmering fire sitting right below the surface. Your lips part and he slides inside, curling his tongue around yours, pulling away to lick along the corner of your mouth, to suck your bottom lip between his teeth.

The thought appears, same as when he had his mouth between your legs. How long has it been since the two of you just made out like this? Same answer? Too fucking long?

This is definitely happening more often.

He feels your eager fingers reach for the button of his jeans, popping it open, slipping your hand inside. Cool fingers wrap tight around his cock, the other hand wandering down to squeeze a handful of his ass. Bucky hurriedly shimmies his pants to his knees, sets both hands on the car and leans forward, tipping his face down, touching his forehead to yours. Blue eyes flutter closed, breath hitching while he concentrates on the feel of your capable hands, slow strokes along his length, slicker with each tug.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he grits out. “Can you - damn that’s good - can you, there, bit lower -“

Ragged pants melt into a low groan when you slip your hand from the death grip on his ass to cup his balls, rolling them against your palm.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, fuck yes, just like that,” he hisses, thrusting into your hands. “Can you - can you pull just a little-“

He stammers the question, ignoring your amused hum. It was a quirk, one he discovered early in the relationship. It came out of the blue, a bashful request during a romp in the sheets, but for some reason, Bucky has a thing for having his balls tugged. Not hard (which was also discovered after an unconsciously rough yank had him squealing in pain), but more of a soft squeeze, followed by a slow pull.

Like how you squeeze an overripe banana, he had explained later, gingerly massaging his balls. Not so hard it squishes.

Many entertaining attempts later, and he swears you have the move patented. Stroking his dick faster, your thumb presses over his balls, before a careful pull. Tipping his head back, Bucky stares glass eyed at the ceiling, lost in pleasure, pushing himself into your firm grip.

“Feel good?” you murmur.

“Yeah. Yes, so good, so god damn good ,” he chokes out. Faster, harder, faster - and then a strangled gasp and panicked blue eyes catch yours. “Wait, too good, it’s too good! Don’t wanna come yet, hang on! Need to be inside you first.”

He grabs your wrists, the thwarted sting of a denied orgasm obvious in the grind of his teeth. Both of you look down to where your hands are wrapped around him, one still kneading his balls, the other curled around the velvety hot skin of his cock.

“Okay,” you say, looking him up and down. “Fine, but - you’re so sexy, Bucky. And I love your balls.”

Bucky nods furiously, gulping a deep lungful of air. His ass cheeks are twitching.

“I love that you love them, I really do. But babe, I need you to let go of my balls or I’ll come all over your hand,” he rasps, wiggling away. Releasing him, your hands run up his chest, twining around his neck, dragging his sweat damp chest flush against you.

“If I must,” you agree, smiling into his lips. Bucky relaxes into you, the slow melt of tongues follows, the kind where a kiss bounces around, until it finds the perfect rhythm. His hands trace up the line of your arms, unlocking your fingers and pulling them free. Brushing his thumbs over your wrists, he bends close, kisses your knuckles.

And then he folds your arms above your head, pinning them down.

“Keep them there, alright? Don’t move until I say you can.”

��Kinky. Yes sir,” you breathe. He smirks.

“You’d better watch it, you little deviant. I might get used to that.”

“Sorry…sir.”

Pulling you further down the hood, he rubs his cock between your legs, sliding himself between your folds until a slick sheen coats his skin. It startles a grunt from you when he abruptly shoves inside, sinking deep until his hips press flush to yours.

He waits. Has to wait actually, because its been a long damn time and if he’s not careful he’s going to embarrass himself before he even gets started and holy shit, is this even real life? Is he dreaming?

Splayed out on the hood of his car, legs wide open, breasts wet from his tongue, black lace and crumpled satin ribbons. Arms pinned above the luscious skin bared just for him. Bucky stares between your legs, dry mouthed and dizzy.

“Come on, Bucky, please? Fuck me, please fuck me, I missed you so much.”

How could he ever resist this? You naked, writhing against the vivid red of his Camaro, moaning for him to fuck you, with his cock buried in your -

“Aw fucking hell,” he mutters. After so many weeks apart, he knows full well this won’t last long. It’s a damn good thing he has more than a few rounds in him.

Cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back, he digs thick fingers into your thighs, pulls back nice and slow. He waits. Waits. Waits a bit longer because he likes to be an asshole and hear you beg.

“Bucky, come on -”

And he plunges into you, burying himself in the tight, silky heat of your cunt. Warm up over, no slow start. The pace he sets is rough, so deep he feels the pleasure licking down his spine and into his toes. Over and over, he slams into you until one particularly sharp thrust presses the tip of his cock against that perfect spot inside and you arch up with a broken cry. Hands scrabble above your heard, searching for anything to hold onto, finding something flexible.

With a plastic snap, the windshield wiper blade breaks off in your hand.

Bucky stutters to a halt, blinking sweat from his eyes when he sees the look of horror on your face. The apology is still forming when he snatches the plastic from your fingers, throwing it aside.

“Don’t care,” he grunts. Giving you no time to argue, he wraps his hands behind your knees and raises your hips, fucking into you faster. The filthy echo of sweat slick skin accompanies his breathless order. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

A frantic agreement and one hand slips between your legs, the other cupping your breast. Frantic circles over the swollen bud, trembling fingers plucking at a pebbled nipple. Bucky watches greedily, eyes flickering back and forth, memorizing those things that bring you pleasure, fantastically dirty memories to replay on a rainy day.

“Bucky,” desperate fingers rub your clit faster. “Keep going, please keep - keep doing that, I’m close, I’m so close, I’m -“

Sharp and sweet and unexpected, the orgasm crashes into you. Arching up, the low moan tears free, and Bucky slows, hypnotized by the sight of you shuddering beneath him.

“There you go, that’s it,” he urges hoarsely, before surging forward and capturing your lips in a wild kiss. Two more pumps of his hips and he stops, grinding against you until he comes with a heavy groan.

Silence fills the room, broken only with the sounds of harsh breaths and the wet rush of his heartbeat thumping in his ears. He rests his forehead between your breasts, listening to the staccato beat of your quick breaths, until you struggle up onto your elbows, pushing his sweaty hair away from his face.

“So I broke your car.”

He says nothing, but a moment later his shoulders begin to shake and suddenly he’s laughing, great rushing wheezes as he struggles for breath. Raising his head, he finds you nervously squinting down at him. He stretches up, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I got insurance. Just need to check my coverage for mildly destructive ‘I missed you’ sex.”

“You might consider expanding that policy. I’m just saying,” you suggest with a giggle and he snorts.

Quiet contentment blankets the stuffy garage, both of you basking in that tingly afterglow. Folding your hands behind his neck, you draw him close and Bucky nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Been tough lately,” he whispers, mouthing gently along your throat. “Trying to find time together.”

Nodding slowly, your smile turns wistful.

“Yeah…guess it makes any time we get even better. Right? It doesn’t matter to me what we do, as long as we’re doing it together.”

Bucky feels a lump in his throat (the kind that could easily dissolve into manly super soldier tears), and he gathers you in his arms, tucking you against his chest. When he answers, his voice cracks just a bit.

“Someone’s a sentimental sap.”

He hears your muffled laugh against his chest, feels you bite at his collarbone and he chuckles.

“I love you Bucky. And I’m really sorry I murdered your car.”

“I love you too, babe. I’m glad you came down here. Especially in that outfit.”

“Yeah? You liked it?”

“Fuck yes I did. What spurred that idea, hmm?”

“I just don’t want to lose our spark,” you admit, snuggling closer. “When things get so busy, it’s easy to let things like this slide, and I don’t want you to - get bored, I guess. With us.”

Bucky thinks about all his relationship advice articles and the fact that he sometimes even prints them out and goes through with a yellow highlighter to capture the key points. Hearing your soft concern makes him fall even more in love with you.

Because this is important. This relationship, this love, this spark he was lucky enough to find with you, it’s the most important thing in his world. You are the most important thing in his world.

Brushing a knuckle down your cheek, he coaxes your chin up.

“I know it’s tough, always being on different schedules, but I want you to know, I’m always gonna love you and I’m always gonna want you. Nothing changes that. And if you ever doubt just how much I genuinely want to bang you all night long, then you say something. Deal?”

He boops your nose and you grin.

“Deal.”

“And honey, not that I’m complaining, trust me, but you don’t need to dress sexy to get me all reved up,” he shrugs. “You do that just by looking at me.”

“You do know how to charm the pants off a lady, Barnes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Swings you up in his arms and calms your startled yelp with a kiss.

“Damn straight. Now how about we give that backseat a try. I think you mentioned wanting to rub something back there?”

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #bitsmasterlist

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exit-path · 4 years ago

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Alright! Let’s get this done!

It’s less than 40 days until the one-year anniversary of my “Hi! I made something cool!” pinned post!

I’ve wanted do something like that again. I want to make another isometric render of something in Minecraft, all in a 2D image editing software, by hand.

But there’s a problem. I don’t know what to make.

I have a bunch of ideas on things I could make! But I don’t know which one to choose! And I don’t want to choose randomly, because the original isometric “render” actually took me one whole week to make. That’s seven consecutive days.

So that’s where you come in.

It’s hard and high-stakes to make one of these, so I don’t wanna mess up! I wanna know for sure what I should make.

If you could please, look through the list and see me which one(s) you’d like me to make. Then, tell me what your thoughts are in a reply or reblog. I’ll read through them, and in about 36 hours after I post this I’ll make my final decision on what I’ll render!

(You don’t need to interact with this post if you don’t want to. You can scroll past it if that’s the case.)

Remember, in the end, the result should be something of this caliber. This is what I made back then. And this is the level of quality I’m striving for again.

(I won’t post my render on the one-year anniversary, mind you. I’ll post it the day that I finish it, whenever that may be. I just mentioned the one-year anniversary so we’re all on the same page here.)

1) The other Skyblock islands

This is pretty self-explanatory. I rendered the main Skyblock island, right? Well why don’t I just render the other two and call it a day? I’m finishing the job. This is like the obligatory sequel for a hit movie.

One’s a sand island you reach once you bridge over from the main island in normal Skyblock. The other’s made of glowstone and you reach it when you build a nether portal and travel through the nether to link up with the portal on the other side.

Now, from a “making the render” standpoint, the problem with this is that it probably won’t be fun to make as the first one. Like, the other original Skyblock island at least had interesting shapes to work with, it had depth, and it posed a fun challenge. These other islands are just 3x3x3 cubes made of the same block.

Plus, people might not care to see the new render. People always like the sequel less than the original movie. And I’m thinking that might be true for something as esoteric as a post about a Minecraft render made with 2D image editing software.

2) My Survival House

You might be confused seeing this on the list. Like, everyone’s seen or played Skyblock so that makes sense, but this? This is my singleplayer survival house. Very few have seen it; nobody but me has ever been to it. Let me explain.

I played on this world from September to October 2020. In that time, I built a starter base, a mine, and a cow barn/wheat farm. This is the starter base. It doesn’t look like much, but that’s only because we’re on the surface. Let’s go into spectator made and bring the camera under.

Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!

Yes, the majority of my “starter base” is underground! (The image is slightly edited to highlight where it is.) If I were to render it, I would show the bit that’s at the top, connected to everything underground.

There’s a lot in this base! Immediately down the ladder from the house at the surface, there’s a room full of chests and that contains a jukebox where I can play music discs.

Then on the floor below that there’s my furnace room, my portal room, my map room, and my spruce tree farm. Down another floor you can find a room where I intended to grow cactus for a brief period of time.

I’ve spent a lot of time in this base. However, I’ve never seen it in full, in isometric view. And I sure would like to. Because perspective in 3D constantly hides different parts of my base when I view it from different angles. Isometry is an idealized reality.

If I were to render this, you’re agreeing that I’m doing this for myself. I love this world, and I’ve spent many days in the past excited to come back to it. This is a bit of sentimentality, a tribute to myself.

3) My 1.0.0 Survival Base

Now, you might be starting to recognize a pattern here. (Image slightly edited to highlight where the survival base is.) And no, it’s not that I really want to isometrically render my survival worlds for some reason.

Yes, I apparently like building my survival bases underground, I know, shut up >:P

I played on this world from March to September 2019: the longest I played on a survival world so far. Virtually only one other person knows about this world.

The entire time I played on it, it was in Java Edition 1.0.0: the earliest and first full release of Minecraft. I accessed the version by using the dropdown menu on the Minecraft launcher.

As a result of being in 1.0.0, the entire survival experience was changed, and that posed a lot of unique challenges. For example, how do you mine out large regions of land if beacons haven’t been created yet? How do you enchant tools if anvils aren’t in the game yet?

Playing on this 1.0.0 world has acted as my greatest insight into “old Minecraft” so far.

If I were to render this base, I would only render the underground portion (which I hollowed out of a naturally-generated cave, by the way). Why would I do that, if there’s probably also a house on the surface that I could render?

Because this is what that house looks like.

Yeah, this house does look incredible! I would know, I’m the one who made it all in 1.0.0. But no chance am I rendering all that.

Anyways, I want to render this world because despite all the time I’ve played on this world, I’ve never actually even seen my base as a spectator much like I’ve shown above. (Minecraft added cheats in 1.3.1. Spectator mode didn’t exist until 1.8.)

Plus, this faces the same perspective problems I mentioned for #2. So mainly, if I were to render this isometrically, I would be helping myself by letting me view my world in a lens I was never able to before.

4) A House in the Sky

This is a bit of an inside joke on my blog.

Basically, ever since August, I’ve been playing games of UHC on Minecraft minigame servers like Hypixel and Mineplex with the sole purpose of defying the point of the game and just building a house in the sky. Like a whole-ass village house. Plop. Right there.

This is the house I would build in those games. And this is what I would like to render now.

If you know me personally, then you already know what the front of the house looks like. (I’ve shown it on my blog countless times.) So that’s why in this preview, I’ve made the front of the house see-through so you can see the interior.

This is an effect I want to emulate in my render (if I ever make one). I make multiple image edits, and in one of them, both the exterior and the interior of the house are visible.

If I render this, it’s just a pointless joke. Not much else besides that 🙂

5) Something Else?

This is where I leave an open-ended answer.

Did you think of something that’s not on this list? Do you have something in mind that you’re passionate about personally, and that you’d like me to render? Do you think a couple or all of the ideas here are good, and you want me to render those couple or all of them?

Then remember to tell me in a reply or reblog!

Keep in mind when leaving your opinion that making a single render takes a lot of time and effort. Think of it this way: the original Skyblock render took one week to make.

Rendering something with half as many blocks would take four days. Rendering something with twice as many would take two weeks. Making multiple renders would take multiple weeks. So don’t forget the human aspect in all this.

Well, that’s the end of this post!

Tagging @ice-block, @gay-slime, @mojang-official, @birch-forest, and @light-blue-glazed-terracotta because they saw my original post and I’d like to hear their opinions, given that they’re big blogs in mineblr.

@emarezi and @unyanizedcatboys, I’d like to hear you weigh in on this as well.

See you in 36 hours, I guess!

#minecraft #mineblr #peysi #long post #really long post #skyblock #minecraft skyblock #minecraft base

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bunny-ing · 4 years ago

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DGM tag game

I’ve been tagged twice. You can find the other part here.

Answer the questions and tag four people.

I was tagged by @xbloolii (Warning: this is full spoiler!)

What’s your favorite manga page/panel?

Kanda from chapter 170 aside, another panel that I dearly love is this one of Nea/Allen and Mana/The Earl hugging in chapter 219. But since I find that something is missing when I post it alone, I decided to post it with the page from before where we see Nea’s reaction right before he hugs Mana back. For me, these two pages go together. (Nea closing his eyes tightly and clinging to Mana as he hugs him back tells us so much about them. Nea loves Mana. We can clearly see that this whole “I have to kill Mana” thing is killing him too in a way.)

What’s your favorite chapter?

Let’s stay with chapter 219. It’s the first time Nea and Mana truly reunite (even though Mana is pretty confused by the whole thing). The goddamn hug is enough to propel this chapter into my top 5 favorite chapters (do I even have a top 5? lol). It’s just... We finally get to learn more about them (tho we did guess already about some of the things Nea says), about how they came to be, about who The Earl is. During this whole conversation where Nea is telling Mana about who they are and what happened, Nea keeps staying close to Mana and touching him. Maybe it’s meant to be intimidating (and we can see that Mana is confused and scared by it all). But Nea isn’t gripping his arms or shoulders to keep him in place, he’s holding his face. Not gripping it, there’s no force behind it. He’s holding his face. I’ll even go as far as saying that he’s cradling his face and I just *clutches heart*. This chapter really made me love Mana and Nea.

Do you have a favorite volume?

Sadly I already talked about volume 19 and volume 20 so I’ll have to go with my second favorite volume which is volume 25. (Yes, chapter 219 is in this volume). This volume is all about Mana and Nea (and Link and a bit of Allen too!). About their story, about what happened when Mana became The Earl (we’re still left with many mysteries tho) and it’s fascinating. This volume also contain a chapter that I really like which is chapter 222 with Allen stucks in that wheat field and having a conversation with “Cross”)

Also, I don’t know how this volume is called in other countries. But here in France it’s called “Il a oublié l’amour” (”He forgot love”) and this alone is enough to make me feel things.

Do you like Mana or Nea more?

Both. I already talked about Nea so I’ll talk about Mana. Like with Nea, he’s surrounded in mysteries that we have yet to know more about. Was it really him who became Allen’s father back then? Was he the one dying and being brought back as an Akuma? (I do believe it was him, in a way. I do believe The Earl killed and gladly made “Mana” an akuma in order to get rid of this part of himself that was bothering him. But alas, it didn’t really work) Why is he the one who became The Earl and not Nea? He’s fascinating and I can’t wait to know more about him.

What’s one thing that you like and dislike about Hallow?

I already talked about how I feel about Hallow in my other reply so I won’t repeat myself here.

Like: They didn’t have to go that hard with Alma and yet they fucking did and I’m so grateful for it. He’s gorgeous. The whole purple thing going on during his fight with Kanda is gorgeous. The colors they choose for him are gorgeous. I know technically Hoshino is the one who choose that whole purple thing for him, but they could have easily fucked it up and yet they didn’t. Alma was perfect and I thank them for it. They also didn’t have to go that hard making Tyki. Clearly the whole budget went into making Alma and Tyki as handsome and fuckable as possible and I thank them for it.

Dislike: I understand the vibrant colors. Actually it doesn’t bother me that much. As much as I loved how dark the first anime is, I like the vibrant colors they used for Hallow. (Tho the blood seems fake, which completely destroy the gore/gruesome aspect of DGM. But I believe they did it on purpose so they could target a larger audience. So again, it doesn’t bother me that much.) But why the fuck is everyone so white????? Marie is supposed to be black and yet it doesn’t show??? At all??? They made him slightly darker than everyone else. And they didn’t even do it correctly because he just have this weird grey-ish skin that makes him looks like he’s sick lmao. But I mean, they’re all so goddamn white??? Wtf??? Did they forgot to apply some goddamn beige on their skin or something??? At least they made the Noah with some goddamn dark skin. (I saw some people complain about it. Their skin in Hallow looks too natural compared to the grey skin they had in the old anime which made them stand out more as those weird demi-god thing they’re supposed to represent. I understand their point of view. But personally it doesn’t bother me.)

What’s your favorite piece of DGM merch?

I already said the plusies. So I’ll go with the mugs. I only own one. But I love it. I love mugs in general so for me you can never go wrong with mug merches. I also love the art books and the logs. But I don’t really know if they count as merches or not.

Follow up question: what’s a piece of merch that you wish existed?

I suppose saying more figurines would make sense. I know figurines are a huge thing and we clearly don’t have that many. But personally I’m not a huge fan of figurines. Never really saw the appeal. It can be pretty when it’s well done but aside from that I’m just ???? But I do love prints. I have a lot for different fandoms. Official or not. So more official prints would be nice. I would love to have pins as well. (Yes, I have a lot of pins too and want some DGM one)

I tag @kanda-yuu-kun @rabbitknight @metzzi and @nooooooooooooo00000000 and everyone else who would like to do it. (Please tag me guys so I can see what you replied)

#DGM #D.Gray-man #D Gray man #DGM tag #This one got long as well ahah #Thank you Lissah for tagging me #Thus allowing me to say everything I couldn't say while replying to Violet #I still have many more things to say but alas #Maybe another time #For some reason on my blog the images end up on top #I have no idea why

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heyhilana · 5 years ago

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Masterlist

Just some rules and guidelines so please read.

1. All my upcoming/posted fics are here. When I have officially queued them, there will be a date next to them on this masterlist. If it is a mini-series (typically 5 chapters or less), I will post them here. If it’ll be more than 5, I will make a separate masterlist and link it so you can find all the chapters and possible extra posts for context. As of right now, I am only writing for the characters you see here. But perhaps I will write other characters later on it just depends!

2. I take requests but I do take my time. I can take fluff, smut, or angsty ones it just depends on the idea. Once I feel that I can write it, I will try to message you to let you know that I didn’t forget about it but if you want something kinda quick unless it’s just a small headcannon, it’s likely gonna take some time. Also, I do reblog prompts here and there so if you want to request from those, be my guest 💚

3. I will not write dd/lg, anything extreme like somno/cnc, and anything that I don’t feel capable of writing such as a certain character (i.e., Ezra, Dave, Oberyn although I want to finish the work I started.) If anything, I may direct you to someone else that can give you what you want.

4. All my stories are uploaded on Fridays at 1 PM PST. The only exceptions are either if it is a holiday story like Valentines or the 4th of July as I will post it the day of, or if there is a mini-series I am writing and I have another story done. Then the separate story will be posted first on Friday and the mini-series chapter will be posted on Sunday at 11:30 PST.

5. Yes, I write rpf’s from time to time. I don’t write them often but here and there I do if I have a certain idea or if I have a request. If you have a problem with that, I suggest ignoring them but please don’t ask for them all the time. I prefer writing Pedro’s characters since there’s more wiggle room in creativity and I also don’t like incorporating his personal life in it i.e., his family and friends.

6. For fellow writers, here is a masterlist of writing resources that can be of use to you. It was on my old pinned and I wanted to add it here for fun. It'll be here. 💙

Updated: 11/3/23

Pedro Pascal

Teasing: Complete!

Part One (x) 🌑

Part Two (x) 🌑

Part Three (x) 🌑

Hot Chocolate Thief 🌕

Stick to the Script 🌑

Javier Peña

Glimpse of Us 🌗🌑🌕

Say Yes (With Carrillo) 🌑

One Shot Till the End 🌗

G.A.N.E. Universe with Javi x !f reader (co-workers to lovers) Complete!

Synopsis: Javi and you are partners. You both have played on the idea of flirting and messing around and on one fateful night, you do. But alas, complications with feelings and pushing away tears you apart. But with time, things can possibly mend.

Goodbyes are Never Easy 🌗 🌘

Welcome Back to Colombia 🌗

Suppressed Memories 🌗

Hold Me Close 🌗🌑🌕

Agent Whiskey

Risky Nights 🌑

Eating for Two 🌕

Hidden in Plain Sight 🌕

Yoga 🌑

Francisco (Catfish) Morales

Keep You in My Heart🌗🌕

Just One of the Guys 🌗🌕

Flights 🌕

Din Djarin/Mandalorian

Massages 🌑

Take It Slow 🌘🌕

Let Me Please You 🌕🌘

Firsts🌕

Dieter Bravo

Phone Sex 🌑🌒

Welcome Home 🌑🌒

Marcus Moreno

The Parent Trap 🌕

Javi Gutierrez

Los Jefes Universe: Complete! It is listed in chronological order but the last chapter was the first chapter I posted before deciding to make it a mini-series.

Synopsis: Javi G has recently lost his brother and you are a well-renowned leader in arms dealing that has watched Javi from afar. A phone call that leads to meeting Javi on purpose is lucrative, but perhaps the burning desire of crossing the lines threatens professionalism.

A Proposition 🌕

First Day 🌕🌖

Swimming 🌕🌖

Surprise Dinner 🌕🌑

Italy 🌑🌕

Show Off 🌑🌒

Joel Miller (Will create a photo when I can find the time!)

Day of Love 🌕

Max Phillips

Sink in 🌑

Headcannons, asks, prompts, drabbles

Javi seeing you for the first time 🌖

Polyamorous relationship with Javi, Horacio, and Steve 🌘

Who would be the most kinky in bed (All the boys) 🌘

Jack takes care of you when you get hurt/confesses his love for you 🌕

Drinks with Jack and some friends leads to a series of confessions🌗🌖

A Reunion with Frankie🌗

Pedro returns home from filming 🌖🌑

How the boys sleep in bed with you (cuddling) 🌕🌖

Javi and you have a tense meeting in an office 🌑🌗

A fresh break-up and confessions 🌕🌑

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jasontoddiefor · 5 years ago

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Title: Mouse Droids and How To Fix Them – A Quick And Easy Guide [Livestream] Summary: Luke has a Space Youtube Channel and Leia watches his videos to de-stress from a terrible day. Mouse droids are named and the Empire and its terrible quality are dragged through the sarlacc pit. AN: Anyway, did somebody said TIE-Fighter story prequel? No? Too bad.

Leia was a well-composed and well-behaved serene princess right up until the doors of her rooms closed behind her. The moment she was out of sight, she kicked off her shoes with such a force that they soared half across the room and crashed against her wardrobe with a loud crack. She took the pins keeping her braids in place out of her hair and threw them onto the dresser. Then as graceless as a regular fifteen-year-old girl, Leia dropped onto her bed and screamed into her pillow.

Today had been terrible.

Leia hated all the pointless festivities that only ever served to make everyone there feel important and powerful but did absolutely nothing for the people they were supposed to govern. She couldn’t understand how her parents managed it. They were good and selfless people, always calm and serene even when the newest governor was basically spitting one insult after the other at them. Leia always wanted to shout back, it was her first instinct. Idiots who couldn’t be bothered to contribute anything productive or kind, should shut up and stop hindering others from doing their job. Leia had kept her mouth shut of course. She had smiled pleasantly as her mother had taught her and acted as expected from her.

But that didn’t mean that she hadn’t wanted to strip the gloves off her hands and show him how much of a bloodthirsty royal she really was. She shouldn’t have desired it, but it annoyed her so much when others purposefully misunderstood her. It had been a year since she picked her coronation color. When would people finally stop commenting on it?

Yes! Princess Leia Organa had chosen white! She’d forgone five-hundred-years of tradition and picked the color of the snow on Alderaan’s mountains, of ice so cold it burned, of the sheets upon which they wrote the names of their dead.

Leia wore the color of war, mourning and remembrance and she wore it well.

How could she not when the Empire was murdering innocents, subjugating whole worlds and waging an unjust war? Picking green or blue would be an insult upon the suffering she had been forced to witness. She didn’t want to be remembered as another impassive royal, bowing to the whims of the Empire. Leia hadn’t been meant to live in a tyrannizing Empire in which she had to watch her every word and step. She wanted to speak her mind and missed the Republic she never got to experience.

Her parents, while displeased she out herself in such danger, had understood it. Most Alderaanians understood it and supported her, but not that stupid new governor. Instead, he went on and on about her image and character flaws – and worse! Talked about marriage.

Leia was already dead set on staying unmarried. Her parents had been lucky. Despite their marriage being arranged, they’d loved each other. Or maybe they had been in love first and the political advantage of the marriage was just a bonus. Leia didn’t entirely know, but she knew to one hundred percent that all her potential Alderaani suitors sucked. They were arrogant and petty or worse, both of that but way older than her as well. She could marry somebody from a different planet, but the Old Houses would frown upon that and then she’d have to deal with more in-fighting and risk losing control of Alderaan’s society and give the Empire even more access to her planet. It was bad enough as it was.

Groaning, Leia rolled onto her back and got up from her bed again. She’d hate herself in the morning if she didn’t dress out of the fine robes completely. She fetched herself her sleeping clothes and washed the make-up off her face. It felt like taking off uncomfortable armor and she was more than glad to get rid of it. Leia didn’t mind dressing up. As a child, she had loved trying on her parents’ much too large clothes and she still loved picking out dresses together with her mother, but sometimes she wished it all wouldn’t take so much energy.

Redressed, Leia returned to her bed, ready to pretend to fall asleep when she knew that she wouldn’t be able to close her eyes now. Her mind was too unfocused, her thoughts all jumbled up. She laid still and waited until another moment had passed before reaching for her bed stand and pulling out her secret private comm.

Leia had three of them. One for official business, one was the officially private secret comm – the one every important person in the galaxy was supposed to have and hide – and then there was her own, which she used to stay up-to-date with activities unbefitting on an Imperial princess.

She checked the holonet, skimming through articles that made her blood boil and delightfully bright art that called for resistance. She was pleased to notice that more and more Alderaani artists were choosing lighter colors in their barely legal paintings and downright joyful when she saw an account post images of white flags. Those posts would probably be taken down once the meaning behind them spread a little more, but Leia was proud nonetheless. She had caused this, this was her contribution to the Rebellion.

In a better mood already, Leia went through her notifications. She had a few replies to articles she had written and- oh.

[Notification: Scrap Hunting has started a livestream – 1 Min ago]

Smiling widely, Leia clicked on the link connecting her to the video. The livestream had indeed only started recently, and not even properly. Leia had missed the last one sadly because she’d been in the Core, too far away for Scrap Hunting’s terrible holonet connection to reach. Alderaan was just close enough to Tatooine for Leia to watch them.

She couldn’t quite recall how she had stumbled upon the channel. She had just been clicking through some random videos one day and there it had been. Leia wasn’t all that knowledgeable about ships – her parents had kept a keen eye on her since the Speeder accident she’d had when she was ten – and didn’t really have much access to the hangers either. Droids, on the other hand, Leia knew plenty about. They were everywhere and nobody wanted to live without them, which made them the perfect spies with the right adjustments. Leia knew how to wipe a droid’s memory so clean, it was shinier than any crystal and how to hide protocols upon protocols in their storage. Her favorite droids were C-3PO and the R2D2 unite serving on the Tantive IV. Artoo especially had a lot of personality. Leia needed to sort out her Binary so she could catch all the colorful curses the astromech liked to inflict on people.

The two boys running Scrap Hunting – well, only really Luke actually – were sympathetic. They didn’t talk about droids like they were simple tools and they were proficient in fixing them up. Therefore Leia was very pleased to see that the title of the livestream was Mouse Droids and How To Fix Them – A Quick And Easy Guide. This would be fun, the right kind of distracting noise she needed after such a long day.

“Alright, we’re all set up now,” Luke said. “Hello everybody! I’m Luke and welcome to another episode of Scrap Hunting!”

He waved at the recorder and then picked up a small back droid from his table. “This is what today’s livestream will be about! An MSE-series droid! A lot of you guys said you’d like more livestreams and the weather’s been pretty good recently and I fixed the signals so I hope this works out just fine.”

Luke smiled and reached for the first tool lying in front of him. “I decided that fixing up this little guy here should be fine for a shorter video. I don’t have to think so much about what I’m doing and can talk at the same time.”

He began taking off the outer casing of the droid and carefully set it aside. “I know, I know, I’m always talking, but nobody complains about it.” Luke stopped spinning his wrench for a moment to think. “Okay, alright, maybe my uncle complains about it sometimes but that’s what he gets for making me check all the vaporators on my own. Anyway, I talk a lot and so does this chat. Lots of people joining in here! Hi!”

Luke looked through the chat, returned greetings and explained how he had gotten the droid as payment for helping out in a repair shop.

“And I know the owner thought he was just giving me so boring little plaything, but do you know how versatile these MSE droids are?”

Leia definitely knew how useful they could be. She grinned when Luke comically shook his head when people began sending in question marks and began belittling the tiny Mouse droids. They made excellent spies, infiltrators and guides. Underestimating them just because they were cute was fatal. Leia was happy when Luke reacted as outraged as she was and began elaborating on what the droids could be used for.

“And like, I get sending the droids back when they trigger your instincts, I wouldn’t keep around a droid that reminds me of a womp rat or a krayt dragon.” Luke paused, the half-open mouse droid lying on his lap, and apparently considered his suggestions.

“Okay, maybe I would actually want them. Could you imagine a droid krayt dragon? So cool.”

Luke reached for the nearest datapad and took a few notes, then put it next to him on the table and returned to working on the MSE.

“But yeah, point being: Why did the Aar’aa sell them to the Empire so cheaply? Add some extra software and boom, you can sell them for twice the price. Then you’d even make a bonus. Oh, well, I suppose the Empire at least made a good deal there.”

The MSE droid laid bare now and Luke could easily access its memory. He took his datapad once more and connected it to the droid. After a few seconds, he had access to its memory and immediately frowned.

“Or it did not. What is this programming? I researched what I could find before, downloaded some protocols-“ Luke looked away from his datapad to point down, “-links in the description as always. But just- honestly. Who wrote this protocol?”

He gently knocked his head against the droid’s frame. “I’m so sorry, don’t worry, I’ll speed up your processors.”

The next hour, Leia spent listening to Luke ramble on about what changes he made and why. Once or twice she even threw her own suggestions in the chat and watched contently as Luke picked up on them and began to work with them. She wished she didn’t have so many duties and could spend her days doing things she actually wanted, take a more active role in the rebellion. But she supposed that as long as she could escape annoying politicians for a while, she’d be fine.

Leia glanced at her chrono. While it appeared to be midday still on Tatooine, it was already early morning for her. She should head to sleep soon.

Thankfully, the livestream was also wrapping up. Luke had reassembled the droid and screwed the last bolt down.

“And done!” Luke said and helped up the repaired Mouse droid. “A Quick And Easy Guide to Mouse Droids. Now, the only thing left is repainting and naming it. Same rules as always, highest donator gets to choose the color and the name.”

Leia watched as a lot of people began donating. Some just threw in five credits, just to support the channel. She’d done so before as well. It was only right to help somebody else and give him a thanks after cheering her up. Leia typed the first one, then stopped.

She was tired, had been for at least thirty minutes now, but her mind was finally calm as well. She was still and upset, but not so that she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Leia shouldn’t waste her allowance on this, but Leia had also had a terrible horrible no-good day and wanted to name that Mouse Droid.

“And that was it!” Luke announced. “Many thanks for all your donations. I’ll keep you posted on what my next project will be. Hopefully something a little more interesting than this little buddy here. Now let’s see… The highest donation is one- one thousand credits from @rebelroyal!?”

Luke’s voice was awfully high-pitched, shock visible all over his face. “Is this real- oh gosh. Thank you so, so much! I’m not sure- Many thanks for supporting this channel! You may name any future Mouse Droids I come across, oh Force. Right. Uhm. What is your suggestion?”

Leia eyes her discarded white dress on the floor and chose.

History’s eyes on you @ rebelroyal

Paint it white and name it Emmy! Many thanks for all the lovely content you provide.

Little Emmy, it turned out, look much better in white than it did in the awful black so representative for the Empire.

[Notification: Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot has mentioned you in a new post]

Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot

I have adopted 4 more mouse droids to keep our ship clean!

Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot

[Foto: Five Mouse Droids standing in front of Luke, who was sitting on the ground, smiling cheerfully. The droid in the middle was Emmy. It was a little banged up and had a couple more scratches. On its right were an orange and a blue droid, freshly painted from the looks of it. On Emmy’s left were two black ones]

@ rebelroyal The orange and blue ones have been painted and named already, care to do the honors for the other two?

Leia smiled fondly at the picture and began to type.

History’s eyes on you @ rebelroyal

How about yellow and green? Benny and Penny so it rhymes?

Twin Suns @skyseekerpilot

Done :D

[Foto: The two previously black mouse droids have been painted as well and are furiously cleaning the floor of a ship]

#star wars #leia organa #Luke Skywalker #emmy the mouse droid #fanfic #im back on my social media mess

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rideboldlyride · 5 years ago

Text

The Morning of the Dragon (Pt. 1)

This is all @doodleladi‘s fault. I love the art in this post of theirs. Please go look at this art... and all of their other beautiful Zutara art! Here’s AO3: Link

It’s under the break- And this is just part one of two. I can’t guarantee part two will be out before Zutara Week (I’ve got to finish those prompts first) but the second half will come soon, I promise!

She had only been in Caldera City for a few days, staying at the Palace at the Fire Lord’s particular request. It wasn’t an unusual request; it was a standing invitation to all of his old friends. In official capacity as a representative of the Southern Water Tribe, she was making her semi-annual visit to reconfirm trade agreements between her people and the Fire Nation. In an unofficial capacity, she had been written by her friend, Zuko, to help with an imminent threat of unknown form. It was rumored as an attack against the throne but no intelligence had been retrieved to give this looming threat any substance.

Finally speaking in person with him, he had seemed only mildly concerned, in contrast to the tone of his letter. When she pressured him over this he moved from his desk and paperwork without comment. Upon reaching the door, he dismissed his guard retinue before closing and latching it tightly. He had been studiously avoiding her gaze during all of this, and when he returned from the door, he sat down in the second guest chair with a rather undignified flop. A deep sigh escaped him.

“Sometimes I forget that others don’t have to play the mind games…”

A dark brow rose at his words, her blue eyes questioning. He began to absentmindedly rub his forehead directly above his scar. Golden eyes avoided her.

“Yes, Katara, I am concerned. I’m too close to some major changes in the nation. Change doesn’t always sit well with those comfortable in their positions.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that they’d rather my father or my sister on the throne.”

Her eyes grew wide, and she now understood his request for help. But why her? Not that she was upset, she admitted only to herself. That question wasn’t worth asking, and she was quite content to metaphorically stretch her legs again in something other than politics.

“What can I do to help?”

With that, the next two days were spent elbow deep in intelligence reports, and meeting with the Fire Lord’s Head of Intelligence, a stern faced, graying woman. From as far as they could determine, it was Azula sympathizers. As for the date and actual form of the attack, Katara was at a loss. These dissenters were a well-organized crew and tight lipped. The first sign of their existence was a misplaced pamphlet. And while some of their activities were easy to track, there were large brush strokes missing in the overall painting. By the third morning, she awoke feeling more frustrated and inexplicably drowsy rather than rested.

As she withdrew the curtains, the brilliant morning light was sharp and piercing. Her head pounded. Pulling the water from her nearby water bowl, Katara’s hands glowed as she placed them over her temples. As the pain eased, she was surprised to find that the drowsiness refused to budge. On instinct, she followed her Qi lines downwards, following a small ripple in their flow. The ripples grew into a full turbulence in her belly. Even through the fog, her mind snapped into place.

She had been drugged.

With a wave, she leeched the toxin through her skin, and flicked it out the open window. Mind finally clear, a sudden litany of observations flooded her consciousness: there was no fresh water in her bowl, no attendant at her door trying to rouse her at this late hour, no Zuko doing his morning kata in the courtyard. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. With a mad rush, she sprinted first to the Fire Lord's office chambers.

No guards outside the door.

No Zuko inside.

Next, to the throne room, and once more, there was no guard.

Another empty room.

With bile rising into her mouth, she bolted down the hallway. In the transit, she was amazed to find no staff or guards wandering the Palace. Outside the Fire Lord's chambers, two guards sat slumped. Scorch marks and melted armor told her who had been there. However, she was mollified, in a morbid way, to see that smoke still rose from their mortal wounds. Their visitor was recent. And potentially still within.

Moving quietly to the door, she laid an ear against the wood grain. Ever so slightly, she could make out the familiar quiet but frantic female voice. A meaty thump echoed, followed by a muted groan. Katara's heartbeat pounded in her ears. She didn't need to wait any longer. Pulling water from the very humid air about her, she coiled it like an angry snake, and with it's strike it broke open the door before her.

Anger sparkled like icy crystals behind her eyes, as the waterbender took in the room. While she was certain there were others involved, the room held only Zuko and Azula; the former, bound and gagged on the floor. A mist rested over his eyes, and Katara was certain he too had been drugged.

A cackle escaped his sister's mouth, and she turned to the angry gaze of her older brother.

"Look, Zuzu! We're having a reunion!" Wild amber eyes flicked back and forth between the two. The younger woman was ready for this insurrection to end before it had truly started, but as she reached out to pin Azula to the wall, she saw the fear slip over Zuko's eyes. Katara faltered in that moment.

Azula smirked, pointing two lazy fingers at her.

"Bam."

And Katara's world went dark.

***

She awoke again, sick to her stomach. While not sure of what had hit her, she was sure it was not Azula's lightning. For one, Katara was certain that if she had been shot through with lightning, she would not have woken back up again. Secondly, the only thing that ached was her head. The pain was only exaggerated, she found, by the pressure and sway from her motion. In her addled brain, Katara felt the sea swell around her but as she reached out blindly, there was only a haze of water about her. Something held her hands in a solid clasp, and they moved together only, still drawing nothing from the ocean that must exist beyond her eyelids.

Confusion seeped through the fog enveloping her mind. How could she sway without the sea, be bound without seaweed at her joints, have her head throb without the pressure of the ocean's depths?

Sway…? Bound, pain…? Her mind was jumbled, until they crested a wave, broached. The jostle forced her eyes open, as she struggled to make sense of her last waking memory. Through pure muscle memory, her body remained limp, allowing her eyes to take in her surroundings before moving. Her joints remained loose, and as she swayed, she attempted to make sense of what she saw.

Instead of the blues and greens of the ocean, or even the inky blacks of the sea at night, she found rock and dust, cast in a flickering red glow. She swayed, not with the waves, but with a gait. Seaweed did not rest around her wrists and ankles, but rather coarse rope. And the pounding in her head, she suspected, originated more from the cause of the drizzle of blood that seeped from her hairline to one of her eyes.

The waterbender was dazed, her thoughts still a jumbled mess, but she tried to sew together the tapestry. With a sudden pop of recognition, she saw her last moment before the dark.

Azula… Zuko!

The memory of her dear friend brought the unease from her stomach to the back of her mouth, and she swallowed the acrid taste back down. It was better for her captors to think her still incapacitated, and unaware, as she gathered whatever intel she could glean from them. Through the roar of a non-existent surf, she could make out the shape of the words spoken around her, but only with intense concentration.

"... over there. I want her fully within view." It was a growling voice. Angry, dismissive, sneering. Solidly masculine.

Her current mode of transportation stopped, pulling themselves upright, before moving again. As the joint of the wall and the floor came into view she willed her body limp. Her courier was less than gentle, but she forced the pain away from her face, allowing a neutral facade to stay in place, as she was dumped unceremoniously against the wall.

Keeping her eyes closed, she focused on the rest of her senses, including the pull of the moon on her skin. She knew they must not be too far from the surface, for while it was distant, it was not unattainably muted. Maybe midday? The waterbender had not been unconscious for too long.

The floor under her felt cold but dry. Around her, past the smell of dust, a faint rancidly sweet smell permeated from every pore and crevice. At the rustle of fabric, she heard metal jangle, being dragged both across stone and something else metal. Heavy metal. Desperately, she tried to piece together the puzzle, but the only connections she could make were hardly settling her concern. A hearty thump reverberated near her, bracketed by a pained grunt.

It took all of her willpower not to open her eyes at that moment. Fear danced in her belly, for Katara was certain she knew who had made that noise. Instead, she waited until footsteps moved towards her. They stopped just shy, closer to the origin of the enclosed space's newest inhabitant.

"Here, Father. And that peasant is the one I spoke about." Azula. Her voice was high. Too high. The water tribeswoman wondered if she had stopped taking her herbs, or if the seeming taming of the young woman over the past few years had been an act all along.

Wait. Father?!

Katara's heart jumped into her throat. She had never heard Ozai's voice before but it was easy to place that scathing voice with the warped scar on Zuko's face, and she felt a bitter anger grow from her chest, down to her fingers, tingling. All she had to do, Katara knew, was reach out, and she would be able to feel his heart beat, the blood rushing through his veins. And with a snap, she could end it right there. It's what Zuko would deserve- a fresh slate wiped clean with the blood of his father. Her mind wandered to Azula- how she might actually be able to heal without the presence of Ozai…

But in that half breath, she released the tension in her body, and let the thought crash upon the rocks of her mind. It's not what Zuko would want- not what would be good for anyone. Instead, she waited and the dark wave washed over and away.

"Good." The older man purred, and she listened as a ruffle of fabric brought him closer to the ground. "I thought I told you, Zuko. Defiance would be your downfall. Consider this the push."

With a flurry of sound, she heard the footsteps retreat, along with the scraping of bare skin upon the stone. A grimace tried to cross her neutral expression, but she caught it in time. The healer knew she was going to have her work cut out for her once it was all said and done. Far enough away now from the sounds, she felt confident to open her eyes to slits.

They were in a meat locker. An old, unused one, but its original purpose was obvious. Meat hooks of various weights and sizes hung across metal grids, above. Blue eyes watched worriedly, as the older man reached for one of the stockier hooks hanging, dragging it to where his son laid discarded and bound on the floor. A growl on his lips, Ozai snatched his bound hands and caught the rope on the hook overhead, latching it into place. It was just high enough that she recognized that Zuko stood high on the ball of his feet.

Father and son stood eye to eye.

"So." Ozai began, his voice only betraying disgust at the young man before him. Katara's heart sank, as she spotted the one thing Zuko was desperately trying to hide, to tamp into the deep recesses of his expression. Fear. "You thought you could usurp my throne."

A strangled noise came from behind the young woman and Katara recognized with a pang of surprise, that Azula stood directly behind her. The thought caused an immediate reaction, so quick that she couldn't suppress it. The waterbender jolted. Evidently Zuko wasn't the only one who couldn't control the fear these two wrought.

Azula jumped upon it like a cat-wolf on its prey. Fingers with jagged, raw nails, dug into the flesh in her arm. She felt the prick of blood breaking through the surface of her skin.

The pretense was gone, and Katara turned to face Azula, fury behind the tumultuous seas in her eyes. While Zuko had been gagged, she had not, and in the moment she took advantage of it.

"I wish I had been wrong about you." Katara's words were like venom, and the noble woman's expression fell. Taking advantage of the lull, and the sudden release of pressure from her arm, the waterbender turned, and bit down hard upon the closest thing she could find. It ended up being Azula's forearm.

There was a certain level of justice she felt when she withdrew, leaving bloody teeth marks embedded in her flesh. Azula withdrew with a cry and fell back, clutching her arm. With a spin, she knocked the young noble off her feet. Reaching for her bound ankles, Katara pulled at the water around, but could barely gather enough for a small wisp of a stream.

Behind her, she heard a degrading laugh, and it lashed like a whip across her back. Defiant eyes flashed towards the prior Fire Lord.

"You." Her voice was rough, growling. "You're out of your crate."

She watched with satisfaction as her words hit home. His unblemished gaze turned in rage towards her.

"Mongrel." He sneered.

Disgust rolled through her, as she pulled at the rope coiled at her ankles, feeling it finally break free. A sound caught her attention, as Zuko released a muffled cry towards her. His eyes were wide.

Water was nearby, but too far away for her to pull to her easily, and with an unhinged disgraced princess and an infuriated ex-Fire Lord so close, the effort would be deadly. For a moment, she questioned her verbal jab, but didn’t have any real time to consider it, before she heard the crackle of fire. Rolling, legs now free, she ended back on her knee and foot, sitting low, as blue fire licked at where she had stood just a few moments prior. As much as Katara wanted to focus on Zuko, and getting him away from his father, Azula forced her attention on to her only.

Desperately, she reached again for water, but found it still inaccessible. But like a whisper in a room, she felt a tingle at her arm, now dripping with her own life force. There was another option…

***

Zuko watched the fight starting across the room from him, leaning into the heat from his sister’s fire. Straining against his binds, he had dismissed all thought of his now non-bending father, until his face swam before him. As powerless as Ozai now was compared to him, the young man was not naive enough to think he held no threat.

“This was going to be an easy transition, you ceding the throne to save your little peasant friend.” His words sneered, hinted at something more, but Zuko didn’t care. “But now, it seems we’re going to have to go about this the old fashioned way.”

A flash of light off steel, and Zuko knew what fate his father had in mind for him. Instead of watching what neared him, he tore his face away, desperate to watch for Katara’s success and survival. A hand behind his head, gripped at his hair, pulling him forward, and his father’s words were in his ear. Amber eyes refused to turn to him, but the words were as cold as the steel he felt slip through his skin.

“I should have just let you die the night you were born. You’ve been nothing but a disgrace to me.”

Zuko knew of the night he had been born, under a full moon, in the depths of winter, for he had barely breathed, and was far too cold. He had been told of how his father kept him warm for the next day, against his skin. That was when his family still had a chance of joy. Of happiness. And now… this final betrayal of his father’s love hurt more for the lack of surprise.

Abstractly, he felt the cold steel slide out of his side. The pain had yet to flare, but his knees gave way, and he sagged, all his weight now hanging from his arms. Ironically, he thought, the pain in his shoulders was worse than the one in his side. A shot of electricity from his side flared and a groan escaped him, unbidden.

Oh. He thought. Oh, there it is.

***

She danced, feet light, slowly working her way around, while the enraged princess spewed fire about. Katara's head still pounded, and it made her work hard to concentrate on through the haze. The small sliver of water she had pulled at earlier was slowly working its way through the ropes at her wrists as she twisted away from yet another geyser of flame.

A groan reached her ears, and she turned in time to see Zuko sag as a dark line grew across his abdomen, and slid effortlessly down his lines.

"No…" it wasn't a cry of anguish, a scream of rage, but rather a whisper of fear.

The distraction was all Azula needed, and she felt the heat wrap around her shoulder. A smell of scorched hair, fabric and flesh tickled her nose, as the fire blossomed on her. She rounded, fury now in her eyes, as the ropes fell away.

In her peripheral, she registered Ozai's retreat up the stairs, his prison garb flashing red, but she watched the more dangerous of the two- Azula. The action of the fight brought Katara to bear, and the wild-eyed woman now stood between her and her goal: Zuko, who's belly was becoming slick and dark in the dim light, and the skin around his eyes was becoming tight. Even still, his gaze was locked on the battle before him.

A new feeling coiled in her belly, one of warmth, certainty, when their eyes met over the head of his sister. She was familiar with the feeling- she had felt it years ago, when she had to fight her way to him across the coronation plaza. The difference now was that she was old enough and experienced enough to put a word to the feeling.

Now wasn't the time to name it though, and instead, she used it as fuel to clear her mottled brain. The tingle was back at the liquid pooling down her limp arm, since the pain of the fire rendered it temporarily useless. It wasn't water, but the flow of liquid, and intuitively, she knew that while it may be slightly more sluggish to move, bending it was fully well within her reach.

With her free hand, she pulled the blood away from her arm, and it twisted threateningly, it's shadow purple in the blue flames. Eyes narrowed, she matched the harried gaze of Zuko's sister, and dropped her tone to ice.

"You have a choice. Either you move," she dipped her head menacingly, "or I go through you, Azula."

An angry, broken cry echoed through the room, as blue fire flared from her fingertips, following the wild swing she took towards the tribeswoman. Uncontrolled and wild, Katara easily sidestepped, bringing her whip of blood around, grazing it's sharp edge against her cheek. It drew its own line of crimson. Light brown eyes filled with tears, and she stumbled for a moment.

Twisting to round again on Azula, her bloody whip (disconcertingly) growing, Katara turned onto her heel, leaned back, and softly molded the dark mass of fluid before her. Her fingertips danced hungrily at its shape, crafting something new. Standing back, one leg drawn in closer, but loosely placed before her, she eyed the other young woman. The look in Azula’s eyes was familiar, as she paced like a caged boar-hound. As she passed directly in front of the water tribeswoman, something popped behind her eyes, and the unsteady girl dropped low, knees bent and arms drawn up to her chest.

Letting loose a volley of fire balls, Katara’s dark mass of blood surged, flattening before her like a shield. Foot sliding forward, she leaned into the motion, dragging her arms, even as the smell of metallic burning reached her nose. She pulled more from the open wound in her arm to replenish the blood burnt away by the saving motion. A shift in her hands, and the free flowing blood became a circle over her head, as she swept the noble’s feet from under her. The strike of the bent material on Azula’s already wounded cheek acted like a splash of cold water, and she came up sputtering. Katara used the moment to keep her on her toes.

“What are you hoping to accomplish, Azula? Ozai’s already gone.”

“He’s gone to secure my throne!” Her dark eyes flashed, and she recovered, sending out a new spray of fire. Katara merely side stepped, gripping her wrist with the now-whip, and using it to tug her forward and off her feet.

“It didn’t sound that way to me…” A dark brow rose over a too-blue eye. “Sounded like he was warming the throne solely for himself.”

“That’s because you’re a peasant!” The girl spat back at her. “You wouldn’t understand the throne!”

There was no fire in Azula’s hand as she leaned forward again, still struggling to regain her footing. Her ragged nails were the only part that made contact with Katara’s cheek. Three new lines of crimson blossomed across her cheekbone. The blood bender merely added its contribution to the crimson pool before her.

“And I have no desire to, in the way in which you rule. Tell me, Azula,” she slid sideways again to avoid the flailing of the other fighter. She had no fire, no spark in her actions. Katara had no more fear for Azula. All of hers now waited on the other side of the room, where Zuko’s head now dropped forward loosely. “Tell me, who would you rather care for you? Rule over you? Ozai? Or… or Zuzu?”

The nickname felt like poison on her tongue, having only heard it used derogatorily. But she also knew that, once upon a time, that nickname was everything to both of them. She hoped her words might stir that memory more than before. Azula stood stock still before her for a moment, and blue eyes watched her warily.

The prior Crown Princess, however, was defeated, and not by Katara’s whip.

Slowly, a knee quivered, and then crashed to the ground, followed by the rest of the young woman’s body. The heels of her palms crushed into amber eyes. Sobs, slow and heartfelt escaped her as she crumpled onto the floor.

"...he left..." her words were full of pain, slipping between sobs, "... gone…t-took it all away… again... but Zuzu…"

Sharp nails clawed through disheveled hair. Katara sat up, recognizing the threat as now non-existent, but still moved cautiously around her. As soon as she moved away from the kneeling figure, the waterbender bolted to Zuko's side. His body hung limply from his wrists. With a twist of her hands, his binds fell away, and he slid to his knees with a loud thunk, but she caught him before he fell the rest of the way. His head slumped on to her shoulder. Panic flared in her belly, and tears sprung behind her eyes.

"Zuko? Zuko?" Fingertips slipped into his hair, trying to rock him into consciousness. "Please. Please. Don't leave me."

Desperation clawed up her throat. All the things that had sat unspoken, desires and fears, that were at the back of her brain, always at the tip of her tongue, and she couldn't do anything. There was no water, nothing she could pull to heal him. Eyes tight, tears began to trace lines down her cheeks.

Tears.

She pulled what she could: tears fallen, sweat on bare skin, condensation on the walls and steadily the water gathered at her hands and glowing, gently, she laid her fingertips on his open wound.

"Please, Zuko…" she pressed her lips into his hairline, "don't leave me. I have too much to tell you…"

***

Part One/Part Two

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snowdice · 5 years ago

Text

Goblin Brain Study Session Fic 1 [Day 35]

Because I don’t want to just have walls of text for my Goblin Brain Study Session posts, I’m separating them by days. If you want to read the previous chapters, click the links below. Chapter 13 and what I have done of Chapter 14 is under the cut.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

See this post for more details and feel free to send me asks to keep me going! It’s been a lot of fun so far! I will reblog this post with the story as I write them today.

The Gobiln Brain is a problem today. I’d planned to start like 2 hours ago. :/

Remy was slumped down in his seat as Emile continued to lecture him on all the possible consequences of his actions in the past 24 hours. Jeezy creezy was Emile miffed about all of that. Remy had been trying to blow it off, but Emile was fully, painfully aware that he almost had lost his brother today and Remy was going to hear about it until Emile’s lungs aches.

“And another thing…” he said.

“Wait,” Remy said, and Emile did because there was a lace of panic to his tone.

“What?” Emile asked.

“The tracker stopped working,” Remy answered pushing buttons a little bit desperately on his device.

“It went completely offline somehow,” Remy said.

“Did it get turned off?” Emile asked. “Or run out of batteries?”

“It doesn’t turn off and the batteries are designed to last for years,” Remy said. “It can even track through 20 feet of water. The only way it could stop sending a single this abruptly is if the thing was destroyed.”

Emile paused. “You said Virgil knows what the blinking light means.”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible that he knows, or well, ‘knows,’ you’re dead? Barbara did send a man after him, he could have mentioned it.”

Remy stared down at the device in his hands.

He pressed a couple of buttons and studied the screen for a moment. “You little shit,” he groaned. “You threw it out the fucking car window, didn’t you?”

“How do you know?” Emile asked.

“Because if I look at the history, it was going at 65 miles per hour down the interstate, suddenly stopped cold, and then broke when another car inevitably crushed it.”

“Ah.”

“Well, at least the fucker’s probably okay. Dammit Virgil! Where are you going?” Remy pushed a few more buttons almost idly as he thought. “Let me get into Virgil’s head for a minute: emo music, dark clothes, would rather have his toenails ripped out than go to parties, makes split second decisions based on little info. Yep! Got him.”

Emile rolled his eyes, but Remy wouldn’t have noticed as he had his own eyes closed. “Hmm. So, I’m Virgil. My bitch mom killed my dad and sent someone after me. I have no idea what’s going on, but I bolt out of there because fuck mom. I want to get the hell out of dodge so I convince someone to drive me somehow, I guess, but where would I want to go? Someplace safe. Where’s safe? Maybe Emile, but obviously that’s not where he went. Or Janus, but he’s too connected to mom. I don’t really no anyone else, especially not someone who could help with this sort of stuff.”

Remy thought for another long moment. “Oops.”

“Oops?” Emile asked. “What oops?”

He could tell by the expression on Remy’s face that he was not going to like the answer. “I may have let something… slip.”

“What do you mean, Remington?”

“Um, well you see,” Remy said. “A couple of months ago Virgil was being, you know, himself: a little shit. He may have, possibly, found some papers.”

“What kind of papers?” Emile asked.

“They were nothing important!” Remy assured. “There wasn’t any dangerous info in them or anything, but…”

“But?”

“It is somewhat possible that they had the name on them.”

“How possible?” Emile asked, eyes narrowed on him.

“He asked what Green Bellow Foods was and why they needed 50 top of the line computers outfitted at an old factory.”

“And what did you tell him?!”

“Nothing!”

Emile glared at him.

“Okay, well I had to tell him something,” Remy mentioned. “I just kind of said that I knew the owner well and was working with him on some stuff. Then I told him not to worry about it, which was probably a mistake, because he’s Virgil. So, then I found him snooping in my car. At that point I had to sit him down and talk to him. So, I told him a bit about Logan.”

“Remy that’s not nothing!”

“I didn’t use his name or anything. I just told him a couple of really, extremely, tremendously, vague stories, so he didn’t think I owed money to the mafia. Which, yes, he did suggest.”

“That’s worse!”

“What do you want from me Emile?!”

“Some common sense!” Emile answered. “I’ve been comparing you to the rat in Ratatouille for years, but I’m starting to think you’re more of a Pinky from Pinky and the Brain.”

“Hey, ouch,” Remy replied. “Also, I personally subscribe to the theory that Pinky is actually the intelligent one who is foiling Brain’s evil plots from the inside. So, there.”

“Now is not the time,” Emile said.

“Oh, it’s not the time to discuss cartoon theories?” Remy mumbled into his lap. “Must be serious.”

“It is serious! Virgil is missing!”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Remy snapped. “I know, Emile.”

There was quiet. Emile took a breath. “Okay,” he said, calmer. “Do you really think he’s going to Logan?”

“He’s headed somewhere,” Remy answered, “and wherever that somewhere is, it’s inexplicably down the most direct route towards base.”

“Well, Virgil is smart. I don’t think he’d just keep going so quickly without a destination in mind. We should call Logan.”

“Do you honestly believe Barbara doesn’t have your phone tapped when Virgil is missing? If you had one of Logan’s phones, I might agree with you, but as it is, we’d be giving away our position, and possibly clueing her in to Virgil’s plan. If he shows up at base, Logan will take him in no question asked. It’s less dangerous for everyone this way.”

“Fine,” Emile said. “We’ll just keep driving towards Logan and hope you’re right about where he’s going.”

“Of course, I’m right,” Remy said lightly. “I’ve got the paternal instincts going on. Course, they didn’t stop the knife throwing incident of ’09. I blame Janus for that, though.”

Emile shook his head at him.

“It is good for when he tries to steal sweets, or that one time he brought home a baby piglet and tried to hide it from me in his bedroom. Or when he’s feeling anxious about something but won’t tell me because he thinks it’s silly.” Remy’s own fingers tapped out an anxious pattern against his knee. “It also worked with the golf cart incident, but it was too late. Again, I blame Janus. He messes with the paternal instinct meter. He’s far too unpredictable and I make the mistake of thinking he’s responsible, which he is half the time, but the other half of the time I remember that he’s still mostly a kid and one that grew up in an unstable environment. Did I tell you that last month they went and won a bunch of tickets at the arcade and used them to get those 5 ticket rubber ducks and just unloaded them all over my room? Honestly, you’d think a 21-year-old would have a better use for his money or at least have the brains to go buy them at a store. He could have gotten like 500 more ducks for the same amount of money. Of course, it was his mom’s money, so I guess I can get behind wasting it on arcade games and rubber ducks. The prank was apparently based on some comedy sketch Virgil found online.”

“You’re doing the thing again,” Emile pointed out calmly.

“Stop psych evaluating me,” he shot back.

“Fine, fine,” Emile said. “Keep distracting yourself from your emotional responses with silly stories. See if I care.”

“Thank you,” Remy replied. “I will.”

Emile sighed as he started back up again mumbling something about having taken away Virgil’s Gameboy after catching him playing it at 3 o’clock in the morning. He claimed this wasn’t because the boy hadn’t gotten any sleep, but because he insulted Donkey Kong to Remy’s face. After that story had run its course, Remy continued to babble at an increasingly fast pace about all sorts of things. Emile imagined most of the stories he sprouted out were quite embellished.

He’d tried to turn on the radio once, but Remy had slapped his hand away saying, “The next one’s a really good one.” So, he had resigned himself to his fate of tuning out Remy’s coping mechanism to the best of his abilities and just focusing on driving for the next 45 minutes. Which is probably why he noticed that traffic had strangely decreased. He didn’t really pay that much mind until the traffic suddenly increased… in the form of a wall of stopped cars.

“Jenkies, what’s going on?” he asked, as he came to a stop at the end of the line of cars.

“Um…” Remy said looking out of his car window. There, staring into their car with beady black eyes was a cow. As Emile watched, said cow leaned forward to drag its tongue across the passenger side window. “Shit.”

Chapter 14

“You two doing okay back there?” Roman asked, glancing into the rearview window at them as he exited the interstate onto highway 236.

“We’re perfectly fine,” Janus replied evenly.

“Ow ow ow ow ow! You’re crushing me!” Remus complained. Janus was currently sitting on his chest, pinning him to the back seat.

“You should probably put your seatbelt on,” Roman advised.

“You’re probably right,” Janus agreed.

“No! Get off!” Remus said. “Or I’m going to scream!”

“Oh, because you don’t scream randomly when someone isn’t sitting on top of you?” Janus shot back. Roman officially liked Janus; he’d just decided. “Give me that!” Janus said, and a moment later, Remus’s phone was thrown into the passenger seat.

Remus whined and Roman glanced back at them once again, amused. That is when he caught sight of a car behind them. He glanced at his speedometer and then back at the car. Roman was currently going a little over 90mph, having slowed down a bit now that they were off the interstate. Yet, the car was gaining on them.

“Hey,” Roman said. “Wh-,” and that’s when a bullet came through the back window right past Janus’s head. “Holy fuck!” Roman screamed, swerving a bit before getting the car back under control. Remus grabbed Janus by the front of his shirt and pulled him down as more bullets rained on them courtesy of the car Roman had spotted. The glass from his car’s back window shattered over the two of them.

Roman pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and started purposefully swerving to throw off their shots as Remus shoved Janus down onto the floor so he could lunge into the front seat. He grabbed the gun Roman stored in his glove box and loaded it with practiced ease.

“My bag,” Janus requested, and Remus threw the asked for object over his shoulder before rolling down the window.

“Methinks mommy dearest’s people may have found us,” Remus commented.

#study break stories #remy sanders #remus sanders #roman sanders #janus sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #guns #platonic moxiety #platonic remile #creativitwins #emile piccani

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rokutouxei · 4 years ago

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the wonder that’s keeping the starts apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop's most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo's pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 4 OF 22

She is… persistent.

The kind of persistent that would be inspiring if the persistence wasn’t pointed in his direction. Theo isn’t anti-social—he’s not the kind of person who would purposefully avoid conversation or hide from people, because he knows that, especially with his major, building networks is a thing.

But she’s different, because it’s not like she’s doing it for any sort of plus or gain on her end—at least in Theo’s mind—so he doesn’t quite understand why she’s like this.

“Do you have a favorite book?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Why’d you decide to work at Dragon’s Hoard?”

“What’s it like being a business major?”

She asks just a handful of questions in a day, as if not to scare him off. But she makes the most out of his patience. She sits there, the book he’s lent her in her hand, a finger stuck between the pages to mark where she was last at. She gives an answer for every question she gives, as

“Me? Man, I wouldn’t be able to pick a favorite book…”

“I really like Japanese food, actually, but…”

“Hmm, I’m thinking of getting a part-time too, so…”

“It’s prettier on paper. Everything is prettier on paper in the lit department…”

Something about her persistence reminds him of Vincent, in a mirrored way that he can’t quite put into words. She and Vincent both have something thrumming in their veins that pushes them forward. It’s something he doesn’t understand, because it’s never been like that for him.

So one day, he finally asks:

“Why me?”

“What?”

Theo asks it out of nowhere, and she looks up at him curiously from between the pages of Ocean Vuong.

“What do you mean, why you?”

“It is what it is.”

“Okay, mister vague-posting,” she rolls her eyes at him, but there’s a smile on her face. “I don’t know, really. You’re interesting, I guess.”

It’s not the eloquent answer he expected out of her, but he’s a little relieved it’s not anything more complex. He doesn’t know what he would done with that sort of information. “Glad to have been entertaining, then.”

“What do you think of yourself, a shiny thing?” she says, laughing. “You’re just more than you show yourself to be, and that’s the fun part. I just might see through you, Theo.”

“You do not.”

“I do! You’re all barbs but Vincent calls you the sweetest thing and that’s all I need to know. Maybe I can even guess your favorite color.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Is it yellow?”

Theo didn’t have a favorite color. And even if he did, yellow might not be that high up on the list of contenders. But in that moment, he considers it: yellow, the color of Vincent’s hair, yellow, the rye fields of their home town, yellow, the color of childhood summers and painting in the backyard, yellow, the colors on their bedroom wall.

Maybe this silly girl was right. Maybe yellow could be his favorite.

“Lucky guess, hondje,” he says, instead, watching the sun blossom, bright yellow, on her face.

“You’re trying to justify a friendship with a guy who called you a dog?” he asks, tucking beautifully-tinted violet hair behind his ear. “You deserve better, Toshiko-san.”

It’s late afternoon, and she’s sitting in the gazebo near the Arts Building, the small, undignified hangout spot of the school’s already tiny literary club. Her friend and senior, Dazai, sits across from her on the table with his glasses on, squinting at her in confusion.

Dazai graduated a bit back, being two years older than her, but he’s still studying under the department. For some reason or another that she could not comprehend, he decided to take his MA in Japanese Literature here as well. One shared intensive writing workshop class with him has made them good friends.

“Called? No, present tense. He calls me a dog,” she corrects, shaking her head as she finally lifts her head up from the book she is highlighting. “I mean, he uses my name… sometimes… rarely… okay nearly never, but somehow he’s figured out calling me his puppy in Dutch is a good nickname.”

Dazai shakes his head. “Sounds like a fuckboy,” he comments, readjusting his glasses into place, as he flips his readings back to the right page. “Steer clear unless he has a huge cock, I guess?”

“Shut up, oh my god!” she exclaims, rushing over to cover his mouth with her hands. “No way, no way. He’s a business major, and I don’t want to be in a relationship with a business major of all things. Besides, there’s a better option than him in the same house. Does arts too.”

“Oh? Pray tell, who might it be?”

“His brother,” she whispers, conspiratorially, “is Vincent.”

Dazai blinks. There is a moment of silence before he can compose himself. “No way. Van Gogh? He has a brother? He’s still here?”

“Yes, him, the ‘genius of the College of Arts’, he ‘who haunts the hallways of the Fine Arts Department’, the professors’ favorite ‘artistic genius’,” she rattles off, having memorized the rumors with how many times she’s heard it. “The only reason I know he’s still here is because it would have been huge news if he actually graduated.”

“Seven years in the shitty College of Arts? He’s some sort of masochist for sure,” he comments. She poses no comment to the fact that Dazai took his undergraduate studies here, too, and now he’s also doing his masters… here, too. “But you’re telling me the guy at Dragon’s Hoard is his brother? His brother is a business major?”

“Look, I know, I was surprised too,” she says. “I was already shocked enough that he was the friendly barista at the café when you told me… but to know they’re related? They’re like ice and fire.”

“Exact opposites, huh?”

“Either way, that’s the story of how I got into some sort of mini modeling gig and into a friendship that I did not expect or want,” she says, finally finishing her story, with a wave of her hand like a conductor at the end of a piece.. “I’m trying to make the most out of it, though.”

Dazai nods, but his face is full of disbelief. “Yes, by sticking around a guy who calls you a dog in his free time.”

“No nickname will stand between me and getting people to read some good old poetry.”

“That’s not the point, Toshiko-san, but if that’s what makes you happy.”

For a moment, the two of them return to their studies. She, turning back to the book she’s highlighting and annotating for a class tomorrow. Him, going back to his readings for tonight’s class. The College of Arts’ literary club used to be open to everyone, but after dwindling membership, it became one that was limited to the Department of Literature’s students—or, rather, all of the students are immediately made part of it, and could hang out at their said sad, lonely gazebo if they want. That didn’t make it any more popular, though, so she’s made it her and her friend’s little nook for studying when she’s not in the library.

“Say, what made Vincent a legend in the College of Arts?” she suddenly asks, just as she reached the end of a page. Dazai hums, finishing a passage he’s reading before looking up.

“Isn’t it because of his style?” Dazai answers, though hesitantly. “I’m sure the painting hanging in the Dean’s room is his.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure of that too, but…” she pauses, thinking of Vincent in his studio room, planning his paintings, the corkboard, and the canvases. “Why didn’t he just…get it over with? Why hasn’t he graduated? I’m sure there’s some sort of—apprenticeship or studio that’ll take someone like him when he paints like that. Maybe they’ll give him an allowance too. And with the number of recommendations that he can get from the professors?”

With a hum, Dazai offers: “Maybe you can ask his brother.”

They make a face at each other, laugh, and get back to studying.

Dazai’s class starts at five in the afternoon, running up until seven p.m., and while there are days that she waits out for him at the gazebo for dinner, tonight was a special day. The Office of Student Relations has meetings on Tuesday mornings; and while they do post their announcements online the next day, the fastest way to get the news from them is to check the bulletin board outside their office at six p.m., which is when they post. Sitting on a bench right outside the office, she waits for the assistant or secretary to post what she’s waiting for and—

There he is!

“Hello,” she greets, standing up from her seat and walking toward the bulletin board. The secretary smiles and greets her back, tacking the notice to the board.

“Waiting on the requirements?”

“Sure am,” she answers, wringing her hands behind her. “Been very anxious.”

“Well, here they are. Best of luck.”

“Thank you!”

The secretary takes his leave shortly after that, returning back through the large wooden doors of the antiquated office. She left behind, stands in front of the bulletin board with her eyes closed, and takes a deep breath.

This is it. The requirements for her dreams, right in front of her.

She opens her eyes and takes out a flyer from the small pocket that the secretary had pinned onto the board. A flyer detailing the requirements for the one-year, international scholarship program of the Office of Student Relations.

A long, laundry-list of requirements, from filling in forms, requesting official paperwork like transcripts and recommendation letters, submitting portfolios, and passing a certain number of assessment interviews.

“I can’t afford to get distracted,” she says, to no one in particular, as if saying it out loud will make it real, will help it come true much easier than it actually will take. This is what he was all supposed to be—a small, pleasant motivation, a distraction for when idle, but not one that will stop her from what she originally intended to do.

This.

To go away.

But…

She tucks the flyer in between notebooks, thinking quietly to herself, But those are only books, so it can’t be that bad—can it?

#the wonder that’s keeping the starts apart #ikemen vampire #ikevamp theo

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hyliangrace-a · 4 years ago

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ZELDA, HER APPEARANCE & HER FEELINGS REGARDING IT /

talking with amber about the differences between the appearances in our respective zeldas got me motivated to finish this headcanon, finally ! i love zelda’s ocarina of time design, because y’know, imprinting on your very first zelda game & all that, but there’s always room for improvement, right ? these are my ( questionable ) improvements ! this headcanon ... got away from me little bit when i started to talk out my reasoning for zelda’s choice in how she presented herself as queen. i intended on talking about how she looks in other verses, too, such as when she’s a spectre in the queen’s shade universe, but i feel that would suit better as an entirely separate post, so, that’ll come in time ! i hadn’t intended on putting this post under a read more, because i feel it’s a fairly important headcanon & i’d like people to read it, but - surprise ! - it’s really long, & it would feel really rude to just leave it uncut, so behind the black it goes - that, & it also deals with body issues & negative perceptions of one’s body, so please keep that in mind if you’re sensitive to that sort of content. that said, & i’m aware of the irony of this sentence after the last, but i hope you guys at least find it an enjoyable read ! ♡

the three basic tenets of her appearance which have appeared in most of her predecessors & descendants ( pale, blue-eyed, blonde-haired ) apply in most, if not all, of my verses for zelda but there are only a few verses of mine where i would say zelda’s appearance is exactly as it is within the game & the official art provided by nintendo - primarily the earliest arc of my canon verses, when she’s still the little princess, & the au which follows the events of the child timeline, where she never goes on the run & so never becomes sheik. she’s still quite fit, thanks to horseback riding & regular exercise, overseen by impa, but it’s in this au she most embodies the slim, graceful princess look nintendo gave her. one constant in all her adult verses, however, is her height - by the time she’s fully grown, she’s 5′8″.

in my other main, canon-inspired verses, well - zelda goes on the run at age ten, & it’s from that age impa begins to teach her how to fight, as she knows that she cannot protect her forever, & she’s going to need to become self-sufficient if she wants to survive. it starts off with basic things, graduating into an intense regime, but the result is, by the time link awakens from his slumber, zelda, even whilst disguised as sheik, is broad-shouldered & visibly muscled. i choose to interpret the tanned skin, red eyes & shorter hair as part of a glamour zelda put up, out of fear that ganondorf was searching for girls matching her description á la wind waker, but the muscles get to stay because whilst her appearance might be fake when under this alias, her feats are not. she did, after all, manage to survive seven years in a monster-infested hyrule, stay in the heart of death mountain without a visible goron tunic, & for whatever reason, was at kakariko village before link when the seal holding bongo-bongo back began to break, & i choose to interpret that as her being prepared to fight it. she also managed to make it through the haunted wasteland to the desert colossus / the spirit temple, sans lens of truth, & as she presents as an androgynous, masculine-leaning figure, she might have also had to prove her worth to the gerudo in battle, just as link did - after all, even though the gerudo, such as nabooru, openly disavow ganondorf by that point in time, it would be madness to declare her true self in his hometown.

this piece of fanart by lord-lorens is, honestly, the closest thing to how i picture zelda’s body type whilst she masquerades as sheik, & afterwards, when she reassumes her identity as princess. ( is there a gossip stone out there saying princess zelda has an eight pack ? there’s nothing in canon to disprove this, so yes. ) the only thing which stops it being entirely perfect for me is my headcanons of where across her body zelda is scarred ( which could be another, much smaller headcanon, so i’ll leave it for that ) but considering everyone’s interpretation of how zelda lived as sheik is varied, it was bound to happen - but god, minus those, i just want to pin this somewhere on my blog with an enormous sign next to it which says ❛ this is how my zelda looks, as both sheik & a princess. ❜ but, with that in mind, lets move on.

i think it’s interesting how similar zelda’s outfit is as an adult ( which she ISN’T, she’s SEVENTEEN, but i digress - ) to the one she wears as a child, & my interpretation of it is that it’s very deliberate - & another glamour. ( seriously, where the fuck would she get a dress like that ? ) zelda hasn’t been seen in public, as herself, in seven years. the last people saw of her, as mentioned by those in castle town prior to drawing the master sword, is her fleeing the castle on horseback with her attendant, & that might have been the first glimpse some people had of her at all. when ganondorf is sealed away, & she re-emerges, she’s dressed similarly in order to spark recognition in people’s minds, & also because she knows that it may be difficult to prove she is who she claims to be, considering the king is dead, & impa has ascended as a sage, & can’t vouch for her. surviving nobles who interrogate her on her memories are able to confirm her claim to the throne, but if she had just strolled into kakariko village in casual dress, it’s very likely she would have absolutely been dismissed.

because of this, zelda’s feelings towards her appearance end up... complicated. in the aforementioned child timeline au verse, where she has a privileged, but more normal, adolescent socialization, she’s quite accepting of her own appearance & how feminine it is, because in that timeline, she fits the mold of what people expect a princess to be - she’s tall, she’s graceful, she’s pretty, & she’s rewarded for fitting that ideal. in her canon universe, where a life on the run left her with an entirely different body type, an indifference to feminity, many insecurities about her suitability as queen of hyrule, especially in her first years of being on the throne, & a desire to conform to others expectations of her ... it’s a perfect storm, whose origins can be traced directly to her choice to homage her childhood dress during her reappearance in hylian society.

insecurity & fear feeds a lot of her choices in how she presents herself at the beginning of her reign. her body type is what some would call androgynous, others vaguely masculine - broad shoulders & small breasts which combine to give the illusion of her hips being narrower than they are, & she though she herself is content with that, she fears scorn by others because of it, so she works to minimize these features, & she plays up to feminity. her wardrobe primarily consists of dresses, gowns & robes, all loose fitting, all sleeved to at least the elbow, preferably in a style which leaves her biceps covered, & indistinct beneath the fabric. the gold pauldrons she wears as an adult feature in most, if not all, of her garments until her official coronation, seven years after ganondorf was sealed away - they provide her a measure of security, give her a regal appearance, & do a lot of heavy lifting, in conjunction with the sleeves of her gowns, to hide her shoulders & biceps, to the point where people are surprised at just how muscled she is when they come off - she hides the results, but even as queen, she still trains as she did when she was in hiding. most people are accepting of how she looks, but as is always the way, the few harsh comments she hears deafen her to the compliments - the only thing zelda wants, in the end, is for hyrule to recover, & for her people to thrive, & for that, she needs to be a good queen to them. to be a good queen, she must live up to their expectations. her attempts to live up to that via her appearance lead to her first breakdown, three months after her coronation.

it’s not just her appearance, of course - there’s enough stress to go around trying to get hyrule back on its feet again in a fair way, whilst trying to make her own mark as queen & live up to her parents’ peacekeeping legacy - but the nitpicking from a few members of her court, & the constant moving of goalposts as she attempts to satisfy their criticisms of her appearance, is the catalyst for her eventual declaration that she is done trying to satisy other people’s unreasonable explanations. the queenly mask she wears for other people’s benefit is suffocating her, so she decides to break it, & forge a new one. if she is going to be feminine, it is because she chooses to be, not because people expect her to be. if she wishes to dress as a man does, who can stop her ? if androgyny is what she feels, she will not deny herself. so, after a good cry, zelda does what every twenty-four year old going through a tough time does - she cuts her hair. she no longer tries to hide her body or disguise her frame. she is the queen, & the people will accept her as she is.

& most do ! hyrule has some strange looking people in it. a queen with a pixie cut is not the end of the world. she keeps it short for a good while, as a symbol of both her & hyrule’s fresh start, but eventually she begins to let it grow out again, with its length varying at ... well, various important points in her life. a short bob when she begins the programme to build new villages & settlements in hyrule. shoulder length when she begins courting to secure the throne for the future. waist length when she marries. she cuts it to above her shoulders once more when her first child is born, & keeps it mostly at that length until the end of her life, mostly for practical reasons. she was never ashamed of her body, before or after she became queen, as it was proof of her survival, but she became a lot more confident in herself as queen after she stopped letting other people, & her own well-intentioned, if misguided, fantasies of what a queen should look like dictate her life. that doesn’t mean to say that was that, every dark thought about her appearance swept away - there were days afterwards where she still despaired of her appearance, of the image she was projecting to others, of the judgements being passed on her & her country that came from her looks alone - but they were infrequent compared to the constant anxiety she felt about her appearance prior to the night she took a knife to her hair. they also weren’t enough to stop her from maintaining her physique, either - the training regime she began as a child continued into her late sixties, when she finally felt confident enough in the kingdom’s safety to stop, but the results of it meant that zelda was powerfully built through her whole life. even the birth of her children, which softened her body, couldn’t diminish much of her muscled appearance. shedding the weight of others opinions ( of her appearance, at least ) allowed her to stand tall until the end of her days. her body told the story of her life, & eventually, she was proud to let people see it.

#⌜ ❛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜɪsᴛᴏʀʏ & ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴛᴇʀᴍs. ❜ ⌟ ✦ ( headcanon. )#( will i ever do a short headcanon ? all indicators point to no #can you believe i wrote all this just to say that zelda is shredded & also had a pixie cut once #the irish inability to be concise strikes again )#self-esteem issues /#self image issues /#body issues /#negative body image /

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drsilverfish · 5 years ago

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Nothing Gold Can Stay... (15x04 Atomic Monsters)

Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

Hey everyone, as ever, I am catching up British-time, so I haven’t jumped into your posts yet, but I’m looking forward to it!

I’m sure there are some great gifs and discussions already out there about Dean and his “man meat” grief-eating.

But I thought I’d start with Veronica and Robert Frost.

Those of you who’ve been following mine or @occamshipper ‘s musings on the use of alchemical themes in Dabb-era SPN will know that gold was highly significant to the medieval alchemists. It was their ultimate goal, to turn “base metal” (lead) into gold, and that was understood as a metaphor (or a mirror on the earthly plane) for the refinement of the soul on its journey to God.

Next week’s episode, 15x05, is titled Proverbs 17.3, and in the Bible, Proverbs 17.3 reads (King James version):

The fining pot is for silver, and the furnace for gold:

But the LORD trieth the hearts

Gold is, officially, a theme. As is the symbolic red of the heart.

As Becky tells Chuck, it’s not the monsters (ooh shade at the Leviathan, whom Chuck thinks were “great”, just like he thought the ending of Game of Thrones was “great”) which SPN fans are really interested in, it’s the emotional interactions between the characters - i.e. their hearts.

Becky, in Perez’ metafictional commentary, is the fan-fiction representative who has come to understand the SPN story better than sucky origin-writer Chuck. She knows it’s about the emotional notes, the heartfelt conversations between the hero characters (including Cas, since she shades his non-mention all too often in Chuck’s MOTW stories) - aka the real “gold” of the story.

Interesting also, in terms of alchemical colour symbolism, are Sam’s God-wound induced “red visions”, which seem to be of an AU in which Sam has succumbed to his old demon-blood addiction (symbolic of his S5 apparent “destiny” of possession by Lucifer):

I was waiting for the Ouroboros (spiral/ circular narrative) reference to 5x04 The End (in its numerical correspondence to 15x04). And here it is, because Sam in the red-vision in 15x04 speaks in a similar voice to Lucifer!Sam in The End. Dean in the 15x04 red vision is a desperate fighter and Sam has said “Yes” to the demonic, just as was the case in 5x04 The End.:

In alchemy, there are four traditional colour-stages along the alchemical transformational road from lead to gold - nigredo (blackening) albedo (whitening) citrinitas (yellowing) and rubedo (reddening). Reddening is the final stage before gold. So Sam’s red-visions, and the gold which becomes a theme in 15x04 by means of the quotation from Robert Frost’s beautiful poem, are linked pieces of alchemical symbolism.

Their meaning, I think, is that just as Amara’s link to Dean through the Mark of Cain changed Amara for the better (she learned about love through experiencing Dean’s “heart” through the Mark in S11, thus shaking off The DarknessTM to become clothed in yellow, the colour of the sun, at the start of S15), so Sam’s link to Chuck through the God-gun (of equalising/ revenge) will (hopefully, eventually) change Chuck for the better. A balance of powers - the feminine God-principle and the masculine God-principle, both learning compassion and becoming their higher selves (achieving the spiritual synthesis of “gold”) through their links to the (red) hearts of the Winchesters.

That means suffering for the Winchesters along the way, of course, as they too, undergo the alchemical process of self-transformation by (eventually) fully facing their Shadows (their unconscious); Sam’s fear of being permanently “contaminated” by the demon-blood fed to him as a baby, and Dean’s fear of abandonment (stemming from the loss of his mother) which leads him to be over-controlling and to act out and push people (ahem, Cas) away.

But back to Veronica. Veronica who quotes Robert Frost’s lovely poem in her tribute speech to her “best friend” Suzy (possibly, her lover - that subtextual reading is certainly available).

Veronica is a fascinating character, because she is “read wrong”, by Dean in particular, who thinks she’s the vampire, the one killing her cheerleader rivals in order to get the top spot. And he’s wrong because, as Sam points out, she has braces, a no-no for vamp-teeth. Dean is really sarcastic about the memorial speech Veronica is practising for Suzy, of whom she says, “I’m lost without Suzy, it’s like a piece of my heart is gone.”

Here is Dean, being a sarcastic little shit about Veronica’s emotive school-girl speech:

Of course, Veronica’s eulogy for her dead beloved, who was “gold” and thus (in her Frost’s poem analogy) was too beautiful to last in this world, is too painful for Dean to hear. It verbalises what he cannot (he can’t even bear to speak Castiel’s name, all episode):

“My best friend Suzy who I miss like she was a part of me, and in many ways she’s still a part of me.”

In subtext, Dean also reads Veronica “wrong” because he thinks she was Suzy’s rival, when in fact, she was her lover (part of a Veronica-Suzy-Billy love-triangle, the F/F element emphasised by their attendance at a school called “Beaverdale” where “beaver” is of course slang for vagina).

Look at all those red hearts (symbols of romantic love) on Suzy’s memorial pin-board, Indeed, look at all that red in general. A “match” for Sam’s “red-visions”. If Sam’s rubedo (alchemical reddening) trial is his God-wound, Dean’s is his separation from Cas:

Veronica, it seems (unbeknownst to the Winchesters) is a neophyte hunter (as well as, in subtext, Suzy’s lover) a sleuth, on the trail of whoever killed Suzy. And it looks like she knows it was a vampire. When Sam and Dean are questioning her (and she’s clearly suspicious of them) we see her with a syringe of what looks like blood behind her back, ready to jab them:

We know, from 1x20 Dead Man’s Blood, that in the SPN universe, a dead person’s blood can temporarily take down a vamp. So it seems that whilst Dean suspects Veronica of being the vampire, she suspects the Winchesters (a recurrence of SPN’s perennial - “Who is really the monster?”/ it’s not black-and-white theme. The reference to Dead Man’s Blood is also interesting, as this was an early episode in which Dean defied his father (stepped out of being John’s “good little solider”, who did see monsters in black-and-white) yet now, we have, Ouroboros-style Dean regressing to old John-learned behaviours (conceal, don’t feel) after the second death of Mary.

I love this little Veronica detail. It’s an un-explored thread in the story, a piece of fan-fiction catnip begging for further elaboration. More Perez meta-narrative, in fact, in which he suggests that, despite the sinister Chuck and his insistence on a final SPN ending with a gravestone reading “Winchesters”, the story itself is WaywardTM; it is capable of fluidity, of control being wrested from the origin-creator (God). After all, Chuck created free will, and despite his desire for total control, he cannot undo this wild-card element in the narrative, which Veronica’s little secret hunter-identity (in subtext, also, her secret queer identity) just like Becky’s fan-fic, is a mirror for.

Veronica’s citation of Frost’s melancholic poem becomes a metaphor for (Dean’s) lost love. Just as Sam’s mention in the final Impala scene, of how he still thinks about Jess often, becomes a verbalisation for Dean’s own constant (unspoken) thoughts about his own lost love; Cas.

Veronica and Billy (who were possibly both Suzy’s lovers; although in text it’s Billy, in subtext Veronica, true to SPN’s ongoing bisexual subtext in relation to Dean) exchange a memorial bracelet to Suzy in front of Suzy’s picture, as Veronica tells Billy a piece of her heart is gone:

Both are mirror images for Dean - Veronica-the-vampire-hunter who mourns excessively, and Billy-the-vampire, who has killed the person he loved (just as Dean has driven Cas away):

Dean is forced by Chuck’s authorial hand to kill Billy, who is both a representation of his own lost son, Jack (Chuck’s cruel re-staging of the scene in which Dean almost kills Jack in 14x20 Moriah) and of Dean himself (symbolising Dean’s present “self-murder” aka his self-punishment and repression re Cas):

Nothing gold can stay....

Frost’s poem is also used by Perez as a metanarrative commentary on the sadness we all feel as SPN draws to a close. Everything beautiful has its time to fade and die, Frost says; even SPN, says Perez.

Frost’s poem also makes reference to Eden, to the Fall, and how that was, in God’s plan, an inevitability; the descent from the Godly to the earthly.

It’s noticeable how, just as The Fall was presented as Eve’s fault in the Bible, Chuck is, yet again, trying to eliminate the feminine principle from the narrative, just as he has always done throughout SPN (which began with the deaths of Mary Winchester and Jess). Chuck kills Suzy, as the driver of the episode, and he “poufs” Becky (the fan-fic writer) out of existence (possibly into an AU) so he can finish the story the way he wants, just as he has re-murdered Mary Winchester (or possibly also poufed her into an AU) to continue the Winchesters’ suffering.

But Chuck’s determination to arrive at a tragic ending, an ending in which the feminine principle is still subjugated, Perez suggests, can be subverted, because the seeds of subversion are already there in the story; Veronica’s secret and subversive sleuthing (slash her subtextual queerness), Becky’s emotionally open, subversive, fan-fic, and the continued yearning of the Winchesters for true free will (not yet knowing Chuck is still actively f-ing with them) despite the burden of their grief,

If gold is the result of the final alchemical synthesis, of “masculine” and “feminine” principles, of the conscious and the unconscious mind, here represented by Chuck-the-author and Becky-the-fan-fic writer (who were once a couple, but are now broken up, just as Chuck and Amara, Dean and Cas, are currently broken up).... Then, the alchemical symbolism suggests, the darkness of the break-up stage (The Abyss, which we are currently in) can be overcome by the red (rubedo) power of the heart - Sam’s God-wound trial, his heart-connection to Chuck, and Dean’s own heart-wound trial, the loss of his (heart) connection to Cas.

Yes, we are still working on the power of love.

Love ultimately confounded Chuck’s apocalypse in S5, when TFW went “off script” and, Ouroboros-style, it can do so again in S15.

Chuck can be overthrown (transformed), Perez tells us, by his own story; and thus the story can find its own (heart-filled) free will ending.

Perhaps, after all, something gold can stay.*

*My usual disclaimer applies - none of this suggests or implies an inevitable Dean/ Cas romantic (unequivocal) textualisation.

Although, I would like to think that Perez, by including the by now all too formulaic Dean-is-bisexual subtext via bisexual (subtextual) mirroring in 15x04, is commenting, meta-fictionally, on Chuck’s (aka TPTB’s) (wearisome) eternal tendency to do this, thereby suggesting that the over-turning of Chuck’s narrative control should, by rights, also include the overturning of this formula into... something new.

#Supernatural #15x04 #Atomic Monsters #SPN meta #Meta #5x04 #The End #Ouroboros narrative #Alchemy in S15 #Alchemy in SPN #Dean is bisexual #Still subtext #But subtext IS part of narrative #As above so below #Mirroring as narrative device #Chuck Shurley #SPN metanarrative #Long post for TS

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