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msfett · 3 years

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✨ Had a few requests for this 😁 So just the smut under the cut 🔥

✳️ Boba Fett x F!Reader ✳️

Rating: NSFW Explicit 18+ only

C/W: Explicit Sexual Content/Dialogue, Rough!PIV Sex, Oral Sex, Power Play, Breathplay, Anal Play, Impact Play/Spanking (Let’s just play with everything!) 💕

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“You.” It sounds accusing despite whatever underlying objective he’s attempting to convey. Still soaked from recycled water, his hair is wavy, longer pieces adhering to his temples. He is warm and clean, cold grime sucked down the shower drain. “He was shooting at you.” His dark eyes narrow, droplets splashing to roll down his nose. “Wasn’t going to let him live after that.” But the few flecks of gold in his eyes flicker brightly, skin dewy even with the glare of poorly filtered light.

You’ve been stripping away lingering anger, removing more of it with each article of dirty clothing heaped on the floor. “No. Don’t use me as your reason for his death.”

“You don’t think you’re a good enough reason?” There’s a great wondering sincerity in his voice, avidly waiting for your reply, and you try not to notice the slight slipping of his towel exposing more of the muscled midriff.

“To die for?” But your face is placid, reserved, a practiced emptiness acting as a blank, secondary mask. “No.”

Detached, you brush past him in the narrow hallway to the bunk when he grabs your wrist, striding the single step needed to pin you, his trap precisely accurate.

“Well, maybe I do,” he growls, bare chest rising and falling so closely. The push of his body against yours; the hard and the soft of passionate anger.

“Let go,” you say evenly, apathetic to his increasing agitation.

A fist smashes into the durasteel, reverberations echoing through your chest. “Do you ever actually feel anything?” He’s snarling the words, bringing his face closer until you’re sharing breath. “You lack basic emotions.”

“I lack emotion? What about you? You never—”

“You think I have no emotion?” He smiles like a ravenous animal delivering the final, debilitating injury to its prey, energy spurting to pulsate in your temples, your stomach, between taut thighs. “Fine. You asked me what I want. Here’s your fuckin’ answer.”

He is made of teeth and claws leaving you defenseless, unprepared for the brutal veracity of his attack.

“I want to rip off those skin-tight, cock-tease pants and bury my face in that sweet little cunt until it’s the only thing I can taste.” Raw desire burns in his dark eyes, fingers mauling the flesh of your hips through the fabric as though he’s about to make good on his depraved word.

“I want to push you to your scratched-up knees and watch that pretty, too smart for its own good mouth open wide so I can fuck it.” With predatory intent his large hand seizes your chin, calloused thumb harsh against your lip, tugging it down so he can slide his carnivorous tongue in your mouth, mimicking the voiced desire of defilement.

“I want to bruise that delicate, fragile throat and know I’ll be the only man who’s cock you choke on.” The hand enclosing your throat is finely shaking with fixed intention, cutting you off from any thought except him being deeply lodged, boldly pulsing, aggressively preventing passage of another.

“I want to fuck you so hard that I break apart that beautiful cunt until it’s shaped only for me. Knows only me.” He utters the possessive confession in his silk-over gravel voice, shock pummeling you like waves crashing against a rocky shore. A jealous hand harshly claims your sex with a greedy command, heel rubbing an order.

“That’s what I fucking want. Now how does that make you feel, Jedi? Or are you still dead inside?” His voice is a savage roar that ricochets through your body, awakening everything.

His neck is massive in your small hand, grasping only the front, but enough to feel the pounding of his pulse at your dark explosion. You don’t even need to touch him. He could be armlengths away and still fall victim to your crushing force. But his skin feels so alive beneath your bare fingertips as you hear the telltale gasp of deprivation. But there isn’t a hint of contention under the force of your clinch. If anything, he seems excited about becoming one with the wall as long as your hand is dictating the decree. The silence is charged, wrapping you in a distorted cocoon of electricity together.

“There’s that fire.” His voice deepens to a constricted, raspy rumble, so low it’s almost unintelligible. “Let it burn.” But he could’ve spoken in any alien tongue and you would’ve been able to decipher it, heart and body translating every syllable.

Your chest is an active battlefield raging with anger, pain, need, lust, all fighting for equal ground. He can feel you emanating. Your body heat. Your presence. Your power. And your momentary lapse of control over it. This is what he wanted. He’ll fucking get it then.

His hair is still damp, wringing water with your grip that makes clear the purpose of direction, a provocative coaxing to gentle him to the floor. “Down, boy.”

Positively growling with hostility, the bend in his knees is defiant, yet he complies, progressing in accordance with your charge. “You’re gonna fuckin’ regret that.”

Maybe so, but your smirk is vindictive as you rip the towel from his waist, leering as his cock bounces in unabashed liberation. Letting the towel fall from pillaging fingers, you graciously give him something to kneel on aside from the saccharine granules of disparaging instruction, questioning, “What happened to never bowing, Fett?”

Like the position of his body, his threat is low and frustrated, deliciously vicious. “Keep talkin’ pretty girl. You already know what I’m gonna do with that mouth.”

Insides quivering with the intimation, you instruct him with a swat. “Hands off. Let’s see how talented you really are.”

His hands want to disobey, but recede to the wall, attempting some semblance of control with the makeshift cage. Teeth scrape against the tender skin above your pant line before he begins to tug, intermittently shaking his head to slide the tight material lower on your hips. And It’s dreadfully enjoyable to taunt him as he performs in this submissive position. “After running your mouth, I thought you’d be better at this.”

Oh, he takes the dangled bait, practically salivating to prove you otherwise. “Turn around.” And he’s biting your ass through the pants, capturing flesh between slashing teeth as if he can rip a hole to satisfy his need. He sharply yanks the material over the swell of your ass, slowly licking the inflicted teeth marks like he can skin you with his tongue, only to nuzzle between marked cheeks, hunting for what’s buried between. The luscious arch of your back presents him with a faceful of ass and collected moisture glossing your folds. He groans as if he wants to stuff all of it in his mouth at once, devour you whole, and the thought makes you touch the arousal seeping around your clit, softly gliding a finger over.

“Face me,” he rumbles against your cunt.

There’s a raised eyebrow when he sees you touching yourself, but he’s raptly fascinated watching how the delicate finger provides pleasure in the form of little breathy noises that escape your throat. Tongue moistening his lips, he roughly fists his cock in a solicitous response. He’s breathing faster, eyes entranced as you add a second finger to the small, slow motions causing your hips to rock.

“How about making yourself useful, Fett?”

The words have just left your mouth, but he ignores the snark, already made of warm breath and ghosting lips, barely touching as disobedient hands skim up and down your calves. His lips press against yours, keeping resolute contact as he pulls a crate over. Grasping your ankle, he gently guides you as the new angle naturally opens your legs. Inhaling deeply, his nostrils flare to draw in your scent before licking up the fingers pleasuring yourself.

Quickly flicking your wrist, your fingertips hook behind his lower teeth, pulling his jaw down, and he’s trying to fight against you, trying to lift his head against your pressure. But the pressure is too great, and you feel the lack of resistance in his slackened jaw as his head lowers. But even so, his eyes lock with yours.

“You can do better than that.” You drag slicked fingers from behind teeth, down his lower lip, across until you’ve made sure the fingers leave any remaining juices on him. Cupping his face, you give him a grin before patting his cheek, and it’s absolutely condescending when you speak.

“Be a good boy.”

Oh, you’ve struck a nerve, maybe hundreds. His desire flares, hot and angry, sending chills thrilling over your skin. “I’m gonna do more than break you.”

And hearing him repeat his destructive compulsion initiates your own self-sabotage for the complete devastation of your body, of the dark desires of his needs, your needs, of the growing threads of attachment.

Your grip tangles in his hair, incrementally pulling back, forcing him to crane his neck. “If you really want to taste this pussy so badly, you’re doing a shitty job of showing me that.” The look on his face is wild. “Lick.” You shove his face closer and he absolutely dives in with an eager tongue. He can fucking drown there if he thinks he can break you. The darkness in his eyes is all consuming, as you feed him each demanding word. “Slowly.”

His tongue is broad and powerful, fitting the rest of his body, licking your clit in firm, perfectly replicated movements, flicking at the sensitive top before beginning again. Your moaning intensifies as you watch his devoted mouth. His dark eyes are expressive, full of strength and naked vulnerability as he worships your cunt.

This beautiful man has undeniably surrendered between your legs, forehead creased as he focuses on your pleasure, making the rest of the galaxy seem unimportant if only for a moment. The Empire’s well-trained dog has strayed, lapping up your juices with abiding loyalty, confirming his allegiance.

He refuses to break eye contact, even with his nose so pressed against your skin that he’s sucking ragged inhales through his mouth instead. He would gladly take his last breath here, strangled on the scent of your body, gasping on your explicit desire for him.

The furious restraint is loosening in his hair, fingers running through his drying soft curls, sweetly petting his obedience. His reward is circling hips that grind, ride his tongue, and he stills for you to set the pace, knowing he will ultimately be your undoing, hungrily devouring your cunt so he can feast on the drip of succulent lips.

The guttural groans he makes vibrate against your swollen clit while he tongue-fucks you. He’s faithfully licking, elongating his adoration until his head is actively dipping, dragging his tongue from behind your sex, through soaked folds, trilling his tongue with worked precision before sucking your clit between focused lips. He hasn’t laid a finger anywhere near the weeping slit, excellently proving the true talent of his mouth.

He locks eyes with you, words uttered between lips slicked in arousal. “Fuck my face, beautiful. Come all over it. I want that taste to die on my tongue."

His voice resonates through your body to a fine point in your cunt. You hold your breath as he draws you to the edge of release, thighs tightening, toes curling against the durasteel floor. Heat blasts outward, rippling like seismic waves through your belly, releasing in blissful contractions, crying, mouth agape, until wrought with intensity you hunch over, hands braced on muscled shoulders.

And you’re mewling, shaking against his begging mouth as he desperately sups every part of you, each scrap of pleasure, each morsel of desire, gnawing at you to fucking let go so he can tear at you, sinew snapping between his teeth until you become a part of him. He is overwhelming, and the beautiful, brittle snap of your will flows into him.

He can taste it. It is the grit of dried sweat laced with burning sand, crystallized salt that melts across his tongue. And his throat becomes parched with undying thirst.

He can smell it. It is the essence of smoke, of blazing nighttime fires warming huddled bodies in the evening cool. He breathes it in until his lungs are lined with soot. And he pleads to suffocate.

His mouth slows, gentle as you pulse with little aftershocks. When he hears your breath steady, he carries your fluid body to splay across the bed. Laying beside you, he leans on an elbow, fingers lightly tracing along your midline, tracking your breastbone, stomach, lower. Even with his soft touch your breath hitches as fingers explore his wet ruin, stroking between plump lips.

His eyes shift between yours and the scene playing between your legs. Bending, his lips are soft, like he’s breathing kisses along your shoulder. “How do you feel?”

Your relaxed hum is not enough for him and the lilt of his accent covets more. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Good.” Your hand finds the back of his neck, encouraging his closeness and he burrows his face below your ear. “You make me feel really good.”

It isn’t until after you feel your tongue has betrayed something; not made me, but make me feel good. And maybe he doesn’t notice, perhaps more concerned with the solid erection he’s pressing into your hip, but then you hear him.

“That’s what I want.” His ankle crosses over yours in a comfortable way like he’s settling in. “I’m in no rush.”

“Give me a few minutes.”

“As long as you need,” he whispers into your hair, repeating your earlier observation. “It’s a long way back to the Core.”

A part of you is surprised by him. This is the same man that unflinchingly killed that unfortunate soul…because of you. Because the man attempted a pathetically aimed shot at you. And Fett did not, would not tolerate it. The hand that summoned death is now intimately stroking you with divine care.

And that fucks with your head.

The twisted thoughts of Fett’s capabilities, his murderous, bloodied hands all over you…

It’s sickening and yet your body responds, hips almost unknowingly rolling against his hand. His cock has been patient, but now twitches in pleased anticipation with your engagement.

“I meant it. What I said I wanted.” He props back up, brow serious, searching your face for any wrinkle of doubt. “Will you let me?”

His caution is exciting, thrilling through your veins as a rush, and you flash a devious grin. His darkness is absolute, drowning out any possible light. And you’re glad for it, hiding the warped elements of desire no one should witness.

He suddenly morphs into a hissing whisper, tongue seducing, slithering from your ear to sink his fangs into the pulse of your neck. “You get that shit out of your system?” He wants to ensure your poison has been flushed before injecting his.

A blush spreads across your face as your lips continue their insidious curl.

“Good.” He grabs your wrist, yanking you up to pull off the sweaty shirt clinging to your skin. “Because now you’re mine.”

“On your knees,” he commands, and you hesitate. He shouldn’t hold any authority, but you feel the division of relinquishing control. He not only sees this, but recognizes it, adjusts to it and leans close to your ear, tone soft. “Do you want this?”

The scrape of stubble scratches a persistent itch as you nod. “Then I need you to let go.” He is taking deep breaths. Nothing else. Just steady, deep breaths. “And trust me.”

And you let go.

Shuddering, you slowly lower to the floor, his reassuring hand on your arm helping to steady you. With your gaze averted, he moves in front, tenderly tilting your chin up, thumb skimming along your bottom lip. “Eyes on me.”

But his gaze emboldens you, the words spilling out before you realize the implications. “Thought you wanted to push me to my knees, Fett.”

A switch is flipped, a fluent, dark current in his voice. “Next time you use that smart mouth the only sound I wanna hear is you choking on my cock,” he husks, and your walls clench around his filthy words. His grip changes to tighten around your jaw, sharply pressing below your cheekbones, forcing your mouth open. His other hand is pumping his erection, then brushing the seeping tip over your lips, and your parted mouth opens wider to accommodate his thick girth. He only thrusts once, just enough to slick saliva over before his next order. “Tongue.”

Your mind is screaming, who the fuck is this man? His gruff commands make you cringe in excitement as dominant energy exudes from his body, and strangely you’re getting off on his power trip. Fuck. His tan complexion, smooth with jaggedly raised scars. His focused, dedicated eyes, mouth matching their intensity. His defined abdominal v pointing to your pulsing devastation.

Starting at the base, you slide up, tongue fully pressed to his heavy shaft until taking the leaking tip into your mouth and add a little suck before slowly descending as far as you can go without taking him into your throat. He’s groaning when you come up, watching how your lips stretch around his cock, fingers threading through your hair. “All of it.”

Giving him the sight he’s throbbing for, you lower down his length again, but this time when his head hits your throat you swallow and allow him to go deeper. He holds you there, testing, watching how the side of your neck trembles as you take him. And when he sees the dampness at the corners of your closed eyes as your throat begins to spasm, he guides your head back up saving you from fully gagging, patting your cheek in return. “Good girl.”

Despite wanting to absolutely hate his arrogant tone, arousal seeps from your cunt, lips sliding together with the press of excited thighs, and you take pleasure in the wet reaction as he sets the slow rhythm of up and down. Inspiring hands tangle in strands of hair, spurring your head to bob on his cock. On every downstroke he gives a small thrust to the back of your throat, each collision of the broad head becoming more aggressive. His breathing has picked up and you can hear him trying to maintain composure as you keep a soft mouth, saliva sticking to him when he pulls back.

His reaction to your silky mouth is making his entire body stiffen, and you know he’s on the verge of coming down your throat, his increasing engorgement causing you to choke. He savagely twists your hair, jerking you up, stiff cock jumping as your reddened lips are popped off. "Fuck." Eyebrows drawn together, he roughly squeezes the head, controlling, waiting for the edge to fade before moving.

Guiding your body up, he places a tiny kiss on each shoulder before running a tongue along the top of each breast, cupping and thumbing pert nipples. Flipping you around, he closes a hand around the back of your neck, and you know he can feel your pulse quicken, fingers gradually tightening as he whispers hotly in your ear. “Kneel.”

Your body is completely thrumming with desire at his command, and when he shoves you forward onto the bed you feel the wetness leak down the inside of your thighs. “Head down. Want that pretty ass up.” You’re not sure why he bothered to say it, his hands already moving you into position, gripping a hip as he continues to push your neck down. The power excites him, cock twitching against your ass as he manhandles your legs flush with the edge of the bed.

But feeling the demise of succumbing to his wishes, the tension in your jaw starts to radiate, neck stiffening, shoulders raising in protest, and he recognizes your telling signs of stress. The heat from his breath on your ear, the way his nose brushes your hairline is soothing, and your muscles begin to uncoil as he reassures, “Doing so good.” He continues nuzzling down your neck, murmuring into your skin, “You’re beautiful.”

You’re waiting for him to qualify; beautiful on your knees, beautiful bent over. But nothing follows. And that’s when you relax, trusting, regulating your breath with his, the shiver rolling through your body acting as willing surrender.

Grazing only his fingertips along the curve of your overarched spine, it’s shocking when his hand sharply smacks a presented cheek. Your cry evolves to a high-pitched whimper of breath as he immediately smooths over the sting with his palm. But then, jolting smacks land on the opposite cheek, and he kneads the soft flesh between his own moans of enjoyment.

Each exhale is shaky thinking how demented this must look as he readily delivers a thorough spanking. But his hands on your blushing cheeks are a ridiculous turn on. No one gets to touch you like this, see you in this vulnerable position, and these thoughts combined with the burn from his smack have your body trembling with anticipation.

You can feel his stare devouring you, projected excitement just as palpable, fingers swiping through your slit, gliding over a cheek to leave a cool trail over the reddened skin. His touch is deceivingly gentle, and you try to relax beneath it, but just as tension begins to dissipate, the warm hand disappears only to come down again, harshly slapping your ass.

His dark chuckle wraps around, caressing the sound in your ear, and you don’t want to give him any pleasure of knowing your pain, but, fuck, the audacious swagger in his voice. “You regretting what you said yet?”

Iron bleeds onto your tongue from your attempt to bite away the cry, but your only response is a deeper tilt to your pelvis, back incredibly arching, ass inching even higher unintentionally spreading your lips. The parting is audible and he freely groans, roughly grabbing your ass, licking a firm tongue up your cunt before shoving it inside. It feels like he’s gathering every drop of arousal in his mouth, and you hear a swishing, a mixing of fluids before feeling the spray of spit attack your other hole.

His timbre is impossibly evil, juxtaposed to the sweet kisses at the cleft of your ass. “How about now?” His thumb is lightly circling, coating the tightness, pressure daring to enter, daring your denial.

“Fett…” It’s a breathy whine more than a word.

He’s careful not to scratch you with his nail, thumb slowly pushing past your weakened resistance. “No. Not like that.” Each syllable penetrates further. “Say. My. Fucking. Name.”

Your brow furrows into a pleasurable version of his typical features as molten heat melts down your center.

“Boba…”

You cry out as he stretches you, thumb deepening, completely filling you as two fingers squelch into your cunt, curling, dancing expertly as they did across the control panel. He’s doing it again, leading you to the edge, pulling you back into his sin.

His tormenting laugh hangs in the air. “Say it again.”

That’s what he wants, and part of you wants to give it to him, give it all, but pride is powerful and so is your level of restraint.

It's his method of punishment, cruelly removing all fingers from your holes, trailing wet fingers from your cunt as the next smack connects with only one cheek, the next bringing a sting to the other. “Naughty.” And then he’s using more force, undoubtedly leaving his mark of angry handprints on your ass as a sadistic reminder. It’s insane how much you’re enjoying getting spanked, the loss of control its own heady concoction. At Fett’s unforgiving mercy, you grow more and more aroused each time his palm connects, ripping strangled whimpers from your throat.

The next slap elicits a soft moan from your lips, ass wiggling in anticipation for the next as his audible groans of drunken power harmonize with your feminine sounds. This slap is the hardest yet, slicing the air with a loud thwacking noise and bringing a dull ache to the abused skin before rubbing away the burn.

“What a strong girl.” And he’s sincere, no notes of mockery in his voice, words echoing, reverberating as praise through your body. “Even like this, you’re a perfect warrior, Jedi.”

His voice unfurls stored heat, pouring low into your belly, keening with his honest endearment. Each hard strike builds upon a blissful numbness, mind separating from body, limitless infinity. But he helps bring you back each time. And you’re not lost, not gone, more present in the now with each outstretched hand he eagerly offers.

Smack. Room spinning. Smack. Skin on fire. Smack. Sizzling need. Smack. “More…”

It sounds like his groan of satisfaction is absolute, but then you push him beyond known limitations with a freely uttered intimate address.

“More, Boba.”

And he stops as if startled, violently panting through his nose, like he doesn’t even know what to do with that.

The soft moan of his name is the blade that slices through his last thread of control, and a low-seated rumble exits as a curse. So wrapped in sensation, you barely register his change in position, the flimsy mattress bowing under the weight of a foot appearing next to your torso. His hand is intent on writing a permanent signature on your hip, muscled forearm braced along your lower back, when you feel him shift, and everything blurs.

Solid weight presses between your shoulder blades, breath forced from your lungs, pinning you as he leans into the edge of his foot. His anchored points are purposeful as you buck under the intensity. His hand is relentless; one cheek, both cheeks, fingertips brushing slick and then, fuck, his entire palm, and it’s with such ferocity that he’s flinging droplets of arousal from soaked lips to land on tingling heels.

The concept of control ceases to exist with each ardent cry of his erotic assault, each searing smack lighting like dry tinder on your skin.

Let it burn, he said.

And you are. And so is he. The ashes will mix.

The sweat on his skin coalesces with yours as a weight is lifted. The resurgence of oxygen flows like his hands until he twists your arm behind, grabbing a wrist. Driving your legs apart, he kneels between to slide the tip of his cock through the sopping mess he can own. Plunging in, he has you take it all, just like your throat, tight and hot, setting nerve endings on fire, searing pleasure with pain until there’s no separation.

The deep penetration has you swimming in arousal as his other hand wraps around the nape of your neck, pushing down. His thrusts are slow, coating his cock until he can smoothly slide through the heat, pressing against your cervix with small, purposeful rolls of his hips. “To think at any time,” he pants, “you have the power to kill me with your magic.” His stroke becomes profound, sack slapping with each snap. “But instead, you’re letting me do this.” And it feels like the unadulterated language issued from his lips couldn’t possibly become more cataclysmic until…

“Never thought I’d see a Jedi on her knees, begging me for more while I fuck her.”

And the astonishing shock of his horribly exquisite revelation makes you cry for him in a finality of desire. He stakes claim on his twisted truth with each fulfilling stroke, each rocketing piston into your body. Each slap of flesh against flesh. Each groan that echoes loudly. Each panted, whispered word of praise for his Jedi; feel so fucking good, that’s it, such a good girl.

He consumes you with overwhelming need, like he’s been waiting for years to obliterate every part of you in his search for vengeance. He works your body, your cunt, molding it to him just as he promised. He hears you ask for him, say his name, repeat it, run it together, make it your curse, your deliverance.

He leans over your body, rasping into your ear, "Remember that gorgeous way you came all over my face? That's exactly how I'm gonna make your perfect, little cunt come again on my cock."

And he fucking means it, each thrust shoving you closer and closer to diving into the dark but blazing abyss. But this time you don’t have to reach for a hand because he’s already holding yours. The pressure released from your neck is now the grip of interlaced fingers that tighten, attach with pulling intensity, need personified. He’s savoring every drag, every strike of his head marking territory. Taking everything. Inside. Deep inside. Driving you toward an ending, terrifying and exhilarating.

Blinding brightness. Stinging darkness.

Damned or not, he’s there. And so are you. Fate holds the future. But now, right now, you’re able to accept, to let go.

He frees you from the other restraining hand, snaking it between trembling thighs, rubbing his name into your demise, living in desperation for a similar destiny.

“I want you.”

With a keening cry, you surrender to his want, exploding, triggering him to pound into your cunt. He’s chasing after you, keeping time with you. He’s erratic, pulsing, shooting a part of himself inside your orgasm-tightened walls as his harsh groans batter the air.

And then he's taking deep, gasping breaths. Nothing else. Just deep, gasping breaths.

But he doesn’t wilt, mindful of your wrecked body underneath as his breath hits hotly against your neck. Attached, completely sheathed in your heat, you feel potential trickling down a thigh as his body conforms to yours, readjusting, lying chest-to-back. He owns a new layer of sweat combining with yours, and he’s proud not to cleanse, pressing kisses behind your ear, sliding slick fingertips across your belly as his toes play friendly games with the soles of your feet.

I want you.

Does he mean it? Could you? Could you kiss each other healthy, feel away the fear? Could you be brave in daylight, too?

Lying in his arms, you smell his want becoming a part of you, dawning, sparking a light. It is a dream-like space, where night uncloaks the sky, fading, blending into the brilliant colors of morning’s hopeful palette. And though revealing a rocky landscape, it’s better to travel, to commit to a difficult road now than in darkness.

But commitment has no patience for ambivalence. Attachment does not just begin and end. It is a tapestry lovingly woven, nurtured with time, care, patience. There is nothing safe and neat about it. Should the needle slip, blood will be shed. When its strength is tested, that is where the beauty of artistry gives way to functional durability.

He holds you with capable strength. It is sure, like the fury in his eyes that burned into you, sure as the mouth that stoked the fire so his lips could swallow the flames.

Even as his arms completely encircle you, he lets go of what you asked.

Because now, it is time. It is safe to let go.

“Meant every word I said.” His voice quietly caresses the shell of your ear. “I want you.” Pressing his mouth to the back of your neck, his lips seem…affectionate. “In all of those ways, I want you.” He’s sighing deeply, coasting his hands over the curve of your hips, the contours of your thighs, gently stroking the welts that will fade into darker shades. “I hope that’s enough right now.”

For the first time, you return his ready embrace, encouraging devoted dedication to the dense fabric of attachment.

**********************

💕 Smut-tastic excerpt from Chapter 9 of When Light Meets Matter 😁 If you enjoyed, stroll on over to my blog, @msfett for the full chapter and previous chapters 😊 Come say hello or send me some thots about those sexy bucketheads!

💕 Partner consent, communication, and trust are essential when engaging with any elements of BDSM. It's safer, more intimate, and just straight-up sexier to know what a partner wants, needs, and agrees to 💕

Please feel free to reblog and share ☺️

Safe. Sane. Consensual.

Crossposted on A03: msfett_ifyourenasty

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fascination-street-writing · 3 years

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Jumping on Someone Else’s Train | Narancia Ghirga x GN!Reader

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again.

A Canon Divergence AU, in which Narancia does not follow Bucciarati on the boat in Venezia

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece I for @vergissmeinnnicht -

Content Warnings: Regret, Angst, Mentions of Alcoholism, & Mentions of Other Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

Men and women clad in suits of varying styles and colors stand along the proscenium of the tracks, waiting for the first wave of commuter trains from Venezia. With thoughts of unfinished reports, soccer practices, and uncertainties of whether to have spaghetti alle vongole or ai ricci for dinner, no one pays heed to the three battered teenagers seated just behind the line – who, mind you, certainly ought to be in school.

To your left, Fugo fumes; and yet, despite his ever-apparent anger, there is unbounded despondency in his violet eyes. Despondency indeed, perhaps for the mutual decision of yours and his, or otherwise, because of Bucciarati’s blasphemy. Although, you suppose that you cannot fault your former Capo. He has always had a proclivity for saving undesirables – yourselves, included. But his kindness is not your own.

To your right, Narancia leans over and slouches, clutching his head between two hands that have not yet healed from his scuffle with the first man of the assassination team. You cannot help but to notice that several of the crackling scabs have been picked open. You regret deeply that you had not offered to run Trish’s errands with the black-haired boy. And, though he will not admit it, as does Fugo.

The sound of a shoe tapping against the concrete flooring would be irksome to you if it were anyone other than Narancia’s doing. You cannot decide if he is merely growing impatient for the train to arrive, or rather, unequivocally conflicted about what has transpired within the past hour. A shuddering breath slips past his lips, expelling as his shoulders begin to quake. He might never forgive you for letting him snivel in public.

Gently, you place your hand on his back. Narancia stills at your touch and allows his own to fall from his reddened cheeks. Reluctantly so, he meets your concerned gaze. He fears he might disintegrate into nothing more than bones if you keep looking at him this way – like you adore and loathe him all the same.

You speak his name softly, reminiscent of some kind of lullaby that his mother might have sung to him during his early adolescence. “We need you to be here,” you tell him.

His nod is an automatic response. He contemplates the bluntness of your words, understanding well enough that they have sprung from a good heart. You have become more like Bucciarati, he thinks; your pension for austerity in love rivals his, to be sure. Narancia swallows and nods once more. “I’m here,” he insists.

He would wince at the cracking of his voice if you had turned away sooner. You pull your hand back and rest it atop your leg, curling your fingers into the threadwork of your pants. “Stay with us, then.”

The rotors of the train squeal as the machinery lulls to a stop. In truth, you would never like to board another train for as long as you should live. But this is not a luxury you can afford.

“Now boarding from Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia to Napoli Centrale. Total travel time – seven hours and thirty-nine minutes. First stop: Ferrara.”

Within the compartment of the train, Fugo sits beside you and pours over a bit of reading that he had swiped from a kiosk before embarking. Narancia determines that the book the younger boy reads must be painfully dreadful, or implausibly wonderful. His brow furrows, as if deeply embedded in his own thoughts, but his fingers never bend to turn the page.

A quivery sigh escapes as you stare from the window, appearing to be as bored as ever. The Italian countryside passes by in blurs of likewise colored landscapes. Narancia wonders how it is that you can tell the difference between a vineyard and a farm against the speed of travel. Or maybe you cannot, though you try to anyways.

You stifle a yawn, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that has accumulated over the past several days. And yet, despite it all, you are still living. Narancia feels his own jaw beginning to twitch, and his mind drifts elsewhere, to the interlude of youth before life with Bucciarati became quite so complicated; good thoughts to keep him grounded amidst the unrest of divided loss.

As it were, he remembers the day when he first met you as if it were yesterday. Before Mista, Abbacchio, and certainly Giorno – back when the two of you, Fugo, and Bucciarati made for the greatest family whom he had ever known. The only other time Narancia has ever seen such strain upon your face was when Bucciarati took you into his home, still clothed in street-rags and muddied shoes. You had not even joined Passione yet; their then eighteen-year-old leader had acted of his own volition to take you in. He always has had a way of saving people.

Narancia knows your strife as if it is his own. Your mother died and your father neglected you; you took to thievery and pickpocketing to find whatever you needed to spend a night without an empty stomach. It was only a matter of time until, provoked by the unfortunate solidarity of utter hurt, you had clicked with the two boys.

But it was not always this way.

In truth, your eagerness to snub the boy is, of some emotional gravity, debilitating. He has always believed friendship to be deserving of the highest value of any other virtue in life. When you observe his struggles to solve seemingly simple math equations during tutoring sessions, with such an unreadable look on your face, he dreads that your hesitation has born itself from an aura of superiority that you harbor against him. The moment you turn away as Fugo’s chastisement rains upon him, he wonders how he might ever be good enough to earn your favor when he cannot be good enough for himself.

When he speculates his plan to befriend you, he thinks without fail that it must be the most brilliant little scheme in the world. Narancia begins by buying you a chocolate bar from the corner store down the street, because what peer of your age does not like chocolate? By the time he has returned home, it has begun to melt in his pocket. He hopes you will not mind, and if you do, he has already decided that he will go back and purchase a second one – cognizant to carry it instead, rather than stuffing it in his corduroys.

To his chagrin, you turn your nose up at the creased, seeping parcel. “I hate sweets,” you tell him with a heavy insistence and no succeeding explanation or defense. Never mind that he had caught you sneaking cake from the kitchen last night when you thought everyone else had gone to bed.

Alas, his resolve is strong. He supposes that it was wrong of him to assume that you would indulge in a chocolate bar, because it is simply not the same thing as cake. During an astronomy lesson with Fugo, a fetching optimism takes over. That evening, he forgoes dinner to sweep the terracotta roof of dead leaves and earthly dust. He rummages through his closet for the softest blanket he owns – blue gingham that had once belonged to his mother.

He runs into you in the hallway on his way to your bedroom; budding with courage, he asks if you would care to watch the stars with him on the rooftop, because the window in his room leads right to the widow’s walk. You roll your eyes and turn away, muttering, “Constellations make me dizzy.” But did you not tell Bucciarati in passing yesterday just how much you love searching for the little dipper when the night skies are forgiving?

Narancia’s spur is beginning to wane, though he cannot blame you. Perhaps he has been reading you wrong. He simply has not pinpointed your interests – that is all. Flipping through the channels of the television, he stumbles upon a culinary program of an older man demonstrating how to prepare bucatini alla carbonara. Struck with inspiration, the boy rushes to the market for pancetta, parmesan, and dried pasta; he has never quite had the patience for making fresh dough, so he settles for pre-packed bucatini. Surely, you will understand.

And so, he leads you into the kitchen with a grin on his face. While pointing to the array of ingredients on the counter, he asks you to lend a hand and to help him prepare dinner. You are all in need of a reprieve from Il Libeccio. “I don’t like cooking,” you say, disinterested. It surely must have been a ghost who prepared the rigatoni al pesto on this past domenica, then.

Narancia does not have high hopes when he extends to you the offer of catching the movie Panni Sporchi in the theater with Fugo and he. His crushed spirits know better by now. But it never hurts to try.

You set down whatever magazine you have snatched from the corner store and cock an eyebrow. “Comedies aren’t my thing,” you utter. “They’re not even that funny. Besides, they’re just poor imitations of life. So are romances. And dramas. Thrillers – horrors . . . Actually, I hate movies.”

He bears it with a curt nod, choosing to ignore that you had held a private viewing of Auguri Professore in the living room yesterday. His head tells him that you do not wish to be his friend, amongst other things – but his heart insists that one day, you will.

It is by chance that he should wake up this night with the irrepressible urge to use the bathroom. On his way back, skin still damp from the sink, Narancia tiptoes along the embroidered vines of the carpet. It is a solitary game he only partakes in when no one is around to question his antics. When he hears a hiccup, he surmises that he has been caught. His sock-clad feet sink into the floor as he stills and prepares himself for whatever beratement is sure to follow. Instead, there is only another gasp for breath.

No, not a hiccup, he notices: it is the sound of grief that came from your bedroom. With little regard to your privacy, he peaks his head through the cracked door.

“What are you doing, Narancia?” you demand as you wipe the back of your nose and hoist the blankets – wetted by your tears – up to your shoulders. “Get out of my room.”

In this moment, it is as if the clouds have parted and clarity canvases the sky. All this time, he truly was enough for you – it was you who was not adequate for yourself. And here you are, curled up in your bed with swollen eyes that beg him to stay even though you had told him otherwise. You are tormented by bad memories that ought to be shed like snakeskin.

Narancia steps forward. “I just wanted to tell you, uh, it’s okay to cry,” he says with a certain tenderness that seems so unfamiliar to you. He rubs the back of his neck, averting your gaze. “Even if you don’t think so.”

You gawk at him and say nothing, for words have failed you. The silence is deafening, all the same. It is an audacious move, but he smiles to you – a gesture of compassion – before turning to leave. He has overstayed his welcome, and your unrelenting stare does not make him feel any better.

“Wait.” He stops, anticipating your delayed retaliation. “Could you . . . Can you spend the night with me?”

As he lies in bed next to you, distance kept by a pillow wedged between your bodies, Narancia beams – but you cannot see outline of his grin in the darkness of the room. This night and many more will pass, and you slowly become something of a beacon. He is beholden to you, because you make him feel appreciated in the ways that not even Fugo or Bucciarati can. For this reason, he will always cherish you – a talisman encapsulated within a friend.

And now, though the seeds of regret have already begun to spring roots within him – hyacinths embedded in his heart –, he will stay strong, for you are like a pharos to him. If not resiliency for his own sake, then certainly yours.

At least, for as long as he can.

“Hey, Narancia.” Startled, he jumps in his seat and clasps his knees tightly. “Is there something on my face?” you ask.

“I – Huh?” he stumbles over any response that might have come to mind. “What do you mean?”

You chuckle. “Well, it’s just that you’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes.”

“Uh . . . I . . .”

Fugo drags his gaze from his book to your face. “I don’t see anything,” he assures with a shrug. “Actually, come to think of it, I think your nose has gotten bigger.”

The banter of humor between you and Fugo is lost on the black-haired boy. Or rather, he is far too distracted to mimic it. He stands from his seat abruptly and reaches for the door to the compartment. “I have to piss,” he mutters.

He is gone before either of you can comment on his sudden brashness. In his absence, you nudge Fugo and gesture towards his book; just as Narancia had noted, you realize that your strawberry blonde friend has not gotten past the first page of the novel ever since you had departed. You left nearly an hour ago.

“My head is just elsewhere, I guess,” he confesses to your proclamation. He closes the book and sets it down on the seat. “I’m fine, though. As much as I can be. But Narancia isn’t.”

You hum in agreeance. “I’ll go check on him.”

Water rushes from the faucet and pools in the porcelain, ceramic bowl of the basin. Steam wafts towards the ceiling, blanketing the mirror in a cloud. Narancia’s fingers curl around the rim of the sink so tightly that the coloring flees from his knuckles. He feels like a phantom, for a part of him has surely died back in Venezia.

In another world, he imagines that he might have followed Bucciarati – as would have you and Fugo. But this is nothing more than a nonsensical thought that can never be anything more than an instance of intangible pondering. He does not wipe the fog from the mirror, because he cannot bear the sight of the boy who will greet him in return.

His is the face of the one who lost everything, found everything, and lost it all again. His stomach churns and his head whirls with aches. He has never been the type of person to boast of his character; it takes a humble attitude to realize that there is nothing special about oneself – until there is. Truly, Narancia once believed that he was a proper man, because he worked for someone as virtuous as the young Capo, whose confidence bred itself and more.

“I guess I’m not much of one now,” Narancia mumbles aloud with a sigh of vexation. “Not like Mista, Abbacchio . . . or Giorno.”

He taps the tip of his shoe against the linoleum floor. As it were, his socialization into Passione – no, into Bucciarati’s squad – has taught him the moral necessities of defending the weak who cannot otherwise safeguard nor vindicate themselves. Betraying him is a dreadful regret. How can he ignore the voice in his head that affirms his folly and tells him that he is no better for abandoning Trish in all her temperamental, vain ways, either?

When the sound of knuckles rapping against the door startles him from his thoughts, his first impulse is to lash out at whoever has disrupted his mind chamber of self-reflection. “Hey, can’t you read, idiota?” he demands, angrily. “Bathroom’s occupied.”

“Narancia, it’s just me.” The scowl on his face falters as he recognizes your voice. He turns the squealing faucet until it has dried. He does not stop to catch his staggered breaths before opening the door, and perhaps he should have. Even though you have become such close companions, you still make him feel like a child under your anatomizing gaze – as if there is something particularly interesting about him after all, which takes him for a good subject of study.

Your look of concern is jarring. For a moment, it is difficult to breathe, and he wishes he had tried to calm himself first. So much for staying strong for them. You step forward and lock the sliding door behind you. If it were anyone else – even Fugo – the proximity of your body to his might have made him uneasy. You drag a finger through the film of steam on the mirror. “I’m going to ask you something,” you begin to say, “and I’d like you to answer me, honestly. Are you alright?”

He chokes up at your words, because yes – he is perfectly fine; healthy, albeit a bit battered still from his fracas with Formaggio. As soon as he manages to stop himself from instigating the scabs on his knuckles, they will heal, and he will be left with nothing more than pink scar-tissue as an everlasting memento of these past few days.

But, in other contingencies of prosperity, he is unequivocally not alright. Against his better sense of control, his eyes well up with tears, and his cognition scatters.

“Narancia?”

There are many things that a person indulges in as a means of coping, some safer than others. Men fall to the bottle, like Abbacchio – and men lash out in violent rages, such as Fugo. He could keep picking at his scabs, find an emptied compartment to scream in, or pull out his unkempt hair. Contrition moves through him like a venom, and he supposes he should find a way to suck it out before it kills him.

His hands meet your arms in a shockingly gentle, clammy grasp; he jerks himself closer and suddenly, his lips are on your own and he is kissing you. His teeth scrape against your own and he pulls you flush, as if he cannot get close enough to you already, desperate to suffocate the detrimental notions running through him. Stunned and too preoccupied with dwelling on the sweet taste of his mouth, you have forgotten how to reciprocate.

You break apart and shrug the grip on your arms, unsure of what to say as his desperate indigo ogling gauges you for a reaction – whether you should berate him or express your equal adoration, anything is preferable than the silence. “I . . . I’m sorry,” he finally says when you have not.

“It’s fine,” you insist, an unreadable poignancy sweeping your face. “You can do it again, if you need to. I don’t mind.”

He must have heard you wrong; surely, you did not give him such a blessing as this. And yet, when he cups your jaw and meets your lips halfway, you do not shove him off. Instead, you repay the gesture and swipe your tongue along his own. His heart sings for you, like a schoolboy’s choir: thank you, thank you, thank you. You swear that your legs have become melting gold, for they quiver and you can no longer stand on your own.

Or maybe it is because the train has lurched forward. Despite the separation of your lips, Narancia catches you in arms that harbor unassuming strength, but make you feel guarded, all the same. It is strange, you reflect: he has always been something of a haven to you, ever since the night when you had cast aside all hesitations of welcoming him into your circle and did exactly that.

“I just want you to know that everything will be okay,” you tell him – about the kiss, about the train, or about your shared regrets, he does not know. No matter the intent, he enjoys listening to your voice. “You aren’t alone in this, Nara. We both made the decision to leave. You don’t have to suffer on your own, because I feel just as guilty, too.”

He frowns.

“Besides, we have all we need. You, me, and Fugo. I’m glad you’re here, you know; I couldn’t do this without you.” He hastily wipes away the tears that trickle down his cheeks. Stop crying, he sneers to himself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. You pull his frantic hand away from his reddened face and lace your fingers with his, so that he might not try it again. “It’s okay to cry, even if you don’t think so.”

He blooms and comes undone, sobbing into the crook of your neck and clasping your shirt so tightly that the spooling contorts and wrinkles. You trace shapes against his back, creasing the leather with your nails. Slow, tentative, and soft. He wishes to stay like this forever, bathroom or not – just so long as he has you.

While Narancia straightens himself and splashes fresh water upon his face, you wait for him at the door. He hesitates to follow you back to the compartment, because he can lose himself to grief exactly where he is without repercussion. You know this well, and so you extend your arm for him to take with a sense of hushed encouragement. His fingers meet yours, only this time, it is not to stop him from swiping at his face until his skin is raw. “We should check on Fugo, yeah?” you suggest.

“Yeah . . .”

Down the corridor, he trails behind you like a lost stray to his savior. In a way, that is exactly what you are, he thinks. And he will forever be grateful for it. It is not until you have returned to the strawberry blonde that Narancia lets his grasp fall from yours. You return to your seats, and Fugo offers his own attempt at a smile to you each. His book lies in his lap, untouched and unmoved.

“So, Fugo.” You drag out his name, as if deep in thought. “Did you get past the first page yet?”

| 3704 Words |

#narancia ghirga x reader #narancia x reader #narancia ghirga #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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quitethepirategal · 3 years

Text

An Analysis in Threes

❥ TAGGED BY: @emcads like 30 years ago ❥ TAGGING: @riidcr @starsailingcaptain @covencrown @hookd @all-fleshed-out @evermxre @motherofredemption @bup1957 @conquistadoradelmar @seaprofound @tcthinecwnself @withinycu @windguided @daevilhorns @concordia-cum-sinistro and YOU and I spent like 8 hours on this so pLEASE READ IT PLEASE I AM BEGGING I NEED VALIDATION I’M-

repost don’t reblog. yall dont have to type this much.

MUSE: Captain Red Handed Jessica

Three Strengths:

Her adaptability and resourcefulness. Is she brave, yes. Is she lucky, also yes. But over all, she can roll with the cards she’s been dealt in a way that many would call inhumanly clever. Her intelligence, her perception, and her charisma are all different ingredients of this indomitable characteristic of hers. She can see the value in just about anything and anyone, can pick up on clues and tangents few others can follow, and can remember seemingly endless details, tho unfortunately not on command. But even then, her patchy memory seems to contribute to this adaptability as well, as it usually allows for detachment. If she can find resources everywhere, it means she can survive everywhere. There have been countless times where the wheel of fortune has suddenly turned on her and she’d lost near everything and her response was more or less Damn, ok I need food water and shelter lets go. No food? Grow food. No water? Ask someone if they have water. No shelter? Sleep outside. No money? Steal money. Can’t hear anymore? Cool I can use loud weapons. Crashed on an island? My island now. Shot? Free bullet. She knows when to push, she knows when to quit, and sometimes she knows when to gamble based on her ability ( what a man can do and what he can’t do and all that ). Strong she may be, she knows its foolish to rely on strength. Survival of the fittest actually rarely means survival of the strongest. ( edit; this is the theme for the entirety of her character. I will say it 50,000 times. I am very sorry ). And as a student of philosophy and biology, she understands that phrase better than most. Leading to our next point.

Her understanding. As I stated, her charisma is something unmatched, and is a key element in all three of her strengths. This charisma might not exist as prominently were it not for her ability to understand. She has limited ( I’ll get back to that ) but deep running empathy and while not terribly observant all the time, she is always perceptive. Not only that, but she’s personally known abuse, hardship, and uncertainty, and understands that hate or anger can be rooted in similar pain. She was schooled lightly in both Christian and Buddhist values before diving heavily into democratic philosophy, meaning she believes all being experience suffering and therefore kindness is a powerful sign of strength, but also that suffering while free and equal is better than comfort in oppression. And between her sweet words and beautiful face, she can get most people to open up in ways they themselves my not have expected. Being very good with people means she can learn from them, gain something from them, lead them, and/or use them. But Jessica isn’t a manipulator in truth; her intentions are almost always kind or healthy ones. She absolutely uses people from time to time but not EVER without them consenting to or being made aware of such because again, unlike a manipulative person, she understands that can ruin a relationship and therefore ruin a resource. What it makes for is an excellent leader, a beloved captain, and a trusted ally at most and an excellent conversationalist at the least. But her understanding isn’t just social, oh no. It’s academic as well. Armed only with his little library and the lessons of his own teachers, Jessica’s foster father tirelessly smithed her into a not just a girl who knew a lot of things, but a truly intelligent, thinking mind. He’d die before learning he’d succeeded tenfold. Jessica isn’t one to just except things as they are, facts or otherwise. She usually needs to prove it, experiment, see things from a new angle. Debates with her are fun! She has no issue admitting she’s wrong or confessing she’s never thought of it that way, and is actually wrong a lot of the time. It doesn’t bruise her ego, it excites her. It means there’s more to learn. And her ability to constantly understand new concepts paired with her ability to overwhelmingly understand people combine to make for a very powerful core idea of hers: We are fittest to survive because we all fit together. Our humanity, our empathy, our community are our strengths because they keep us united, which keeps us the fittest. No one is independent, no man is an island. People are power. And thus her final strength is just that.

Her power. While she and I still firmly state that strength isn’t everything don’t be disillusioned; its very goddamn important. And it’s something Jessica has plenty of. She is durable and clever because of her rocky early childhood, she is quick and versatile from her youth in a pirate port, she is physically strong and mighty from her years training in martial arts, and she’s an absolute crackshot after years of diligent practice with her trusty pistols. Her true strength may lie in her brains and in her allies yes, but even without them, Red Jessica is a powerhouse of a warrior. She can end fights extremely quickly or run from them without a prayer of catching her ( no shame in the later, both skills keep you alive ). And it may be in bad taste to say, but ever since loosing most of her hearing, Jess swears up and down it’s made her vision better, her reaction time faster, and her quick thinking even quicker. Yes of course she’s slowed down with age, but a bullet shoots at the same speed no matter how old you are. And you best hope she didn’t bring her firecrackers, because while sudden loud noises will absolutely temporarily discombobulate or debilitate an opponent with healthy hearing, it’ll hardly effect her at all and suddenly, you’re a sitting duck. You see those thighs? You see those calves? She can crush PINEAPPLES with them! People have seen her do it! Do you know how many micro-fractures broke and rebuilt those hands? Thousands! She can crush a trachea like a fucking beer can! She can kick you to death! One ill placed curb stomp and you are DECEASED. Sometimes she’ll just psyche you out because she KNOWS you know she can kill your stupid ass! But while her strength, mental and physical, have always been there, her power is relatively new. As stated before, people are power. Not knowledge, not money, not strength. People. She’s a fearsome warrior but she’d be useless if outnumbered. Shes a very successful pirate, but she’d never make it out of port without a crew on her ship. She found a gorgeous island, but it’d still be wild without those who built it’s piers and buildings. She manages orchards and tends to them and harvests them herself, but she would loose all of her crop without the helping hands of her employed farmers. And like I mentioned, she deeply understands this. Freedom is not independence or vice versa. Did you make the clothes on your back or the fabric that made those clothes? Did you write the books you read to make you smarter or teach you that skill? Did you plant the seed years ago that grew that orange you’re eating? No, of course not. Jessica didn’t either. Another human did. We all need each other to fill the holes in our lives that we can’t fill ourselves. Humans are puzzle pieces in that way, there is no bigger picture or prayer for survival on our own. And because of this, we can do anything we as a community, as a SPECIES work together to achieve. There is no knowledge if there’s no one to learn from, there is no money if a society don’t give it value, your money is worthless if those you’re paying decide to rise against you, your role as leader only exists at the consent of those you lead, and your strength won’t save you from a sinking ship. People are, and always will be, power. And as someone who is exceptionally strong and exceedingly smart, Jessica has slotted herself in the humanity puzzle thusly: The strong exist to protect the weak, the smart exist to educate, and the lucky exist so the unlucky may be given aid. And it is with this fairness and compassion that she has won the trust of so many. She has a great many friends and allies even outside of those in her crew or on her island. And she can make many more with ease. That kind of power is not a power to be trifled with, even if she can kick your ass six ways to Saturday without it.

Three Weaknesses:

She suffers ADHD. Now before ANY OF Y’ALL SAY ANYTHING, I myself also suffer ADHD. And yes I do say suffer because well that’s what it causes for Jessica and I, suffering. Yes, it is ableist language to say ‘suffering from’ rather than ‘has’ or ‘is diagnosed with’ and yes it perpetuates a stigma against us but god DAMN IT in both Jessica’s case and mine, it make life much much harder than it needs to be. At the end of the day, Red Jessica is a fantasy of mine; I pour myself into her whether I mean to or not. She’s the adult I wish I was, the person I might be if I had no anxiety, or brainfog, or lived in a world were I didn’t need a credit score or a degree. And even then, I can’t say I know anyone else’s problems better than my own. So if my character has problems, by sheer osmosis they are going to reflect some of mine. Both of the characters I write have ADHD because I have ADHD and I couldn’t even begin to know how a non-ADHD mind works to write it properly. And no, I’m not being dramatic when I say it causes me suffering. I can’t drive, I can’t hold down a job, I nearly flunked out of school, I still cant read very fast or spell very well, I am constantly overwhelmed by mundane things, I’m a slow learner, I forget very important things or recent things, I forget about things that mean the world to me, I forget about people, I stumble through tasks, I procrastinate hobbies and basic hygiene, and everything I do takes all goddamn day and I can only really do one important thing at a time and in order of importance. If I have a date at 4pm, I’m dressed and ready at 11am because I’ve gotta do the important thing first or else I will forget to do the important thing. I started typing this at a little before 5pm. It’s 7;30. It’ll probably be 10 o’clock at night by the time I fucking finish ( edit: l m a o its 1am bitch you thought ). I’m 26 and am just medicated enough to barely function. So yeah. Suffering is the word. Though for Jessica, perhaps suffering is a tad strong of a word. Her ADHD affects her ability to function in far less debilitating ways ( though whether that’s a result of a less severe diagnosis than me or the result of the society, situations, and responsibilities she functions in and around are far different from mine, who’s to say ). For her, she has very consuming hyperfixations that can last anywhere between weeks to decades, a spotty memory that is detail and memento oriented, she’s scatterbrained more often then not but can focus with amazing clarity on her interests or in high adrenaline situations, is is ABYSMALLY bad at math and EXCRUCIATINGLY bad with numbers ( as opposed to me, who is good at numbers but shit at spelling or reading ), she can forget anything no matter how important it is to her or to anyone, she’s bad with names and dates, is COMPLETELY time-blind, has trouble prioritizing, and of course, wile not actually that materialistic, she absolutely has the ol’ magpie instinct. While her poor memory assists in her adaptability and ability to move on, it also means she forgets things she needed to remember, like when the last time she bathed was and who this person is and what happened between her and someone else or what conversation’s shes had. Unfortunately this means she’s a very good friend and leader... while you’re around and interacting with her on at least a weekly basis. It’s almost a lack of object permanence in both a social and very real sense. If something is not right in front of her, odds are she’s not going to think about it. And while its something she constantly kicks herself for and actively tries to be better about, it applies to people too. Face to face is the best way to interact with her; she won’t think to write you and in her modern verse she won’t think to ever call and she’ll text you back in perhaps a few days. She doesn’t value you any less, I promise. She’s just either distracted or overwhelmed. Also, for someone as understanding as her, she is surprisingly self-centered. Not selfish, self-centered. She’ll talk about herself more than she should, and will assume people understand that she’s doing so as a form of showing empathy rather than bragging when they may not know this at all. Actually she accidentally assumes all the time. It was far worse when her hearing was functional; she’d finish your sentence for you or guess what it was you were going to say ( again, not to talk over, you but to show she understands you and the conversation, tho it usually came of as annoying or patronizing ). Sometimes she mistakenly assumes you believe or know the same things she does without even realizing it. Maybe she perceives the right idea off of someone but isn’t observant enough to notice anything past that. And while she is willing to change her mind about things, she might change her mind a tad too quickly. She’s an over-sharer and is horrible at keeping any kind of secret. Romantic relationships tend to fizzle out. Her impulse control is improving but has a VERY long way to go. She’s always chasing something new. All and all, when you’re a pirate, a librarian, or even a captain, all of these things may be irritating and inconvenient, but are overall manageable in chunks. ...But as a governor to her island, as a leader of an entire population... oof. In the position of leadership that she’s in, she can’t afford to make too many massive mistakes, and she knows this. ‘There is no power quite like the power of being underestimated’ is a phase you’ll hear her say a lot but for her, there is a shift in connotation. If people expect less and you do more that’s a great upper hand in any situation but for her, it was a safety net. Having ADHD sometimes means going months or years being fine and then eventually you fuck up and everyone around you wonders how in the world you managed to do that. She has only barely avoided disaster more times than she’d like to admit. Even with the resourcefulness, the understanding, and the power she wields, she’s finally starting to realize that she’s bit off more than she might be able to chew, with the entire well-beings and livelihoods of others on the line. And she fears that one day she’ll play her cards wrong and everything she’d built, everything she’s done, will all come crashing down in ruin.

She is Hard of Hearing. This one is literally as simple as it sounds: she has moderate and degenerative hearing loss and tinnitus after years of canons, explosions, gunshots, and a definitive, scale tipping attack in her early 30s. Her ears just don’t work at all like they used to. The whole world sounds like it would if everything was underwater: she can’t pin point the location of sounds, how far off or close sounds are, and barely registers changes in volume. And it only gets worse the older she gets; one day she won’t hear anything at all. And while yes, again, it might be very harsh and ableist to say, the truth of the matter that being deaf a “ weakness ” more often than its a strength. That said, it very well can be a strength. I’ve already mentioned that trick with the firecrackers and let me tell you it is a DAMN EFFECTIVE TRICK. Shes around explosions and canons and guns all the time and now she can focus while being around them five times better than she could in the past! But unfortunately it also means she’s very easy to sneak up on, she sometimes isn’t aware of danger until it’s nearly too late, no one can get her attention or warn her across any distance, it’s very easy to escape from her, and it’s easy for her to be just... left out of things. She might hear you talking, but she has little to no idea what you’re saying without sign or lipreading. Some people don’t have the patience or even just the courtesy to speak slower, or clearer, or repeat themselves a lot. Though, those last too thinks aren’t weaknesses of hers so much as they are the weakness of others, but they still negatively affect her self esteem and her effectiveness as a leader. All of this has taught her to pick her battles carefully, and plan around the elements of surprise and discombobulation. And while communication was tricky at first, it only got easier, and now she can talk to you almost like anyone can, so long as she’s looking you in the face.

That damn bleeding heart. We have established a number of things that should easily add up to an overly empathetic, trusting, fight-the-good-fight, martyr-some, idealistic pushover; she believes humanity and kindness are strengths, she has taken on the role of leader and then a provider, she has known suffering and tasked herself with ending the suffering of others to the best of her ability, she lacks the clarity of mind to assume people aren’t just as good or capable as her automatically, she can have poor impulse control at times, she wants to have relationships, and ( while I never stated this outright yet it can be inferred ), she believes that being able to see yourself in others is the foundation of humanity and ( as i did say outright ) humanity is what keeps us unified and unity is what makes us fit and strong. Keeping up? Good. Here’s the curve ball: How can she whole hardheartedly preach and believe all of this, to the point of it being the foundation of her character, WHILE BEING A VIOLENT THIEVING AND BLOODTHIRSTY PIRATE?! HOW, MANGO? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?! MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!! Ok, fine, sure, I will. I’m sure about one half of you are looking up from the screen and going “ Oh yeah, wow I totally forgot that bit. “ and the other half got about two and a half paragraphs in before squinting and silently calling bullshit. So let me explain. In short, she’s a detached hypocrite and is well aware and unashamed of her hypocrisy while far less aware of her detachment. I’ll cover both: Western culture as a whole seems to be under the impression that hypocrisy, despite context or importance, is automatically bad. I don’t know where this comes from personally ( my bet is Christianity but I have exactly 0 evidence ) but its a very... flawed idea. Take the freedom of speech vs racism problem; say you owned a bar where all could speak their mind freely over cold drinks. Excellent concept without context, right? Sure. ....Then a die hard racist covered in slurs and symbols walks in and orders- what are you going to do? The correct answer is to throw him out instantly. Not let him sit so long as he doesn’t cause trouble, not just ignore him and hope he doesn’t return, you throw him out. Is it hypocritical? Yep! Sure is! But it is also 100% necessary to protect your other patrons because if you don’t, the racist starts feeling safe and bringing his racist buddies, literally everyone else starts feeling unsafe and starts to hang out elsewhere, and two months later, ta da! You now own a n*zi bar and there is literally nothing you can do about it. Jessica is in a somewhat similar situation. You as a pretend bar owner need to make a decision as who to let into your bar and who to throw out for the good of all of your patrons. Jessica too is faced daily with that decision. If she want’s to help as many people as possible, the only realistic way she can do that are by protecting those under her leadership... only. She is surrounded by hateful, angry, sneaky, traitorous, abusive, or otherwise evil people. Piracy as a profession and poverty in general can do that to a person. Of course there is a clear difference between those down on their luck and desperate, and the truly cruel and twisted, but unfortunately both types of people yield the same wrongdoings. It’s absolutely her nature to extend a hand to anyone and everyone but.... she just can’t anymore. Too many times has her trust been betrayed, too many times has she gotten in peoples business trying to be helpful, only for her to absolutely bite her in the ass. Too many time the extended hand is bitten and once or twice, she’s actually made things worse. Now, she will only help someone she loves, someone under her leadership, or someone who seeks her out. That’s it. And even then, sometime it manages to bite er in the ass. But she had to set that hard limit for herself out of necessity, one she does her absolute best to adhere too and... these days she adheres a little too well. That leads us to our next point; what I was alluding to at the beginning of her Understanding essay when I said she has limited but deep running empathy. That detachment again, courtesy of a very unattached mother and unchecked ADHD. ( It isn’t a strong enough characteristic to even rank as a strength or a weakness but damn if it isn’t an undercurrent to a lot of her motivations and experiences. ) Strangers are fair game that she tries to ignore, but if she even perceives you as a threat, you could be in danger. Like anyone used to violence or perhaps anyone trapped in an us verses them mindset, she can just... flat... turn her empathy off. Not on command, she’s not a socio or psychopath persay. But she has become totally numb to the horror of violence via her warrior upbringing that, in her mind, violence can actually be rather fun. Pair that with the fact that she purposely tailored herself to only be empathetic to her allies and boom. You get a kindhearted killer. Cops and soldiers in our world do it literally every day. Actually anyone can do it really, even you if you tried. You don’t have to be evil or even angry to kill or steal or lie... you just have to believe you’re right.

Three Secrets:

WHAT SECRETS?! LMAO this bitch is the oversharing queen!! I’ve been typing and pondering her character for literal hours ( its currently 11:16, fuck you adderall ), and I still can not think of a single goddamn secret. There is nothing about her that at least five random people don’t fucking know about!! The only secrets she has are secrets she knows about other people and even then she is!! literally the worst!! She spills her guts left and right and yet she wants to be a mysterious bitch SO BAD like BABE I love you, you’re precious, but you are a dumbass attention seeking validation chasing adhd CLOWN girl!! Stop telling random people about your hermaphroditism or your dairy allergy or your dead dad or that time you fell asleep in a barrel like that is literally your uber driver Jessica honey come ooooon. I’m skipping this section mom holy fuck.

Three Fears:

What if she does wrong by everyone who trusts her? As stated at the end of the ADHD essay, she’s terrified of failing those she leads. Where it as simple as personal failure, she’d be fine. Ever if her entire world came crashing down on top of her she’d either die or start back from square one. Death is a fact of life and her adaptability means she can just dust herself off and move on, so neither her death nor her failures really scare her... But it isn’t just her life and happiness at stake, is it? Not anymore, right? What started as a leader of a small gang of rebels became a full crew, then a crew became a slew of allies, then those allies built a town and now... now she’s the governor of the Crimson Isle and there are nearly twenty five HUNDRED lives at her mercy. HER mercy. One really, really bad mistake could ruin their livelihoods or spark disorder and disloyalty. And if she died? Would whoever it is that will take her place be as good to them as she is? Is she good enough to begin with in the first place? Every day the paperwork gets a little bit thicker, every year there’s a new baby or two. And the isle has fertile soil sure but will it last? Are they prepared for a raid or a hurricane? And if Jessica trusts the wrong people, where her people right to trust her? ...can I protect them? Can I protect them?! CAN I PROTECT THEM?!

Who am I if I’m not interesting? This is, literally, an entirely subconscious fear. She’s not at all aware it exists and therefor this entry is short. But between her short time with her very unimpressed mother, her own ADHD, she is constantly hungry for attention without even realizing it. She must be interesting and intriguing and engaging, and I did mention she wants to also be mysterious. She wants not so much your input or even your validation - but rather if shes not perceived then.... is she really there? Remember, she is unaware of any of this. And fortunately she’d never been starved for attention to act out over it in the first place, even when her disinterested mother was alive. Look at her; she’s radiant, she’s beautiful, and she’s 6′4 / 195 cm shredded and covered in cool scars. Without even opening her mouth, without even her colorful clothes, she’s kind of automatically interesting. So she’s never been so desperate for attention that she acts out because she’s never been without it for very long. But it’s there. Hungry, aching, silent. Those years after the M branding were horrible and she could never really explain why. She still throws parties, organizes festivals, and talks to damn near anyone who will listen. Look at my art! Look at my library! Listen to how much I know! Let me tell you how lovely you are! Look at my scares! Look at my hair! Look at me haha, please, please look at me.

GHOSTS. NOPE. No. NO. Fuck ALL of that noise. Stay dead, go to hell, eat a dick. Red Jessica is a scientist and superstitious atheist. As an academic and somewhat bi-cultural woman she simply thinks there are far too many religions with far too much history for any of them to be considered The One True Thing You Must Believe Or ElseTM and she tends to not truly believe anything until she finds some kind of proof. Shes not afraid of the unknown, shes thrilled by it. She’s not afraid of death or the afterlife, that’s beyond her control. She’s only superstitious because she does believe in and value luck, and also its a bit of a cultural habit. BUT IF SOME SHIT STARTS MOVING ON ITS OWN OR IF SHE SEES SOME BULLSHIT IN THE CORNER OF HER EYE THEN SHE IS OUT OF THERE. OUTIE 5000. She has heard the tales of lost souls from purgatory or the eternally ravenous Pret or dangerous Phi Tai Hong or the tragic and startling Banshees or the creepy Santa Compana and she wouldn’t believe a word of it where it not for one thing. SHE FUCKING SAW ONE. She’ll never forget it, it was the first and last time she EVER attempted to plunder a tomb all Skyrim style and at first she thought it was one of the crewmean being creepy as shit until she got a good look and he was SEE THROUGH AS SHIT AND SKINNY AS FCUK AND SHE GOT LITERALLY CHASED THE FUCK OUT OF THAT JOINT. She does not CARE that some ghosts are just apparitions she does not CARE that some are friendly and trying to warn her of something if you are MOVING and DEAD at the SAME time get FUCKED. If any of y’all cringe try-hards bring a Ouija board to the party you are getting SENT HOME and BLOCKED. NO CAP.

Three Goals:

She really only has one left. Listen its... almost 1am and ive been typing since like 5pm i think i covered goals somewhere in here but ive gotta throw in the towel but even then I’m kinda being serious. Her only remaining goal is to find a suitable heir of some kind. She wants what she’s built to fall into worthey hands but she could never seem to find a good parter and even when she did she couldn’t sustain a pregnancy ( you’d think that would be a huge deal but it hardly mattered to her oddly ). So at 50 the option of having kids is out but there’s still plenty of hope for either adoption or a protege. But then again, she’s so busy these days that she hardly prioritizes it like she wants to.

holy shit i need some water...

#i.... i did it.. its done.. its DONE #...this took my entire saterday #i will literally pay yall actuall dollars to read all of this please... it took so long i dont want it to be for nothing qwq #x; EVER PLAYED CRAZY EIGHTS? { dash games }#x; QUITE THE PIRATE GAL { portrait }#x; WHY AREN'T YOU A CLEVER ONE? { meta }

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thegeminisage · 3 years

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you are right to say everything you said about Cullen of DA. I haven't played in a few years but I think Cullen has potential! Very curious abt your Fix Him arc 👀👀👀

anyway, just wanted to express support and agreement beyond a like <3

lol thank you <3 sorry i know this is going to get away from me but basically i would do it like zuko in atla, which is truly the ultimate earned redemption arc 1. the narrative would have to acknowledge the very real harm cullen caused during da2 and it would have to show him experiencing true remorse, which it only kind of did and 2. there would need to be genuine reparations, which there were NONE of 3. his ongoing suspicion of mages, this whole "we cant recruit them and just let them do WHATEVER" business would need to be addressed too at some point.

i think they almost did that by accident - when you're romancing him as a mage (and this is a particularly fraught interaction if you're a circle mage) there's a couple of places where you can basically go "wait but you but you want to be with ME? i thought you'd only ever see me as a mage" or "not afraid of being alone with a mage then?" and cullen is like "have i given you reason to doubt? well fuck me of course i have." it's a nice little moment of self-awareness and i wish he had had more of it and i also wish that it had been tied to his general distrust in your decisions if you chose to recruit/side with the mages earlier on. like yes if you keep being openly suspicious of mages your romantic interest who is also a mage is going to be extremely uncomfortable*! i think any player character who is a mage, especially a circle mage, has good reason to be afraid of any former templar, but most especially of a templar whose hatred of mages was at one point personal...

...which leads me to point 4. post da1, when cullen is kept in captivity and tortured** and watched all his friends die in absolutely horrific ways one a time, it actually is a normal and expected trauma response to hate and fear magic wielders. fenris in da2 says absolutely HORRIBLE things about mages, and in da2 when you talk to cullen fenris generally even agrees with every word out of his mouth - but we tend not to get up in arms about it because mages enslaved him, and his viewpoint is more than understandable. the only real difference is that fenris was never in a position to enforce the systemic discrimination against mages, and cullen was. so while in da2 it's interesting to watch fenris unlearn that trauma response, particularly if he falls in love with a mage, he doesn't necessarily need to redeem himself, which cullen would. because some of what cullen said and did as a response to that trauma was understandable or even acceptable, but much of it was not.

(* he could even have a belated reaction where he realizes his crush in da1 was extremely inappropriate because he was this woman's jailer and potential executioner. it's a deeply fucked up situation because under one hand the fact that he had this crush meant that on some level he failed to dehumanize mages as much as his job required but he WAS dehumanizing them enough that he literally could not understand how horrific their situation was, that mages in the circle were literally incapable of turning down any templar for any reason, and that while they were in that position they could have never had anything remotely resembling a real romance.

** since cullen was not being given lyrium during that time, it's even normal for the withdrawal itself, which can be agonizing to the point of debilitation and even lethal, to be a trigger for his ptsd! like the withdrawal was PART of the torture! which is important when you also bring in the fact that he's in da3 he is willingly suffering through it again in order to break out of that addiction. in a way what he's doing is both noble AND selfish. it also makes him act like more of an asshole because it's triggering that trauma response, which is also at the root of his harmful behavior in da2. it's a fucking mess! he's a mess of a person!)

which is a long way of saying that in da3, i would have liked to see cullen understand that hating mages is a trauma response and not Objective Fact, instead of this "oh maybe i was too extreme...i was right tho" nonsense. no circle mage in the WORLD would touch that, because circle mages WOULD ALSO have a trauma response to templars in general, but again, especially a templar who took it as seriously and as personally as cullen did.

and even though the game only gave us maybe 4 lines of this potential conflict, i think would be very compelling for two people who have very, very good reasons to hate and fear each other to fall in love. this “opposites” thing is a very common romance trope in fantasy - vampire and a slayer, werewolf and a hunter, angel and an atheist, etc. you have a lot of this in da2 with fenris, but it's only fenris that has a reason to hate and fear hawke instead of the other way around being added as well. and it's essential that hawke gains fenris's trust and respect, but hawke also doesn't require a redemption arc.

so like: that sort of tropeset, but also with a redemption arc, which is another good trope if. IF. IF!!! it's done well. when it's not. well. looking at you kylo ren. and anyway that's how i would fix it. BUT there's absolutely no way they'd devote that kind of time and writing to ONE romance out of half a dozen when the game already cut corners because of crunch time. (did you know cullen was originally supposed to be romanceable by ANY race/gender of player character? wild.)

#liz answers asks #agentmika #liz plays dragon age #long post #this is more than i have thought about dragon age in like 5 years #sorry everyone i'm done now #this does make me a rape apologist according to some people on the internet by the way. VERY classy

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moonrabbitisgay · 4 years

Text

Y’all know that horrifically angsty fic that I’ve been talking about and preemptively apologizing for the last few days? I finished it

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965787/chapters/63401863

Content warnings: major character death, grieving, brief but somewhat graphic description of violence, blood.

___

At the end of the day, it’s just...bad luck.

Bad luck that Teba’s still unsteady on his horse, and the focus he has to devote to staying upright in the saddle takes away from the careful eye he’d typically have on their surroundings. Bad luck that the skies open up and send down upon them a light mist, urging their little party into a canter in a futile attempt to reach the nearest stable before they’re all soaked through. Bad luck that Revali and Link insist on bantering the whole time, because of course they do. Bad luck that thanks to this precise combination of factors, none of them hear the low thrum of galloping horses, off to the left side of the road, far away but approaching fast.

Bad luck that Link turns to face Teba at exactly the wrong moment, and the arrow that had been about to hit him in the shoulder instead lands square in the middle of his throat.

It’s over in less than a minute. Revali immediately leaps off of his horse, summons an updraft, soars into the air, and in one fluid movement takes his bow off his back, nocks an arrow, and shoots down the bokoblin as it waves its bow in the air in triumph. Teba is half a second behind him, taking a moment to assess the situation— two more bokoblin on horseback, one wielding a club and the other a spear— before springing into action, unslinging his own bow and knocking the club-wielder off its horse with an arrow to the chest. He turns his aim to the other just as Revali dives down upon it, talons digging into its shoulders, pulling it off of its horse and dragging it viciously across the ground until it goes still. Teba lands and does a quick once-over. As soon as he’s certain that they aren’t in any more immediate danger, he sprints back over to the horses, panic building rapidly in his chest.

Link lies sprawled out on the side of the road, eyes closed, and for one long, hysterical, hopeful second, Teba thinks he might sit up and cough and wipe the blood from his tunic and give him that ridiculous little grin he puts on every time Teba frets over one of his wounds. But he doesn’t move, and his face is so white, and there’s a ragged hole straight through the middle of his throat and so much blood and a horrible weight starts to settle itself in Teba’s stomach.

This can’t be his Link. His Link is always moving, fidgeting, full of nervous energy. His Link is rosy cheeks and a smile like the sun and only ever just enough blood to make him worry. His Link is alive, and this limp, pale thing lying in front of him is...not.

Behind him, Revali screams.

Teba knows he should feel...something. Shock. Anger. Grief. Guilt. But they don’t come. All he feels is the weight. In a daze, he stands and walks over to Link’s horse, which is tossing its head and shuffling about, clearly spooked. She quiets as he approaches, and he rifles through her saddlebag until he finds bandages and Link’s cloak.

He starts by dressing the wound, wiping away the blood as best he can and carefully wrapping bandages around Link’s neck. As he works, Revali collapses next to him, laying his head on Link’s chest as he weeps. Once Teba finishes and the ugly gash is hidden but for a small red spot in the front of the bandages, he takes Revali by the shoulders and pulls gently.

“Revali,” he says quietly, and his lover looks up at him, eyes desperate and deeply, impossibly sad. Teba tugs at him again, and this time he comes, wrapping his wings so tightly around Teba’s chest that it nearly knocks the wind out of him and letting out a ragged wail. Teba holds him close, awkwardly patting his back in some vague, wholly inadequate attempt at comfort, and Revali buries his head in the crook of Teba’s neck, breaking off into quiet, choked sobs.

They sit there, on the side of the road. Time passes. The rain passes. Travelers pass, too, but they pay them no mind, and the few that dare to approach wither rapidly under Teba’s glare. Revali clings to him, head tucked underneath Teba’s beak and eyes tightly shut, as if he could fight off the crushing reality simply by refusing to acknowledge it. Teba just stares. He stares for so long that he very nearly convinces himself that he’s used to it. As if he could ever accept this image of Link, pale as death and motionless in a puddle of his own blood.

Eventually, Revali opens his eyes and disentangles himself from Teba. He draws in a deep, rattling breath, leaning into Teba’s side for support.

“We should bury him,” he mutters, and Teba furrows his brow in confusion.

“What?”

Revali gestures toward Link. Towards Link’s body. “We should bury him,” he says again, louder this time, and he sounds as empty as Teba feels. “That’s what...that’s what Hylians do with their—”

He cuts himself off before the last word, and Teba puts a wing around his shoulder. With their dead, he thinks. Link is dead.

He doesn’t say that. Instead, he says “we don’t have a shovel,” because maybe focusing on these kinds of petty material concerns will help the both of them turn their minds away from the horrible pit of darkness rapidly opening up beneath their feet. Another thought occurs to him, and he grabs onto it with all the desperation of a drowning man to a rope. “Shouldn’t we bring him to the castle? We’re nearly at Tabantha Bridge, and it’s only a couple days’ travel from the stable there.”

Revali shakes his head, and Teba notes with relief that he seems grateful for the distraction. “He wouldn’t— I don’t think he’d want all the ceremony. I suppose we could bring him back to the village, but…” He trails off, sagging a little, and Teba tightens his grip on his shoulder. “I can’t bear it, Teba, the thought of...of fucking carting him around for a whole day, I just can’t.”

“Yeah.” The telltale sting of tears pricks hard behind Teba’s eyes all of a sudden, but some ridiculous urge to hold himself together, for Revali’s sake if nothing else, has him blinking them back. “I...I could fly over to the stable, see if I can get us a shovel.” He sees Revali’s eyes widen in alarm, and he quickly amends the statement. “Or you could, and I’ll wait here. You’re faster than me anyway.”

“OK.” Revali exhales shakily and bows his head. “OK. OK, I can do that,” he says quietly, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than anything. Teba squeezes his shoulder once more before letting go, and he reluctantly pulls himself away from Teba’s side and to his feet. He takes in a deep breath, crouches, summons another updraft, and spirals off into the sky.

Teba watches him glide away, until he’s nothing but a small speck on the horizon. Then he turns his attention back to Link. He carefully slides one wing underneath his neck and the other behind his knees, ignoring the sickening feeling of blood soaking into his feathers, and lifts him up, cradling the limp body to his chest. Leaning down, he presses his forehead to Link’s, gently rubbing his beak against Link’s nose as he had used to do every night as they settled into bed. The thought hits him like a ton of bricks. Had used to. He would never say goodnight to Link again.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers into Link’s ear, and the last of his composure crumbles. He dissolves into tears, clamping his beak shut and rocking back and forth, trying desperately to swallow his sobs until it’s too much and they burst out in short, painful gasps. The weight in his stomach vanishes, replaced by the awful, vertiginous feeling of free-fall, spiraling down and out and his wings are slick and wet and saturated with red and bile starts to rise in his throat and—

“Oh, Teba,” is all he hears Revali say, before the shovel clatters to the ground and the dead weight in his arms is carefully lifted away and placed gingerly on the ground. He collapses forward, into Revali’s wings, feels his lover rest his head on his shoulder and feels his tears fall softly onto his neck. Revali says something else, inaudible over the blood pounding in Teba’s ears. He just shakes his head, pressing his face into Revali’s chest and wills himself to find his composure again, to ground himself, to save this debilitating grief for nights back home.

They fall into autopilot, eventually. They take turns with the shovel to dig a shallow grave, and Teba wraps Link in his cloak before lowering him into the fresh, damp dirt. He watches numbly as Revali slowly covers him, staring at his face, trying to affix every last detail of it in his mind before it’s covered up as well. Gone forever. No sign left of him but a pathetic little mound of overturned earth.

At Tabantha Bridge Stable, Revali returns the shovel and turns in their horses. They rent a single bed, a good foot and a half too short for Teba, but he spends the night curled around Revali anyway because letting him out of his sight for even a moment is utterly unthinkable.

In the morning, there are no words, just despairing glances and blinked-back tears. They fly back to the village, and by some unspoken agreement land not there but at the Flight Range, which is mercifully empty. It’s saturated with Link’s absence, more than anywhere in the village proper, but it is their sanctuary and nothing, not even this calamitous emptiness, can take that away from them.

Teba cooks dinner. He burns the fish to hell, and neither of them have any appetite anyway, so he just throws it away. They sit and stare at the fire, Revali’s head in Teba’s lap. Link sits across from them, a ghost neither of them thinks the other can see, and his smile is worth all of the words he can no longer say.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Teba says quietly, and Revali sits up. He wraps a single wing around the back of Teba’s neck and pulls him in close, pressing their foreheads together, and gently rubs their beaks together.

“I know,” he responds. “Me neither.”

#breath of the wild #teba #revali #link #teba x link x revali #tevalink #teba x revali #tebali #my writing #i. yeah #idk what possessed me to write this but i'm honestly super fucking proud of it #probably my favorite oneshot i've done so far #it was originally gonna be way longer #but then i decided that all of the other plot points i had in mind could wait for a followup #and yes there will probably be a followup 😳#i pledge to finish the four remaining requests i have first though #four...so many #i'm sorry i'm so slow

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cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

the walls have ears | Taehyung

→ summary: in hindsight, taehyung probably shouldn’t have told the paintings about his debilitating crush on you after he had (unknowingly) drunk some magically spiked pumpkin juice. after all, paintings don’t really have all that much going on, except getting excited over the occasional gossip or two. and well... news always travels fast when there’s magic involved.

{based on a prompt by @/alloftheprompts: “Character A tells a painting about their crush on Character B. The portrait spills their secret.”}

→ genre: hogwarts!au, fluff, humor → words: 5.6K → a/n: this is for the lovely @merriblazi who donated a couple ko-fis to fund my grocery bills lmao thank you so much!! also, i’m still accepting ko-fi comms until the end of august, so if you’d like something like this as well, feel free to drop a few ko-fis down my drain!! i’d love to write you all something!! (new banner was made by @jincherie ty girl ily)

The paintings at Hogwarts are all in high spirits today.

Taehyung notices this when he exits the Gryffindor common room, immediately being greeted by the Fat Lady’s cackles of excitement. He jumps up in surprise at her ear-splitting squeals, nearly knocking over a poor first-year student behind him. He shouts out an apology at the kid, but she has already scuttled off, spooked by the loud portrait. Honestly, Taehyung isn’t any better himself, turning back around to stare wide-eyed as the Fat Lady continues to point and giggle at him with her mouth stretched into a smirk.

Taehyung hazards a greeting. “Um, good morning?”

“Good morning indeed,” she singsongs, procuring a fan out of the many folds of her dress (from where exactly she had it stored, he tries not to think too deeply about). “Mister Kim, I’m sure you had quite an interesting evening the day before, did you not?”

Taehyung freezes immediately, his blood running cold at her words. Being a known prankster and rapscallion, Taehyung has grown to learn the importance of running at the first sign of trouble, despite how cowardly that might seem for a Gryffindor. The best way to continue having the pleasure of wreaking havoc is to choose your battles wisely, which is just a nice way of saying that he needs to scram before the authorities can catch him. He had learned all of this from the best, seeing as how his best friend happens to be a Slytherin.

He tries to think of what he had done the other night, but he comes up blank. He remembers being busy the entire afternoon trying to ask you on a date for the fourteenth time this month, only to no avail (as always). While others had already been deterred by intimidation alone, Taehyung remains hopeful that he will get the guts to talk to you eventually. After all, his mommy says he’s a handsome and charming boy who can sweep any girl off their feet, and his mommy has never lied to him before.

At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself these past few years of silently pining over you, but he digresses.

“I… I had an interesting evening?” Taehyung repeats quizzically, becoming more bewildered by the second. Due to the Fat Lady’s commotion, it seems to have caused a stir among the rest of the paintings, all of the nearby portraits peering over their frames to catch a good look at him. Taehyung can even see some of the more lethargic portraits waking up long enough to direct attentive gazes at him.

“Why of course!” The Fat Lady positively screams, clasping her hands together with a loud clap. “The castle is abuzz with excitement over your daring confession last night! Why, I could hardly contain my excitement for when you would awaken.” She flicks away her fan over her shoulder, accidentally hitting her neighboring portrait in the face. She scarely blinks at her neighbor’s barks of irritation.

Oh, jeez. It’s the crotchety portrait that everyone disliked. This isn’t good; no one could ever get the old fart to shut up once you got him going, and Taehyung knows better than anyone else how easy it is to get a rise out of him. After all, it was his favorite pastime.

“Watch where you flap those arms of yours, woman!” He shouts, bulbous features turning purple in mere seconds. The Scholar, or as Taehyung likes to call the Squalor, takes one of his many books from his desk, ready to hurl back at her.

Before he can even think of pulling back his shoulder, a stampede of finely dressed ladies comes rushing in out of nowhere, quickly subduing them by sheer number alone. There is a loud squabble as the ladies all corner him like a murder of multi-colored crows. At a closer glance, Taehyung recognizes them from one of the large paintings near the entrance to the Great Hall.

That was floors away. How had they rushed over so quickly? And for what reason?

“Oh hush, you simpering nerd!” One of the ladies snaps, grabbing the Fat Lady’s fallen fan and slapping the man in the face once more. The scholar sputters, at a loss for words for once in his life. Taehyung thanks the ladies internally, having always wanted to disfigure the bastard’s face ever since he called his yellow sunglasses unfashionable. What the hell did someone who died during the plague know anything about fashion?

“We came as soon as we heard, Lady Fat! Now, where is the boy that everyone’s been gossiping about – oh, my word!” Taehyung assumes it is the leader of the pack who gasps in surprise, her well-manicured finger outstretched as she waggles it at him. He can tell she’s the leader by the ostentatious crown on her head, complete with glittering jewels that he could scarcely tell the names of.

The Fat Lady moves to the side, allowing the women to enter her space until almost the entirety of her canvas was filled with nothing but powdered wigs and poofy skirts. Taehyung can hardly see her crown of vines with how many people were surrounding her.

Her voice sounds muffled when she replies, “For the hundredth time, my name is the Fat Lady, not Lady Fat. And yes Martha, it is him! His name is Taehyung, the one I’m certain who had spoken to Raphael the other night.”

Wait. Taehyung’s mouth drops, taken aback. This is certainly news to him! When had he spoken to Raphael? Who the hell was Raphael, even? Why did everyone seem to know more about his nightly activities than he did?

He doesn’t get to ask, however, as the ladies immediately begin to bombard him with a barrage of comments ranging from excitement to disappointment, no holds barred.

“Oh, it’s the cute Gryffindor boy with the long eyelashes! They would make a lovely couple indeed! I wonder if Raphael has already passed the message to her–”

“He’s the one? Surely not! I was hoping it was the cat-eyed boy with black hair instead. Wouldn’t he be a better match for her?”

“You must be crazy, Marie! This boy is clearly meant for her. My mother was a seer, and I can tell from a mile away that those two are meant to be soulmates–”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Taehyung cries out, anxious from all the chatter coming from all directions at once. He can feel the panic bubbling up, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He doesn’t even know where to start with all this! “Can everyone shut up for a second!”

Miraculously, all the portraits clam up at his request, still gazing upon him like he holds all the secrets to the world. Which, much to everyone’s disappointment, he does not.

The sudden disquiet unnerves him slightly, causing him to stutter in his speech. He swallows thickly, voice meek. “I-I… I’m a bit confused about all this. Can someone explain what everyone’s talking about? I just wanted to head down and get some breakfast.”

It feels like a hundred painted faces are staring back at him, and when Taehyung casts a furtive glance behind him, he sees that even the paintings from two staircases up are watching with rapt attention. Why was everyone so interested in him, all of a sudden? Not even his infamous dungbomb toilet prank got him this much notoriety. When he turns back to face the ladies, they all seem to be just as shocked as he is.

Lady Martha steps forward until she is almost taking up the entirety of the canvas, squinting at him dubiously. Her previously excited demeanor has soured greatly at his words. She tilts her head towards him, unimpressed. “Well? Are you not the boy with the crush on Lady Y/N? Have we sprinted across the entire castle just to find that the culprit of last night’s latest gossip had all been just another prank?”

“N-no, I – Wait. Did you just say–” Taehyung stops in the middle of his sentence to gape back at her, his ears feeling hot as his blood quickly races up to his face. “Did you just say ‘the boy with the crush on Y/N?’” He hisses the last part in a strangled whisper, snapping his head side to side to make sure no one else had heard. He is relieved to find that the only other people nearby do not seem to have heard their exchange, but he still waves his hands frantically to get all the portraits to lower their volume.

She raises her eyebrow at him, hip cocked to the side. “Yes? Had I misspoken? Had Raphael been lying to all of us once again?” She scoffs in exasperation, though it does not seem to be aimed at him. The rest of the ladies seem annoyed at this Raphael as well. “That’s just like him, too! We shouldn’t have trusted him again. That angel never did know how to shut his trap.”

The ladies make muted harrumphs of discontent, noses upturned in the air. Taehyung watches as a few of them begin to make their way back to their own canvas, but he needs to ask them one last thing before they leave. While he doesn’t remember ever speaking to a painting named Raphael, he still does not know how he had found about his crush on you in the first place.

He doesn’t know what he would do if you were to ever find out, even if it was just a rumor for now. This is not how he imagined he would finally tell you about his feelings; everything feels like a nightmare. He can already feel the apples of his tanned cheeks beginning to burn in embarrassment.

“Hold on, did you say an angel named Raphael said all of that stuff?” Taehyung asks hesitantly, sweat building up on the back of his neck. He can vaguely remember a fresco of some angels near the kitchens, but he isn’t quite sure. He never goes there unless he wants to snag some treats from the house elves, but he has started relying on Seokjin to do the food hauls for him these days. Never mind the fact that he had already gotten caught in the act thrice by you – ever the attentive prefect.

Oh, how he hated how much he loved you, despite the stick up your ass. That being said, no one was supposed to even know that he liked you, much less the entire painting population of Hogwarts. Not even Jimin knew, and that was saying something! How did this Raphael fellow find out when he had kept this secret deep inside his heart since the first day he had laid his eyes on you? How had he figured him out, unless Taehyung had been the one to tell him–

“Yes, the archangel Raphael near the kitchens.” Lady Martha nods, her sneer disfiguring her delicate features. “He said that a drunken boy with long lashes and dark brown hair had confessed his undying feelings for the rigid Lady Y/N the other night. Oh, how excited we were to hear the news!” Martha holds a hand to her chest, sighing dramatically. The remaining ladies chorus their sighs as well, one of them even fainting from grief.

The Fat Lady cranes her neck upwards, trying her best to speak above the fallen, wailing ladies. “Yes, quite. What a shame! When I heard from Lady Martha, who had heard from Lord Michael, who had heard from Sire Nicholas, who had heard from Professor Bang–”

“Wait, Professor Bang?” Taehyung mutters in disbelief, scarcely heard over the racket.

“–who had heard from Archangel Raphael that a boy with long eyelashes had been going on and on about his crush on a female prefect, I just knew it had to be you! Then, the Ladies of Commère discovered that the prefect was Miss Y/N, well… It was like a dream come true! We had all been hoping for her to find her prince sooner or later.”

“Her prince? What for?” Taehyung is kind of afraid to dive deeper into this mess, though he is too curious to let it slide. It isn’t like you’re short on suitors, despite how intimidating and uptight you are. It is part of the reason why he’s too shy to approach you in the first place, with how large his competition pool is.

“Well… She had been complaining to me during her nightly rounds about how lonely she has been feeling, ever since her best friend had started dating that oaf with a quaffle for a brain,” Lady Martha tuts, shaking her head pityingly.

Taehyung is familiar with that “oaf,” otherwise known as the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He admits that Jungkook isn’t the brightest boy, but he is a wickedly good player. Plus, Taehyung thinks he’s funny, especially after that incident when he had tried to snort pumpkin juice on a dare and consequently sprayed the entire wall with a myriad of fluids. (You had deducted points out of your own house for that, much to everyone else’s chagrin.)

Lady Martha continues, “She may seem like an independent woman, but I suppose all of us tend to get lonely during the night. And all the paintings love a good romance every once in a while, so we couldn’t help ourselves from jumping the gun a bit…”

Taehyung feels the dread begin to pile up like bricks in the pit of his stomach, reminding him of the time when he had eaten too much cauldron cakes in one go. He needs to go see Raphael as soon as possible and get to the bottom of this. He doesn’t remember speaking to him at all, which is what makes Taehyung the antsiest. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t quite remember what he did after dinner last night.

Somehow between now and then, he had managed to go to bed despite not knowing how or when. Taehyung had woken up this morning with a minor throbbing in the back of his head, but it was nothing to write home about.

At least that was what he thought. He was starting to second guess everything now.

He bows to the paintings, belatedly feeling a little odd for showing respect to inanimate objects. Regardless, the ladies appear to be delighted by his involuntary action, all of them cooing at his manners and wishing him a good breakfast as he scampers off towards the Great Hall.

When he arrives, the tables are still largely empty with how early he had risen, a rare occurrence in Taehyung’s everyday life. He doesn’t think he’s ever arrived to breakfast this early, but he blames the small headache from earlier that prematurely roused him from his slumber. Strange, he thinks as he trudges to his usual place, waiting for the rest of his friends and housemates to arrive. Everything about today has been nothing but a fever dream come to life.

As he spoons a large portion of porridge and fried sausages onto his plate (still piping hot and crisp, which is another weird and new prospect to Taehyung since the food was always a bit mushy by the time he turns up for breakfast), he replays the conversation with the Ladies of Commère.

Other than Raphael, there appear to be no other leads as to who might have found out about his secret admiration for you. The Fat Lady describes a boy with long lashes and brown hair to be the one who had conversed with him, which definitely seems to indicate it was Taehyung himself who had snitched.

An utterly preposterous thought. There is no way that he would ever admit that to some random passerby, certainly not while sober.

Taehyung pauses, spoon midway towards his open mouth. Bits of porridge drip over his lap as the sudden terrorizing thought flits through his mind. Had he been sober last night?

The ladies said the boy had been drunk when he had confessed. Taehyung didn’t drink alcohol, averse to the bitter taste. So how could he have..?

Taehyung rubs his temples frantically, his heart beating out of his chest as he tries again to remember what he had done right after dinner the previous evening. No matter how hard he racked his brain for information, he comes up blank every time.

Even if he had been drunk, do people really lose all their memories from just a sip or two? The only way he could have gotten drunk is if he had consumed it unknowingly, meaning someone must have spiked his food the other night. But who could have done such a thing?

The loud thud of a body barrelling right into the table forces Taehyung out of his reverie, nearly dislodging his head off his neck in the process. He yelps in surprise, before glaring at the new smiley intruder beside him.

The Slytherin grins cherubically, having the audacity to wink salaciously at him. “Good morning, Taehyungie! Surprised to see you up so early,” Jimin says, seating himself on the Gryffindor bench like he belongs there. With how often he visits his table, it’s easy for people to mistake him as his housemate. Even you and the rest of the prefects have stopped trying to get him to leave after their fifth year.

Taehyung groans. “It’s been a rough morning.”

“I can tell. You aren’t even eating any of the bacon,” Jimin whistles in surprise, casually heaping his own (stolen) plate. He gives Taehyung a proper once-over. “You feeling alright? You look kind of pale.”

“It’s…” Taehyung wavers, not sure what to reveal. He still doesn’t feel comfortable telling Jimin about his crush, but he thinks that if the entire population of Hogwarts might soon find out anyway, then his best friend might as well find out from the source himself. But first…

“Did you spike my dinner last night?”

“What?” Jimin laughs, but stops when he notices Taehyung’s serious expression. “Oh. You’re serious. Did you eat something funny yesterday?”

“I don’t remember eating anything weird except for the lamb chops and chicken and mashed potatoes and…” Taehyung trails off, realizing how much he eats during a meal. He looks down at his already half-devoured plate of what was once ten whole sausages before sighing dejectedly.

“It could have been anything, huh?” Jimin hums, rubbing his chin. “That’s weird though, because I don’t think I ate anything weird yesterday, and we ate pretty much the same stuff.”

“That’s the thing! I only realized my food might have been spiked this morning,” Taehyung grumbles. He pauses for a second, steeling himself before he spills his guts all over the shiny mahogany dining table. He breathes deeply, causing Jimin to watch him curiously from his right. Well, it’s now or never.

“What made you realize?” Jimin asks.

“You see, funny story…” Taehyung says, not at all amused by the tale he was about to tell. “This morning, I was assaulted by the Fat Lady and the Ladies of Commère. You know, the hoity-toity ladies near the entrance of the Great Hall? Anyway, they said something that made me rethink my entire existence and that maybe my memories aren’t as reliable as I thought.”

“What the hell are you even saying?” Jimin huffs, wagging his fork in his face. “Stop beating around the bush and say what you wanna say! What does this have to do with spiked food?”

“Basically… The ladies said I told one of the portraits about my crush on this certain someone, but the thing is, I would NEVER tell anyone about my crush on that someone, so the only way they could have known about my crush on that someone is if I had told them, but the thing is, I–”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jimin interrupts Taehyung’s rambling, barely trying to suppress his giggles as he appraises his panicking friend. “You told a portrait about your crush on Y/N? When did this happen?”

Taehyung makes a startled sound, practically screeching in horror at Jimin’s nonchalant declaration. He had said it in a way like it was a simple truth, like how the sky is blue and how feet are sexy.

“You knew?!”

“Dude, everyone knows.” Jimin hums, nodding his head sagely. He snags one of the sausages off of Taehyung’s plate, even though he could have gotten a fresh one from the many other platters instead. He chews as he says, “Well admittedly, I’ve always known. Everyone else only just found out this morning as we entered the Great Hall. The hoity-toity ladies at the entrance were telling anyone who’d listen.”

“The ladies were–?” Taehyung stammers, mouth moving too quickly for his brain to catch up. “But I told them it wasn’t me!”

“Well, too late for that now,” Jimin shrugs, taking another one of Taehyung’s sausages. At this point, he was only doing it to make Taehyung’s day worse. “Apparently, Raphael the Archangel swore that it was you who had confessed about your crush on Y/N, and angels don’t just go around swearing, you know? Not that I know anything about Muggle religion, but also–”

“Oh Merlin, I think I’m going to be sick,” Taehyung says, slamming his head into his plate with the remaining three sausages. Jimin whines, lamenting the fate of his fallen riches.

“My sausages!”

“My love life!” Taehyung cries out, lifting his head and letting the greasy remains of his breakfast drip down his forehead.

Jimin is the first to recover from their respective meltdowns, using a finger to wipe some of the oil from his friend’s face and licking it with relish. “Damn, I love sausages. So, as I was saying… Why did you go and tell that portrait about your crush? Is that why you think you got spiked last night?”

Taehyung chokes out a sob, signaling his agreement.

“Oh shit, what if someone slipped Veritaserum in your pumpkin juice? But who?” Jimin wonders aloud, but it’s hard to narrow it down to just about anyone. Taehyung is pretty likable even amongst the most prickly students, so it will be difficult to pinpoint anyone who might have some personal vendetta against him. Then again, there are a couple of pranksters who come to mind…

“It doesn’t even matter who did it at this point. Y/N is going to come through those doors any moment and she’s just gonna know that I’m a fucking loser who spills his deepest infatuations to some random painting that I don’t even remember speaking to!”

“That is pretty lame,” Jimin says, not the least bit sympathetic. In his honest opinion, he feels like he should be thankful to whoever spiked his friend’s drink last night. Pining never did look good on Taehyung, despite all his natural handsomeness. If he had to catch him staring at you with that lovestruck look again, Jimin might as well have snitched sooner or later.

“Do you think I have time to go stop them from announcing to the world that I’m a loser with a huge boner for Y/N?” Taehyung is already rising to his feet, wiping the remaining grease from his skin as best as he can. He only smears it around some more, giving himself a blinding sheen. Somehow, he makes it work.

Jimin looks to his watch. “She usually comes in around five minutes before 8 AM, so maybe you’ll have some time before–”

He has spoken too soon. Lo and behold, you enter the hall with loud, purposeful strides, the entirety of your neck to your forehead flushed an endearing shade of red. You look absolutely mortified. Taehyung can say that he’s feeling the same, if not worse.

You pass by Taehyung in a blur, your gaze twitching towards him for a slight second before you are back to walking straight ahead with your head bowed slightly. Your best friend and Jungkook enter the hall soon after, both of whom were giggling raucously in your wake. The three of you slide into your usual seats a few spaces away from him, your eyes trained so fiercely onto your eggs that Taehyung is afraid that they might burst into flames.

Jimin looks from you to Taehyung, a smirk on his face. “You think she heard?”

The day continues onwards, filled with lots of staring and whispering. Taehyung can’t go from class to class without at least one person slapping him on the back in solidarity or others glaring at him out of contempt and jealousy. Either way, Taehyung isn’t sure whether he likes this type of attention or not.

Being hooted and cursed at for pulling off a fantastic joke? That, he could live with. Being the center of an ongoing cheesy romantic drama? This type of situation is a new world entirely.

The entire day is a whirlwind as he goes from class to class, not even getting to sneak off once to go and search for the ever elusive Raphael. Every time he tries to even look the other direction, his professors seem to be a step ahead of him, snapping at him to stay focused. Judging by the knowing smirks on their lips, they must have heard about the news as well, except they must be under the impression that he was trying to get away and search for you.

Oh, how wrong they are. He doesn’t even know what he would say if he saw you right now.

Luckily (or unluckily) for him, he doesn’t see you that often for the remainder of the day, except for one occasion when he passes you on the way to Potions. You aren’t with your best friend for once, but your eyes are still trained to the floor like they were this morning. Your usual pristine posture is gone, replaced by this timid girl who jumps up in surprise at the slightest bit of chatter. You don’t even scold a second-year for loosening his tie, and that honestly worried Taehyung more than anything else.

Were you embarrassed by him? He isn’t all that surprised that his affections were left unreciprocated – he’s long since accepted that his feelings will always remain one-sided. After all, with how often you like to reprimand him, you must only think of him as some loser seeking attention. In fact, he only ever plans his pranks so that you might be the one to catch him, like some misbehaving child who longs for the love of his absent parents.

Not that he thinks you’re like a mom to him, but then again… You’d be a great mom, but only if he gets to be the dad.

Wow. That went waaaay out of bounds than he was originally going for, but he digresses.

Still, he is a little hurt being ignored by you. Could he at least hope for a proper rejection? Just so he doesn’t have to keep having to speculating his whole life and wondering about what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Oh, how he loathes what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. They are worse than losing an entire femur, in his opinion (and yes, he has lost a femur once. Luckily, they found it in the women’s bathroom, for some reason.)

He can’t blame you entirely though, since it must be hard on your part as well. He doesn’t ever remember seeing you this flustered in, well… Ever.

The afternoon winds down and classes end as quickly as they come. Dinner arrives once more, and Taehyung has more presence of mind to check what he eats before they even touch his lips. For safety reasons, he feeds his portions to Jimin first, just so if he gets spiked with truth serum again, at least the two of them could be idiots together.

He allows Jimin to lead most of the conversation, still not really feeling like everything’s fine despite his friend’s best attempts at lightening the mood. He did just get his heartbroken for the first time, after all. He’s surprised he hasn’t started bawling his eyes out in front of the entire school yet.

Just a few more minutes and I can cry all I want in the safety of my bedroom, Taehyung thinks to himself, feeling even shittier about how excited he is to spend the entire evening soaking his pillow with tears. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

He is in the process of feeding a spoonful of peas into Jimin’s open mouth when he feels a soft tap on his shoulder, breaking him from his trance. He is in the process of telling the person that he’s not in the mood, but the words die in his throat the moment he turns and discovers the identity of the sudden visitor.

It’s you.

It’s you, with your hands wringing the edges of your sweater and the most endearingly rosy tint on your soft cheeks. He feels his heart start pounding automatically, just as it always has whenever he’s near you. He thinks the whole school has stopped talking with how silent the Great Hall has become, everyone itching to try and listen to your exchange.

Perhaps you had anticipated this type of scenario and didn’t want anyone to overhear, which is why you have already prepared a note beforehand, inked with your signature neat scrawl. You slip the small piece of parchment into his palm, folding his fingers over it gently. You bow your head awkwardly, reminding Taehyung of his similar gesture from earlier. You scurry away back to your seat, hands cupping your cheeks to cool yourself down.

Taehyung can’t see himself right now, but he thinks he might be even redder than you are, if that is even possible. Jimin, like the nosey bastard that he is, rips the note out of his hand and reads it before he can even process the last five minutes, guffawing loudly at what he finds.

“Guess you got a date later at the Astronomy Tower,” he says, shaking Taehyung’s hand in mock congratulations.

Well, at least he’ll have the stars to look at when he inevitably gets his heart crushed for real this time.

He doesn’t get his heart crushed. At least, not immediately. In fact, he thinks he might be on cloud nine right now as he sees you waiting for him, a small smile on your lips.

“Taehyung, I… really didn’t expect this from you. At all.” You start speaking the moment you hear him reach the top of the stairs, still slightly out of breath from the climb up. He rushes over to you immediately, letting the breeze cool his sweaty face.

“You didn’t… expect it?”

“Well, I mean! You’re always so…” You trail off, your mouth doing this weird thing where you look like you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“A fucking little bastard?” Taehyung laughs when he sees you start to backtrack, stammering all the while.

“N-no! Well, you sorta are… But in the cutest way… possible?” You say the last part like a question, almost helplessly. You wave your hands wildly, adorable despite being frustrated. “I mean! It’s like! I scold you, but it’s my job, you know? But it’s not because I want to do it? Do you get what I mean? Ugh, I’m so awkward I hate this!”

“You think… I’m cute?” Taehyung lets himself smile a little, and it seems to make you even more flustered.

“Have you not seen yourself? Of course you are! I can’t believe that you even have a crush on me–” You stop yourself, slapping a hand to your mouth in horror. “I-I… I know it’s just a rumor and everything, and I don’t want to assume there’s any basis because oh my Merlin I’m never the type to listen to gossip and I don’t want you to think that I’m sort of–”

“What if it isn’t a rumor, though?” Taehyung has never felt this emboldened in his life, toeing the line of danger so closely that he can feel the electricity rush through his veins.

On the otherhand, you look completely baffled, as if the thought never crossed your mind before this moment. “What do you mean? Are you saying that…”

“That I like you, for real? Maybe I am,” Taehyung says, feeling cheekier the more he talks. It might just be the night sky or the wind against his cheeks, or maybe it’s the way your eyes are reflecting the stars like a mirror, but he feels like there is magic in the air. It’s cheesy, it’s cliché, but it’s everything he imagined it would be like.

He’s spent many daydreams thinking about this, and he isn’t going to let his fear pull him under. Not now, not when he can feel the string pulling the two of you together tighten with every second.

“If the rumors were true, what would you say?” Taehyung whispers, lacing his fingers through yours. Your hands shake imperceptibly, but your stare is as stagnant as the affection he feels for you. What he has always felt for you.

When you respond, Taehyung swears the whole world could hear his heart fluttering for you.

Somewhere in the Slytherin dungeons, Jimin is smiling to himself in the comfort of his own bed, turning in early for the night. It truly had been a good investment to secretly start dating a seventh-year potions prodigy over the summer. What is even better is that the Potions professor never did remember to lock his Veritaserum ingredients with nothing more than a simple deadbolt.

He snuggles himself deeper into his pillow, snickering softly. Good job, Yoongi.

All is fucking well.

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wri0thesley · 5 years

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it is the 27th here in the UK (and in italy) so HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRUNO BUCCELLATI I WROTE YOU FLUFF

When you are given to Passione by your family to pay off a debt that’s plaguing them, you are not sure what you’re expecting - but it is certainly not to be asked to play secretary. Though the numbers are simple and the work is far easier and more lenient than you would ever have expected, there is one glaring problem; the debilitating crush you develop on the man you’re told is to be your boss, Bruno Buccellati.

SFW, fem pronouns. Word Count: about 4k.

There are few things more important, you have been told your whole life, than family. And if one's family has the misfortune to be a family that’s deeply involved in the organized crime underbelly of Italy - well, there are few things more important to that family than the Mafia. It’s a circle; one that it’s almost impossible to wholly remove oneself from. And really, you should feel lucky that your family owed a favour to the Don of Passione, and not some other Don with nefarious purposes for the daughter of a family fallen well into disrepute--

Because, when you meet Don Giovanna, you’re well aware that you could be walking into your doom. You’re on high alert, looking for a gun, or for something a little less ordinary (you have heard the whispers about Passione just as surely as other people have), and you’re certainly not prepared when the charming blond brings you to an office and motions to a handsome dark-haired man and says;

“We’re thankful for your family’s continued support of our regime, Signorina. This is Signore Buccellati; although you’ll be working for Passione, it’s him you’ll be reporting to.”

You force a smile for Buccellati. You don’t know what he’s in charge of, but his office is large and spacious and he’s dressed in impeccably tailored Armani and has the air of someone used to being obeyed. He gives you a smile in return (and you’re ashamed to say that his warmth is far more convincing than yours).

“Aah,” he says, and he repeats your name. “I’m glad you’re here. This paperwork is an unwieldy beast.”

You don’t know whether it’s an insult or not that Don Giovanna seems to have hired you to be Buccellati’s secretary. You’re sure your family would see it as one (as disreputable as your family have become, you are still a Mafia family, and your father has always considered menial work such as this beneath anyone of your bloodline), but personally - well, you’re not so sure. You wonder if Don Giovanna had seen a lack of bloodlust in your eyes when you’d met him and shaken his hand; if he’d written you off as someone who could not stomach the harsher day to day life of being a gangster.

He’d have been right, of course, but you’re not supposed to think like that. You fired your first bullet (at a bullseye, not a target, though the steps are the same) at eight years old. Even the women of your family are supposed to be able to stand their ground. Your father would be so disappointed--

Though he’d sold you off to pay a debt to Passione (and Don Giovanna, by extension) without a second thought. Perhaps he did not care what Don Giovanna did with you. You suppose your soft nature and reserved ways and easy to read fear have always been a disappointment to him. Perhaps he was hoping that you’d be shuffled away quietly and he’d never have to worry about you again.

Well. It seems Giorno Giovanna is not that kind of ruler. Your place beneath Bruno Buccellati is an enjoyable one, if you are being honest with yourself; whilst the paperwork the two of you deal with is not simple, it is at least not particularly nefarious. You have a quick brain; the money and the names and the debts are simple to you. You would far rather be here than in some dingy alleyway clutching a gun and sweating.

Sometimes, other members of Passione drop by, and though they look at you - bent over your own desk with your head in accounts that seem as though they've never been looked at before - with distrust, their eyes are always filled with warmth when they turn to Buccellati.

("Call me Bruno," he'd said to you, one of the first days after you'd been assigned to work under him. "Signore Buccellati is very much my father, and although I'm aware I'm above you in the chain of command, I'd like us to be friends, cara." You had denied the request. Though he seems sweet, you know what gangsters can be like, and if he does turn on you, you do not want him to have anything to call upon.)

And as for you . . .

Well. As for you.

Buccellati is handsome and kind and clever, and when he smiles at you, for a moment you kid yourself the smile is more than just him being friendly. When you and he go out together for lunch on unbearably hot days in Naples, people call out to him and he asks after sons of families who are cleaning up their act and matriarchs of families who are in hospitals, always remembering their names, always remembering the specifics as if they are his own flesh and blood.

When he chooses a restaurant and you scan the menu trying to work out what you can afford (you are a secretary, after all. Though Don Giovanna does pay you, your pay reflects your not particularly dangerous work - and you are surprised in the first place that the daughter of a family who owes Passione a debt greater than money is earning any kind of wage. Fear is always prickling at your throat, reminding you of what you could be doing right now and all of the other ways he could have chosen to reclaim his right.), he lays a hand over yours and smiles and orders for both of you.

Sometimes you come into the office and he is already there, working too hard - but there's a fresh bunch of carnations upon your desk, or some kind of fancy cake, or a new pen with a fluffy end that, despite how simple it is, makes a smile rise to your face.

"It reminded me of you," he says, eyes warm. Or; "I noticed your pen was running out yesterday." "Your side of the office needed some cheering up."

So it's not a surprise, really, that the thought of Bruno begins to mean more to you than just earning back a freedom. It stops being about impressing your boss because you long to be released from service to the Mafia and to disappear into obscurity. Instead, it starts being about impressing Bruno because you want him to notice you.

He's sweet to everyone. You see lovestruck eyes when you and he go about town, and if you're not mistaken sometimes even when people pop into the office to say hello and to ask how cleaning out the old accounts are going. Bruno, for his part, does not seem to notice; the men who clap his shoulder and laugh and reminisce about the old days have no distinction in his brain to the men who hover at the doorway and speak to him with a flush rising on their face. The women who wave at him whilst they cling to their husband's arms have no distinction from the waitress who serves him and slips him an extra slice of cake, a wink, and her phone number scribbled on a receipt.

And oh, you find that horribly charming.

That someone so handsome can be so unaware of his own charms! That Bruno does all of these things, not for any attention or reward, but because he thinks it's the right thing to do!

You suppose it shows what a terrible environment you were raised in that you find basic human decency the most attractive thing about a man, but with Bruno it's something more than that. He's just so . . . good. And with his goodness comes a smile that makes your heart skip a beat and warm hands that land too often on your shoulders and understanding blue eyes and a voice that makes your throat feel dry and a hundred other things that you can't quite put into words.

You are good.

You know Bruno's workmates adore him; that he occupies a special place in the pantheon of Passione. Sometimes, it is Don Giorno Giovanna at the door, and Bruno smiles at him and gets up from his chair, telling you to behave yourself with a charming grin as he leaves. He does not acquiesce to the Don in the same way as you have seen other men do; no, it seems that Giovanna looks at Bruno like a guide and an equal, and you wonder not for the first time what it is that binds them together as you try to throw yourself back into numbers and debts instead of lingering for too long on the way that the light reflects the cobalt of Bruno's eyes.

You do not make any kind of move on him - not that you would know where to start! You come to work and you go to your little room in the bad part of town, and when Bruno takes you out on lunch breaks and introduces you to people as his secretary, you summon a smile and an agreement and pretend it does not sting that this is all you will ever be to him.

And then, of course, things change.

The Mafia does not stagnate. Things are ever-changing and shifting, tumbling over one another like time-smoothened rocks - and though it seems bare days to you since your life changed, the truth is that Don Giovanna has been in charge of Passione for five years now, and there are some who think he could be doing a better job. There are always pretenders to any throne; but when Bruno comes in, harried, later than he usually is (which is unusual by itself), you realise that this particular time things have come uncomfortably close to too far.

You have never seen Bruno seem so out of sorts. His hair is mussed and there are shadows under his eyes, and his suit jacket is not quite buttoned correctly, as if he left his last destination in a rush.

"Signore Buccellati?" You venture, your words careful, your voice concerned, and Bruno looks up from his place on the opposite side of the room on the bigger desk and meets your worried gaze. He summons a smile for you, the way he says your name chiding.

"Ah," he says, "how many times must I tell you to call me Bruno? It's been six months!"

"About as many times as it will take me to tell you to not work so hard," you reply, and this makes Bruno's smile turn sad.

He is often in the office before you, and he leaves after you. A few times you have come in and looked around and it's been quite clear to you that Bruno has not actually left in between your exit and your return.

"Oh, cara," he says, and he sighs, "I wish I could relax a little more. But all of this business . . . it's not good at all."

"The paperwork can wait," you say, a little timid, though you know that it is not the paperwork to which Bruno is referring to.

"When I have such temptation asking me to come in and help sort it?" He retorts, one eyebrow raised, and your face flushes. "No, it's not just the paperwork. It seems every time we get somewhere, things set us back. I did not . . . I did not think that being at the head of the organisation would be so difficult."

He says things like this sometimes; little things that make heat rise to your cheeks and you wonder briefly if perhaps he has picked up on your feelings for him, only to change the subject and move on with things as if he has said nothing at all out of the ordinary. You replay them to yourself when you are alone, and convince yourself that Bruno does not mean it. He cannot mean it - surely, if he did, he'd have done something by now?

"You're doing so well, though," you say, and immediately regret it. You hasten to change your answer. "I mean . . . I know what Passione was like before Don Giovanna stepped out of the shadows. Everyone knows what it was like. And now . . ." You shrug. "It is not perfect, I suppose, but perhaps the Mafia never is. Naples is so much safer now, though. People are not afraid. And the death toll--"

He's smiling.

"Yes," he says, "drug-related deaths are down at an all-time low, and there is nothing I am prouder of in the world. But sometimes I wonder if all of the other deaths that have happened are worth it. If all of the blood on my hands negates the blood that is not spilt on the streets."

There's a beat of silence.

You swallow, and it's indecently loud in the room.

You know that Bruno is high enough up in the way things are run that he must have blood staining his name - but when he is before you, a bunch of sunflowers by his tired face, his hair mussed up, it's hard to imagine him as the killer he must be.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean--"

"If it's blood on your hands," you say, your voice trembling. "Then I'm sure they deserved it."

He looks at you.

He really looks at you, his gaze searching, his blue eyes lit with something that is unfamiliar to you but makes your entire body sing in a way that you don't recognise. Your breath feels shallow in your chest and your cheeks feel aflame and you think that perhaps you've said the wrong thing.

(Of course he'd be touchy about his murders, your subconscious scolds you. No matter your intentions in telling him that, there's no way he's going to take it well! Oh, you've put yourself in it now, haven't you? Landed such a cushy job despite the fact your blood and name are mud, and about to lose it over something so stupid--)

"Do you really think that of me?" He says, finally.

You want to fall over yourself to apologise and reassure, but you know that Bruno will not take kindly to that. He's not the kind of man who likes to have himself bolstered, and he will not appreciate your dishonesty. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to think through the syllables even as they drop out of your mouth.

"I only mean that you're . . . so good. You're so righteous about your beliefs. Principled, I suppose. I don't think you'd murder for the sake of murder. If you were moved to do that . . . I honestly believe they must have done something to deserve death."

When you open your eyes again, Bruno is looking at you, a sad smile on his face.

"Cara," he says, "I have done things I regret terribly. I am not . . . I am not the principled man you think I am. I have done terrible things to get where I am. But I did do them because I believed in them. In that you're right."

"I'm glad you got where you are," you say, because apparently your mouth no longer listens to rationale or your brain. "Who knows what else might have happened if you didn't."

"Hmm," he says, but there's a smile pulling at the corner of that gorgeous, full mouth. "Perhaps you're right. Thank you. If you don't mind . . . I think I may need to go and pay a visit to our esteemed Don."

"O-of course I don't mind," you say, your voice barely a squeak now, disbelieving that you managed to claw your way out of the pit that you were so certain you'd dug yourself into. But Bruno is already opening the door, much of the exhaustion in his face gone, a new spring in his step and determination in the set of his mouth.

Oh, you're absolutely gone for him.

It's tragic that he's never going to notice you.

A few days later, you come into the office and Bruno is stood by your desk, his raven head bent.

"Signore Buccellati?" You ask, and he turns, guilt in his movements. You see now that there's a new bunch of flowers in a brand new vase sitting on your desk; these ones are a soft pink, and the vase is crystal glass, catching the sunbeams from the window beside Bruno's own desk.

"Oh," you say, surprised, "they're beautiful. I don't recognise them."

"Camellia," Bruno says, and then it's his turn to blush. "I'm afraid that Don Giovanna is rather fond of gardening, I've picked up a lot from him--"

"No, it's fine," you say, moving towards them and him, cupping some of the delicate blossomg in your hand and inhaling the light perfume. "They're really lovely. You didn't have to . . ."

"You deserve something pretty on your desk," Bruno says. "I can't bear looking at it so empty."

"I should start buying things for yours," you tease, "maybe some novelty statues? Some of those tacky figurines of a mother and a child, perhaps? Or maybe some garden statues of guinea pigs or cats that have gotten caught up in shoelaces--"

"The flowers are perfectly adequate," Bruno replies, grinning, and you realise with a start that he hasn't moved away from your desk and you and he are pressed very close beside one another. The light perfume of the flowers is still in the air, of course, but now you can sense something else - something masculine and woodsy and unmistakably from Bruno. You swallow as you look up at him, and are even more surprised to see that he's looking down at you, his eyes dark, his head bent, his smile turned from a grin to something softer and affectionate.

"W-well," you say, stuttering. "I really do like them--"

"I've been thinking about the other night," he says, interrupting you, although your voice is so quiet and you're shaking so much that it is not so much an interruption as a mercy. "What you said about me being . . . good."

"I meant it," you say, softly. "You and Passione as a whole. Hell, if it had been anyone else . . . nobody would have been so kind to me, after all of the fuck-ups my father and my family were involved in. He . . . he was probably expecting you to sell me, or to shoot me and send him the pictures. I can't describe how grateful I am to Don Giovanna that he sent me to work with you."

Something you say changes the mood. You don't know what it is, but Bruno leans back a little, some of the affection leaking from his eyes, his movements stiff and uncomfortable instead of easy and close.

"Giorno," he says, "Of course. He's . . . he's a great leader, yes."

"I haven't had much chance to interact with him," you say, and then; "He frightens me, a little. He's less approachable than you are, definitely."

"I could arrange something, if that's what you'd like, cara--"

Holy fucking shit.

Things clang into place like chiming bells; the flowers, the way Bruno is standing by you, the way he'd backed off when you'd mentioned Don Giovanna--

"He's only a great leader because he has a great team behind him," you say, swallowing, licking your lips and trying to will your brain to be brave for once in your life. "I'm . . . I'm much happier with you."

"You're a smart girl," he says, "you could certainly be doing more than the accounts in a dusty old room with me--"

"I like being with you," you say, letting it tumble out and hang in the air for all to see. It's open and honest and painfully, painfully true. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

The realisation hits Bruno too. His eyes soften once more, and he leans in closer.

"I'm glad to hear that," he says. "Sometimes you seem . . . distracted. Like you'd like to be anywhere else but here."

You look up into his blue eyes. He's close to you now, his face lovely, his expression serene, his posture more relaxed now that the fear of who else you might want to be with is gone. Oh, he's gorgeous, you think, and your brain begs you to stop while you're ahead. You're probably reading the way this is going incorrectly. If you do something now, you're going to regret it - someone like Bruno could never want somebody like you.

"There are lots of places I'd rather be," you admit, "but . . . when I imagine all of them, I imagine them with you."

"I really thought you weren't interested." He murmurs, and one hand comes up and cups your face, and your skin feels like it's all over fire wherever the tips of Bruno's fingers brush. You can't believe that it's his hand on your face - you panic, for a moment, that you're about to wake up and everything is just going to have turned out to have been a wonderful daydream.

It wouldn't be the first time you'd fallen asleep over an open account book; your shitty little room, hired from a draconian lady who is, you think, practically robbing the poor girls who are living in her house, is uncomfortable with a rickety bedframe, and your office chair often feels more inviting.

"How could anyone not be interested in you?" You ask, and Bruno chuckles low in his throat.

"I've been trying to flirt with you for months," he says. "Mista always says I'm doing it wrong, of course, that I'm not leaving you enough time to say if you're really interested--"

"He's right," you say breathlessly. "You always changed the subject too quickly, I thought you were like that with everyone."

He seems bashful, blinking, his head lowering so his forehead is pressing against yours. Time seems to have stopped still. One of Bruno's hands lands gently on your waist, and you realise with a frenetic bump of your heart against your ribcage how close you and he are. How intimate the embrace is. How you can smell the coffee on Bruno's suit and the honey on his skin and the toothpaste on his breath.

"That's the first time anyone's ever said Mista was right," he murmurs, and then he huffs out a laugh. "Listen to me. I'm nervous about kissing you, you know--"

"Don't be," you breathe, and then; "I've wanted you for months--"

And he kisses you, and it's worth those months of pining and worry and confusion. It's worth your family's disinterest in you, it's worth nights of staring at numbers until they dance in your brain, it's worth the hostile looks people who clearly wish they were on Bruno Buccellati's arm have sent you every time you've gone out into Naples with him--

It's worth more than that. For a moment, as Bruno's mouth is on yours and his hand is on your face and his arm wraps around your waist to hold your form against his, there is nothing in the world except you and Bruno and how long you've been waiting.

He pulls away, his golden skin flushed, his eyes bright. He laughs, but it's not awkward - it's the breathless, pleased laugh of someone who has finally gotten what they want after not expecting it. Your smile is the same, you realise, as you look at Bruno and your cheeks ache and you find that you cannot make the expression on your face shift.

"Camellias," he says. "Giorno was right. They're . . ." He gestures to them, still embarrassed, still breathless, and absolutely gorgeous in every sense of the word. "They're flowers of longing. Giorno grew them for me. I . . . I know you probably didn't notice that, but . . . well. They worked, didn't they?"

You look at the delicate flowers and then back to Bruno, who seems . . . different. He's still gorgeous. He still seems to glow with a goodness that makes your heart ache and beat and your mind long to kiss him and run your fingers through his silky raven hair. But some of that tension that always seems present in the stoop of his shoulders and the lines of his face seems to have simply dissipated - and you wonder if perhaps he has wanted you for just as long as you have wanted him.

"Bruno," you say, "if it had been a bouquet of thorns, it would still have worked."

He smiles at you, face soft, your heart feeling like it's melting.

"I'd never have brought you thorns," he says, "the flowers needed to be at least half as pretty as you are."

#jjba #bruno buccellati #writing #sfw #afab reader #fem pronouns

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bellamygateoldblog · 4 years

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how do we feel about bellamy abandoning a suicidal octavia in a toxic forest in the name of monty, 'monty gave his life for us so we could have another change, and im not going to let you destroy it' who repeatedly made it clear in his final season that he wished he did more to save jasper

…we don’t feel great about it. Lol.

Got a little carried away. Apparently I had a stronger opinion on this on this than I thought I did.

There’s an LT;DR at the bottom if you don’t feel like reading the whole thing :)

The Blake relationship is a really complicated one. And I think how you see this event in particular depends on how you interpret this dynamic during the rest of the show, and how sympathetic you are towards Octavia as a character.

I want to start with this: the second chance was Monty’s to give, and only Monty’s. Bellamy doesn’t get to dictate who that message does and does not apply to, because Monty made it perfectly clear he holds no grudges, and wants the best for what’s left of the human race regardless of who they’ve been in the past or what they’ve done. That’s the whole point of ‘doing better’. He just wants everyone to do better than they did, whichever way that is. Monty didn’t specifically say ‘oh but not Octavia she can choke’ so therefore Bellamy had no right to be cowering behind Monty’s words.

He’s telling them to try a bit harder to be more understanding, compassionate, and rational. He wants them to choose to be farmers rather than warriors- to rebuild rather than destroy, to grow rather than deforest, to choose peace over war no matter what. It means a lot more than just ‘hey! maybe don’t go on another genocidal rampage?’

And by abandoning/banishing Octavia, Bellamy did the opposite of what Monty wanted. It almost felt, as i was watching, like he’d sentenced her to death. Like Clarke was banishing Murphy all over again. Or like he was Clarke abandoning him to die in the fighting pits. And I don’t know…repeating old mistakes doesn’t exactly scream ‘doing better’ to me.

Maybe this was Bellamy’s way of ridding the toxicity from the group?

But deciding she’s a lost cause and leaving her there, a clearly mentally unstable woman (and not only just some ‘woman’, but the baby sister he’s shared his life with), on an alien planet that none of them even know is safe at this point, or if it’s inhabited with hostile entities, from some moral high horse/manpainTM point of view is so low. It’s unearned at this point in the series.

Our attention was drawn to how hard it was for him. How upset he was after he did it. Rather than to Octavia and how she felt about it. It brought me back to that moment in season five, to how the camera focused in on Clarke’s pained teary-eyed expression while the child she was electrocuting was a blurry spot the background. Just what the fuck? Is all i have to say about that. He was very much Clarke in this moment; pulling a lever, leaving someone he loves on the outside *for the people* and feeling a bit ashamed but justified about it regardless.

She was trying to do the S1 Bellamy thing and stowaway to an alien planet to protect the one she loved. But the emotional fallout of season five was immense and both of them were way too amped up for any of it to go as planned. Which makes me wonder why the writers even attempted it in the first place?

But let’s just take a minute to think about how reckless and borderline insane this whole decision is from Bellamy- this is the girl who started out an illegal child, unwanted by the people she was born into, who assimilated with the indigenous people, earned their respect, found belonging with them until ultimately she became their leader. Like, if you really thought she was this much of a hazard, throwing her adaptive ass into the wilderness ready to meet another set of warrior people maybe isn’t the best idea you’ve ever had?

HOWEVER

I’m not actually opposed to a detail like this. Because of the unhealthy and sometimes poisonous nature of the Blake sibling relationship. And because they both absolutely needed time apart if Octavia were ever to grow out of Blodreina.

No matter what Monty never gave up on Jasper. But Jasper was usually self-destructive and didn’t act out emotionally using violence like how Octavia does so naturally. He could be a pain in Monty’s ass from time-to-time, but Jasper was never a threat to anyone but himself.

Bellamy cast Octavia out because she killed those guards unnecessarily. She hadn’t yet reflected on what became of her, nor had she processed any of the trauma from the bunker and following battle for Eden, in which some of the heaviest casualties were her most important relationships, with Indra, and with Bellamy. As convinient as it was to utilise violence as a tool for maintaining power, law, and order within the bunker…they aren’t in the bunker anymore, and she is no longer someone with a crushing responsibility.

Was any of that Bellamy’s fault? No.

Was it Bellamy’s job to ‘fix’ her? No.

(Do I think Monty would encourage him to mend their relationship anyway after losing his best friend and brother? Yes.)

But as her big brother and psudo-father, someone that spent his entire life protecting and taking care of her, the bare minimum i’d expect from him in a situation like this is for him to show some empathy, listen to the whole story from her point of view rather than basing his entire livelyhood on the biased accounts of a couple of Wonkru defectors, and make an attempt to understand why she is no longer the baby sister he remembers her being. If anyone was in the position to understand her- her behaviour, her mindset, the weight of leadership and how it shapes a person, and the pressure of making potentially morally corrupt decisions to ensure the people’s safety putting your humanity on the line for it- it’s him.

This was just cheap drama in place of where they could’ve written a meaningful conflict between them.

It was an oppurtunity to address Octavia’s past treatment of him, their co-dependence, their mother, Bellamy deeply believing his life was stolen from him and Octavia feeling she never had a chance to begin with, Bellamy’s inclination to make himself smaller so Octavia can take up as much space as she possibly can, both of their perverse insecurities that manifest in equally debilitating ways, Bellamy’s skewed sense of self pushing him to orbit around her, Octavia’s identity issues and lack of socialisation and resulting narrow black-or-white mindset, I could go on and on. There’s so so much content here to explore. There’s so much stress and pain in this relationship. It’s a shame that despite all that they decided to go omg cannibalism!!!!!!!!

Octavia took forever to forgive Bellamy for what happened to Lincoln, she demonised him, she attacked him over it in one of the most grotesque and unhinged displays of violence i’ve ever seen, and that wasn’t even his fault. I think we can afford Bellamy the same amount of room.

If this ‘banishment’ was the long-time-coming storm of past trauma of their intertwined existences that has long since been buried, if the time of physical peace spent on the ring building a family of his own pushed Bellamy to make a realisation or two about love and family, and the stressful draining qualities of his relationship with Octavia began to morph into resentment of her, and all this abandonment is, is just a beautifully crafted, carefully maintained facade collapsing between them, I WOULD LOVE IT. It’s understandable. But I need to see them have it out with each other first. If nothing is addressed, if they still go on carrying those things around and never find closure, not only is that hindering Octavia’s growth, but Bellamy’s, too.

But none of that happened in season six. Instead i got to see yet another female with her autonomy ripped from her and i got to see manpain.

Over time she supressed any parts of herself that would make her appear weak. It was always going to take time to pull herself out of that dark place and find a way to shape an identity that isn’t based in something that can easily be ripped away from her. So removing her from the group to find ‘the self’ is a good choice. But it had to be her choice.

I think if everything had blown up and Octavia had chosen to leave on her own volition because she recognises her own tragedy and calamity and wants to do what’s right, it would’ve been the perfect place to begin a redemption/reflection arc for her. With self-awareness. What do they say? The first step to fixing a problem is admitting you have one in the first place?

In an answer to another ask I said it would make some sense for Bellamy (and Clarke & Spacekru) to be unintentionally hypocritcal and judgemental considering the time distance between their last violent experience and how long they’ve had to make peace with the past. While Octavia was in the most stressful position she’s ever been in, and right in the thick of things for the six years that everyone else spent healing and maturing in.

So we have Bellamy as his most reassurred, most contented self- and he comes to Earth, he comes face-to-face with an unhinged Octavia, and is overwhelmed immediately with biased and incomplete information recapping the last six years during an erratic situation with enemies. I’d be confused and paranoid, too tf?

Bellamy loves Octavia more than life. But she’s morphed into a woman he no longer recognises and it could even come as a personal betrayal to him. He’s been disconnected from her for six years. He’s no longer intoxicated by his love and devotion to her. And he’s having a hard time accepting that the baby sister he thinks the world of is capable of such cruelty. So he’s having trouble forgiving her for it. I think it makes a lot of sense. Except, again, they never addressed anything like this.

Season five Bellamy I get. I’m sympathetic to him just as I am Octavia.

But in season six he appeared, not like he was acting on years of supressed emotional turmoil, but like he was on some moral high horse looking down on her from it.

The end of season five left things open, and there was a lot of potential there for things between them to improve, but season six took it and threw it out the nearest window. And we saw Octavia crawling on her hands and knees begging for forgiveness from a man that 1) doesn’t want her, 2) doesn’t respect her, 3) refused to listen to her, and 4) only accepted her once she was the woman he wanted her to be, who was now no longer traumatised.

TL;DR: I’m not opposed to the whole idea of them seperating in season six, with Octavia being the castaway, but it should’ve been Octavia’s choice, not Bellamy’s. And I think Monty might be disappointed that this was what (season six) Bellamy took away from his video on ‘doing better’. To ‘do better’ he decided to choose just one person that can represent all the evil that exists within both his people and himself and throw her out the dropship door. Problem solved! But there are many ways in which I think the writers could’ve done a lot more with this idea, and a lot better, too.

#hopefully this i objective I tried to make it so #the 100 #octavia blake #pro octavia blake #bellamy blake #rosie tag: share with the group #took me a couple days to answer so i hope whoever sent it will see

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lnc2 · 5 years

Text

rattle my cage

Summary: In which history, despite Alya’s best efforts, does not repeat itself.

A commission from @booyahfuruya who requested Adrienette in the panther cage.

AO3

It was all Alya’s fault.

Not that she would ever admit to it. If pressed she would adamantly insist it was all Nora’s doing.

Never mind that the tenacious blogger should have been babysitting and not chasing superheroes across the arrondissements– no, it was her sister’s overprotectiveness that landed Marinette in this mess in the first place.

This mess being a locked panther cage, a debilitating crush, and a literal pile of animal shit.

She cast a too-wide, uneasy smile towards her stupidly attractive, blessedly naive co-captive and waved.

Adrien, confused, waved back.

Ugh.

She really needed to have a talk with Tikki one of these days about what it meant to be Lady Luck.

Because, honestly, she was starting to have doubts.

What was lucky about having a best friend who considered unmasking her superhero alter-ego her life’s purpose? A best friend who pawned her actual responsibilities onto her too-accommodating boyfriend.

A boyfriend, who, by all accounts, was (justifiably) terrified of said best friend’s older sister.

An older sister who would and did not take kindly to the discovery that her baby sister’s boyfriend let her run off after a magical terrorist. An older sister who, after putting the fear of god into the boy, sent him after her, neglecting to put away her other sisters’ football in the process.

A devastating oversight that sent said best friend’s father tripping and spraining his ankle.

All of which now culminated in being dragged out of her bed by an indignant, grounded Alya, coerced into helping out at the zoo while Monsieur Cesaire was recovering.

“Please, M.” She’d said, with the biggest, brownest puppy dog eyes Marinette had ever seen. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

So, like a sap, she’d agreed.

Something Marinette was now deeply regretting.

Apparently, making it up to her meant pulling a Ladybug and “accidentally” locking her in the panther cage with Adrien before disappearing with her equally traitorous boyfriend.

E tu Nino?

In another life maybe, maybe Marinette could forgive Alya this so-called favor. Another life where Adrien hadn’t just days before confessed to liking another girl.

She’s special. Very pretty. She’s got dark silky hair, deep and mysterious eyes.

Kagami Tsurugi was ladybug lucky and Marinette was the very good friend who’d volunteered to keep them company on their first date this afternoon.

She’d never dreaded ice skating more.

Even the solace of Luka’s company couldn’t stem the tide of that impending heartbreak.

And Alya, bless her, couldn’t seem to let it go.

“That could be you,” She’d said. “You can’t give up now!”

It’d been a loud and frequent argument these last few days. One Marinette apparently needed to revisit. Again.

“I’m really sorry about this,” She said, wiping her sweating palms against her jeans.

Akumas she could take down no problem.

Adorably earnest boys? Not so much.

“No worries,” Adrien said, looking unfairly attractive for someone who was currently shoveling animal excrement. “It’s not your fault Alya ran off with the keys.”

She smiled, nervous. “Yeah. I guess not.”

“Besides,” Adrien said. “I’ll just text Kagami and let her know. We can always hang out another time, right?”

“Sure.”

She changed the subject then. There was only so much a girl could take and Marinette felt stretched to the limits on her best days. They moved on from fencing to school to his audition for the new Ladybug and Chat Noir movie when the screaming started.

Marinette froze as a woman’s terrified cry echoed through the park. Adrien met her eyes across the cage, grimacing.

“What are the odds it’s just an escaped gorilla or something?”

She stared. He sighed.

“Right.” And then, more quietly, “Fuck.”

Marinette barely registered the epithet and his rushing towards the locked cage entrance as she whipped out her phone to call Alya.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

“Don’t you dare leave us here while you play Lois Lane-” She growled, angrily hanging up when she was sent to voicemail. She tried Nino next with the same result.

Fuck, shit, fuck.

“Aaaand the Ladyblog is live. Fuck.” Adrien said, echoing her thoughts.

He tossed her a worried look which she ignored.

She didn’t have time to reassure him. She was already dialing the zoo’s front desk only to be met with the akuma emergency notification recording.

No phones, then.

Another scream followed by an earth-shaking explosion that nearly sent them both to their knees. Adrien helped her to her feet and patted her sides. She waved off his fussing with a flustered, nervous laugh.

Now really wasn’t the time.

Reluctant but assured, Adrien tried the back entrance again, muttering a low string of curses with every useless yank of the door.

Marinette’s eyes scanned the cage for something, anything.

Maybe, if they worked together and had the proper leverage – one of the heavier logs scattered throughout the habitat? – they might be able to fashion some sort of battering ram. Although as the door opened inwards she doubted they’d be strong enough to do any good. And even if that managed to work the possibility of one or both of them getting hurt in the process was too risky.

Marinette couldn’t even begin to think about what Gabriel would do if she injured Adrien by being so careless. Her designing dreams dashed before they ever truly had a chance to take form. Adrien crippled, spending months in physical therapy, only to fall in love with his nurse. Marinette growing old, unsuccessful, and dying alone.

Ouch!

Tikki pinched her side, sending her a look she knew all too well.

You’re catastrophizing again.

Right. Right.

So the battering ram was out.

There was some sheet metal near the exit - if she managed to unravel it they could try to catch the light and attention of any passersby. Assuming of course there was anyone left nearby and that said people would be able to do anything in the first place.

She quickly dismissed any success there as unlikely.

She tugged at her pigtails, regretting her choice in hairstyle and its woeful lack of bobby pins even as she doubted something like that would work on the cage’s lock.

Or at least, she hoped it wouldn’t, no matter how convenient it may be in the current circumstances.

Although … Marinette met Tikki’s anxious gaze. I have something better than a bobby pin.

Tikki could get them out of here. Preferably in a way that wouldn’t involve revealing her identity.

God, she could only imagine.

Hey hot stuff. Real sorry to drop this extremely dangerous secret on your lap but Paris needs me.

Yeah, no.

Marinette could do this without going that far. All she needed to do was find a way to get Adrien away from the doors… and come up with some sort of explanation for how she managed to get them open in the first place.

Something that, upon consideration, shouldn’t be too difficult. As ridiculous and incomprehensible as her stammering and excuses have been over the past year he always seemed to believe her. A heart of gold and oblivious – Adrien Agreste really was the whole package.

Decision made, she nodded to her kwami who returned it with an adorable determination.

Excuse on her lips, she pointed towards the opposite side of the cage.

“Adrien I think we can use that log–”

“I’m sorry, Marinette.”

She whirled around to find Adrien much closer than before, mouth set in a firm line. He was staring beyond the bars of the cage towards downtown and the likely akuma.

The what for was on the tip of her tongue when she caught sight of a pair of familiar, electric eyes blinking out at her from his open shirt pocket.

Wait…

“Plagg – claws out!”

Marinette reflexively shielded her eyes against the blinding flash of green light. It was useless though– the stomach sinking feeling of shock and dread was already setting in. She knew exactly who she would find when she dropped her hands.

Chat Noir gave a sheepish wave.

Son of a bitch.

“Um, hi."

Marinette blinked once, twice,

and then screamed.

“Wait– shh, no!” Chat (Adrien) said, ears flat, hands outstretched placatingly. “Don’t scream. Please don’t scream, Marinette. It’s me. I’ll explain everything I swe–”

“You...” She said, holding up a shaky finger. “You...”

“Me.” He said, his lips quirking up into the smallest smile in spite of everything.

Oooh. She could just kill him.

“You- You’re so stupid!” She cried and his smirk fell from his lips.

“Excuse me? ”

“We– we could have called someone! Or jerry-rigged a battering ram! Or… or… you– we could have–” Marinette pulled at her pigtails and let out another muffled scream. “I can’t believe you.”

“Me? ” He said, angry now. “ You can’t believe me?”

“No,” She snapped. “I can’t. If you had just given me a second I could have gotten us out of here!”

“With what?” He said, gesturing wildly. “Your magic lockpicking kit?”

She stomped her foot, furious. “I was working on it!”

“Well that’s great, Marinette. Real great.” He crossed his arms and she wanted to smack that patronizing look right off his stupid face. “But I don’t have time to wait around when there’s an akuma on the loose and Ladybug needs me.”

“What Ladybug needs,” She said, reaching up to poke at his temple. “Is for you to fucking think.”

“I was thinking!”

“There are cameras, Chat.” She hissed, waving hysterically towards the blinking object in the corner of the cage. “Oh my god. Cataclysm that and recharge Plagg. We could have gotten out of here without the dramatics.”

Chat rolled his eyes.

“Oh I’m dramatic, she says.”

“Who’s wearing leather spandex?” She snapped before opening her purse. “Tikki? Can you open that door?”

Chat Noir gawked as the little red and black sprite floated out of Marinette’s bag. Tikki gave him the stink eye before phasing through to the other side of the cage. A few seconds later there was a distinct click and the door swung inwards.

Ladybug.

“We’ll talk about this later,” She said, cutting off his rising tide of gibbering, flailing, and panic.

Chat nodded, dumbstruck. Unfortunately, his brain hadn’t caught up to his mouth and he said

“Where was that idea ten minutes ago?”

Marinette scowled. “It was one of the first things I thought of, dumbass. I just thought, you know, it would be best not to out myself.”

The reality of the situation had yet to set in but hearing Ladybug’s frustration come out of Marinette’s mouth was grounding. Sort of. Maybe.

His mind flashed to their original plans for the day and he let out a mortified squeak.

Oh my god.

“How are you not freaking out about this?”

“Who said I wasn’t freaking out?” Marinette said, deadpan. She pointed towards the security station. “First the cameras, then the akuma. I’ll go find a place to transform.”

She shot him a familiar, scolding look that sent his heart stumbling over itself.

Oh my god.

He’d found her. He’d found her.

“Wipe that dumb smile off your dumb face.” Marinette said. “I’m still mad at you.”

Chat saluted, still smiling. “Yes ma’am.”

“Ugh.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him towards security. “Go.”

“Okay, okay. Just…” He looked down at her over his shoulder, eyes soft. “We’ll talk later yeah?”

“Sure,” Marinette said, traitorous cheeks turning pink even as she pushed him away. “We’ll talk later.”

Much, much later.

Like, after she’d had time to scream later.

With her promise of a future discussion secure, Chat bounded off towards the security station, the very picture of caught canary.

Marinette met Tikki’s exasperated gaze with her own.

Her kwami shrugged.

“Well… at least he’s pretty.”

#miraculous ladybug #lnc2 writes #adrienette #ladynoir #marichat #identity reveal #commission #he's a dumbass but he's our dumbass

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sherlollydramoine · 5 years

Text

Soulmates

Here it is you guys and gals, I'm so grateful for your patience. I'd like to give a huge shout out two amazing people whom without this prologue would have ever been finished. Thank you both for your guidance, feedback, suggestions, and amazing edits, @ramibaby and @ramimalekpeen

Warnings: ancient curses, language, and eventual smut. 18+ only

Link to chapter one: X

Prologue

The story of King Femi and Queen Maye's burial is a curious one, fraught with tales of lawlessness, love and loss.

It was 2649 when King Femi's dead body was entombed beside that of his beloved Queen Maye, his death unknown and petrified hand placed in hers. Their joint burial was a monument to their eternal, undying love and an assurance that it would continue into the afterlife. Buried with them were many envy inspiring objects, their coffins laiden with jewels and gold.

At the centre of this chaotic story is a man by the name of Nephi who, as a labourer, worked on construction of the Pyramid that housed King Femi and Queen Maye' s mummified bodies. This bestowed him with valuable knowledge of its layout, which, driven by greed, he would etch to the walls of his memory.

On the day of King Femi's burial alongside his already deceased wife, a curse was placed on their tomb - a warning inscribed on the coffins inner walls, for those who dare disturb the deceased and prevent them from being together in the after life.

"Cursed be those who disturb the rest of King Femi and Queen Maye. They who shall break the seal of this tomb shall too be cursed with eternal separation from their beloved by meeting death by a disease no doctor can diagnose."

Nephi, undeterred by such a presage set about robbing their tomb of the many treasures he desired so greatly. He did so with not a light heart, as it was with careful consideration he pondered every possible outcome. What if someone were to spy him? What if he turned the wrong corner and became lost in the labyrinth of corridors and tunnels he helped create?

What he hadn't accounted for however, was something far worse, a horrible fate granted to him the moment he creaked open the coffin door.

Although Nephi had been successful in his pillage, he did not have much time to celebrate, as the following morning he awoke with debilitating illness. Unable to stand, he was left bed bound. His wife Maia, tended to him day and night for the following two weeks as his condition steadily deteriorated, much to the bewilderment and dismay of his doctor. This perturbingly undiagnosable and incurable disease finally took Nephi from Maia on the 14th night after he first entered the cursed tomb which, many believe to be the cause of his illness.

Poor Maia was left distraught after his passing, doomed to live her life separated from the man she held so dear, the man she deemed to be her soulmate. Her heart ached for the love of a man she would never see again but, when she showed signs of being pregnant a week later, she took solace in the knowledge that, through her new born child, Nephi's legacy would live on.

Since the opening of the cursed tomb, centuries of similar occurrences of this curse are rumoured to have plagued Nephi's family lineage.

These rather fanciful tales may be hard to believe, but one undeniable fact is the commonplace of chaos in the love lives of Nephi's successors, even to this day.

*****************

"Jesus, " you huffed, eyeing your best friend Beatrice and her boyfriend Joe, whose disgustingly affectionate display had your stomach churning.

Bea was straddling Joe's legs as he lay back on his sun chair, his hands gliding up and down her back as they shared a deeply intimate and disturbing kiss.

Lowering your sunglasses, you frowned at them from where you lay across the other side of the pool- partially due to the harsh sunlight, but mostly because you were repulsed beyond words.

Sick of their complete and utter disregard for your presence, you proceeded to shout with all the dramatics of a Shakespearean actress,

"Oh, what curse has befallen me, that I, Y/N, have to witness such vulgarity?"

From Bea, you received nothing but a soft giggle against Joe's mouth in return, your words doing nothing but spurring her on. When Joe's hands moved down to squeeze her ass, you knew it was definitely time for you to make a hasty exit.

As you swung open Joe's back door, you were met with the cool breeze of the air conditioner, and the sight of a bare bronzed back, hunched over, it's muscles flexing as the man it belonged to raided the refrigerator.

Taken aback by his presence, you stopped dead in your tracks, giving yourself a moment to muster the energy to play coy.

"Not even gonna say hi before you raid his fridge huh Rami?"

You broke the silence so suddenly that, upon hearing your voice Rami jumped, banging his head on the fridge's roof as he did so.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, one hand shooting up to clutch his throbbing head, his eyes screwing shut.

"Oop- sorry!" You implored, hands out in front of you.

Although you truly were, you couldn't help but giggle as you walked toward him.

"S'ok…" he began, before opening his eyes and standing up straight.

It was then he was able to fully appreciate your scantily clad form. His doe eyes seemed transfixed on your legs, hips, and chest - all in that order and you felt embarrassingly weak under his gaze.

"Oh Y/N." He jerked back his head, before leaning an arm 'casually' on the fridge door as he continued, "Didn't know uh, you were coming today."

His gaze shifted to the fridge, studying its contents as he waited for your reply. It was as though he was trying to appear unfazed by your presence, which you knew he certainly was not.

"Ah, yeah." You replied, stepping closer. "Joe and Bea invited me over for a swim, kinda feel like a third wheel though, haha. Supposedly there's pizza and a movie later, so I'm holding out for that."

Rami nodded and smirked, eyes still on the rather empty fridge before him as spoke,

"Thank god, doesn't look like Joe's done any shopping since his parents went away."

" Thankfully, I brought drinks. I just popped in to grab one, did you want one?" you smiled as you reached to the counter and grabbed the tray with an abundance of drinks on it.

" Sure gorgeous, maybe a Coke? " He quirked a brow, letting the fridge door with a bang shut.

You giggled and mock saluted, obediently retrieving his preferred beverage from your plastic bag of shopping. Setting the can down on the tray with other drinks you headed back outside toward the pool. As you set the tray of drinks down on the patio table and turned back to shut the door, you caught a glimpse of what had no doubt been going on since you'd left. Joe and Bea hadn't moved from their previous position.

"Ugh you two are so gross! You invite us over just to make us feel like we're stuck watching some soft core porn." you complained.

Rami just laughed from where he was leaning against the side of the house smoking a cigarette.

"She has a point Joseph. How would you feel if the tables were turned and YN and I started acting like that in front of you two?"

Your cheeks immediately warmed at the thought of you locked in a heated make out session with Rami, something you were fairly certain would never happen.

"Well Ram I'd say it was about fucking time. You two have totally had feelings for each other since Y/N was in, like, kindergarten, so seriously, just kiss and hook up already. Maybe then we can give you two shit for being the disgustingly in love couple."

God damn Joseph Frances Mazzello III, had to open his big Italian mouth. You couldn't do anything to stop your body from feeling too warm, and the sudden spread of heat through your whole body gave all the evidence needed to prove your embarrassment. The crush you've had on Rami had been well hidden (or so you thought) until this moment.

"Hey Y/N are you okay? You look like you are about to die of sun stroke." Bea inquired, glancing at your flushed state.

"Haha, yeah...it's just really hot out here..." was all you managed to say before abruptly ending the conversation by cannonballing into the pool.

You resurfaced just in time to see another body hit the water, and within seconds felt yourself being pulled back under it. When you came up for air moments later, Joe was laughing. His childish chuckle was infectious, and soon you were laughing too.

Grabbing ahold of his shoulders, you attempted to use your body weight to push him back under but sadly, he was stronger than you. He laughed at your failed attempt before wrapping his arms around you, and flinging you both back under the water.

This time, resurfacing, you used your arms around his neck to try and pull him back under, laughing maniacally as you did. As Joe laughed and resisted your tugs, you heard a shout.

"Cannonball!"

You found yourselves being nearly drowned by Rami's tidal wave.

Rami resurfaced a few feet away from you and Joe, and you can't help the heat pooling between your thighs at the vision. All you saw was his olive skin glowing as the water run rivers down it.

You turned to look up at Bea who was still yet to join the three of you in the sanctuary of the cool water. She simply smirked at you and motioned her head toward the boys, who were now locked in some kind of heated water battle. She raised her brows suggestively and you knew then you had been caught staring at the golden God of a man. You blushed immediately before decisively shifting the attention to her,

"You joining in bitch, or you just gonna sit there looking cute and sweaty?!" you teased with a smile before disappearing back under the water.

Popping your head back up a few seconds later, you heard the boys shouting something at you just before a ball collided with your head. It bounced off your face with a soft thunk before it floated lazily off to the side of the pool.

Both boys looked at you sheepishly while muttering out their apologies. Scowling at both of them you did the next best thing you could think of in that moment yelling,

"Bea, help meeee!"

Ever the loyal friend, she came through, hopping into the pool next to you and sliding over one of the pre-loaded water guns. You both took your aim and fired at the ill prepared boys, neither one of you caring who got hit.

The boys shouted and splashed at you both in retaliation. You surrendered pretty quickly but Joe and Bea seemed to want to duke it out and what originally began as something cute and innocent, turned into another repulsive makeout session.

"Ugh!!! You two are so gross. Joe, I swear if you cum in this pool while I am in it, you'll not live to see your next birthday." You huffed while swimming over to the edge of the pool where Rami was leaning.

"They are so gross!" you reiterated.

"Disgusting." Rami agreed.

After a moment of silence Rami spoke up,

"Hey uh, I was wondering--" He stopped himself mid sentence, looking as though he was debating on whether or not to continue.

"Yeah…..?" You pushed.

"It's nothing, forget it." he muttered.

"Didn't sound like nothing. Come on, you've never been one to not speak your mind…."

Rami sighed, closing his eyes before blurting,

"Okay, so ummmm, I've been wanting to ask you something for a while." he stopped himself again.

"Rami, what is it?" you implored.

"I was wondering if maybe, I know the timing couldn't possibly be worse since I'm leaving soon for school, but, well… would you maybe want to go on a date with me sometime?" he nervously scratched the back of his head, avoiding eye contact.

"Oh," you gasped. "Why were you so nervous to ask? We've known each other for forever, it's just me. Of course I will. And uh, it's never been a big secret that I've had a big crush on you since I was in like, Kindergarten."

Rami's eyes widened, and he let out a chuckle of relief.

"Surely Sami has clued you in, or even Joe." you continued, smiling.

He smiled and reached out to cup your face, but at the last moment he faltered and ended up dropping his hand back into the water.

"Well, great." He laughed. "How about next Friday? I can pick you up or meet you somewhere?"

"I can meet you at our favorite all-night diner on third after I get off of work on Friday, about seven?" you offered.

"Sounds great." he smiled, seconds before splashing you with water and then gracefully gliding away.

Friday

Your day seemed to have crawled by so slowly that it was almost driving you insane. When it was finally time for you to clock out of work, you almost screamed in excitement.

It took no time at all for you to be out of your work clothes and into the gorgeous dress you bought specifically for this occasion.

Finally landing a date with Rami was like a dream come true. You never thought it would ever happen, and you were beyond thrilled.

Getting to the diner, you practically floated inside and headed for the table your group usually occupied. It was there you waited. And waited. And waited. For over four hours, you waited and he never showed.

You threw a handful of bills on the table to cover for the drink and to leave enough for a really nice tip. Running out of the diner to your car, hot tears of humiliation and anger fell while the cliché rain started pouring down.

You felt like a fool, like you had just had an elaborate prank pulled on you. In your rage you screamed until your voice felt raw.

"RAMI SAID MALEK I FUCKING HATE YOU!!"

END OF SUMMER

"Come on YN, it will be super fun!!! Plus, it's my birthday, so you know as my best friend, you're sort of bound by best friend code to go." Bea begged.

"I don't want to go. If Joe's there then he'll be there. All damn summer he's not once tried to get in touch with me. I've tried and now he probably thinks I'm insane."

"Okay, one that doesn't matter. Two, who fucking cares. Three, you'll be looking fantastic and all it will do is remind him of just how fucking hot you are. What his dumbass could have had all summer. You two would have been lifers!"

"Lifers? Bea what the hell does that even mean?"

"You know. Together for lifers."

"That's... not a real saying….All that snogging and fucking around with Joe has certifiably made you crazy. We wouldn't have been lifers, but I guess we'll never know. You and Joe though, I can see it now. In about 5 years you'll be getting married and having little Joe's, and I'll be the single fun auntie to your whole baseball team of kids."

"Seriously YN, are you smoking crack? And also, that is definitely not happening! You know what is though...you going to my birthday party slash end of summer pool party...ey..ey."

She raised a brow and nudged your shoulder.

"Ugh whatever, fine you win! Maybe I could borrow your little red bikini? It's a little small up top but, I'll make it work."

"If that's all it takes to get you to go then, hell yes!!"

DAY OF THE PARTY

"Wow YN, isn't that Bea's bathing suit?" Joe rasped.

"Uh- huh." You nodded, smirking at his attempts to keep his eyes away from your chest.

"Thought so, coz uh...fuck could that top be any smaller on you?" He blurted, finally resting his eyes on the particular part of your body he'd been avoiding.

You glanced over at Rami who was standing behind him, and his reaction seemed nearly the same, except that Rami started to shift his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. While you hadn't said anything to him since he had shown up, you smirked, knowing that your plan was working.

"Babe, just say she has amazing tits and move on." Bea sighed, smirking.

It was then you felt a small pair of hands cupping your boobs as Bea came up behind you and gave them a gentle squeeze.

Close friends as you were, you simply laughed as Bea continued on,

"They make amazing pillows, and they are soooo soft and squishy. Look at how bouncy...." She jested, bouncing your breasts in her hands.

Both boys looked shocked and a little uncomfortable, and Rami audibly gulped, before turning on his heel and walking away with a tinge of red to his olive complexion.

" Yeah YN, great uhh.. Job. I mean. Tits. Yeah. Fuck…. " a very red faced Joe stuttered out as he clapped you on the back, before wandering off in the same direction as Rami.

"Well that went well." you shrugged as Bea just laughed uncontrollably behind you.

"That. Was. Amazing." was all Bea managed between huge guffaws of laughter.

"You can let go of my tits now Bea." You dead panned.

"Oh…" she promptly retracted her hands. "Sorry."

As the evening progressed and more fun was had, you continually found yourself searching for a familiar face. You knew that Rami had brought his brother Sami with him, but you had never confused the two in all the years you've known them both.

While in the middle of a conversation with some random classmate that you can't seem to remember you felt it - his eyes on you. You caught his eye and smiled only to watch a deep frown form on his beautiful face as he turned to look away.

Anger bubbling just below the surface, you run into the house, up the stairs and straight to Bea's room. As you slam the door behind you, you can't help but to let the tears you'd been holding back fall freely. Your body wracked with sobs but you decided that you are done, absolutely positively done with Rami fucking Malek.

Throwing your clothes on over Bea's bathing suit, you grab your bag and go in search of your best friend. Watching her chatting happily with some friends with Joe's arm around her tiny waist, you decide to just leave. Sure your friend is going to be mad as hell at you but she'll get over it eventually.

Walking along the pool in your haste to get away you collide with another person. You gasp when you realize who you've just run into and the tears begin to pool in your eyes. Fuck. Of course, of all people, it would be him.

"What is your problem?!" came your outburst.

"I don't have one YN, unless it's a staring problem, because that's been you all night. You can't take your eyes off of me huh?" his tone was light and mildly joking.

"Why?!" was the only other thing that you could think of to say.

"I don't know, you've been staring at me."

"No, why, why did you not show up?"

"Fuck that was forever ago, I didn't know you'd still be hung up on that." he laughed.

"You're an asshole Rami, you embarrassed me. I wanted you and you… you… you just left me fucking hanging."

"I never said I didn't want you, I-I- you don't understand, I couldn't go."

"Then prove to me you still want me then."

You reached up to grab his face for a kiss, but before you could, his hands found your hips and slowly, he walked you backwards. With a laugh, he gave you a playful shove, and into the pool you went.

*****************

ABOUT 20 YEARS LATER

You looked up at him in complete confusion, as you desperately tried to pry your hands apart once again. It was like they had been superglued together - nothing you'd tried to do to unstick them had been successful.

"Rami, what's going on?" You quirked a brow.

He didn't seem all that concerned about this predicament, and simply threw back his head, speaking between mocking chuckles,

"Looks like you're really stuck with me now."

"Rami,this-it-it isn't funny! What's happening? What did you do to our hands?!" You pressed, suddenly on the verge of tears. You were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse on the shitty bed awaiting you in your hotel room.

It was then your attention was drawn toward Rami's hotel room door. With a loud bang, it swung open, that sound like a knife cutting through the tense, heavy air surrounding you. A rather dishevelled looking Sami peered out from behind the dark wood, his hair a mess and eyes weary.

"There you are!" He exhaled, shoulders slumping and eyes rolling. "I thought I lost you!"

He gestured toward you and Rami as he made quick strides toward you both. It wasn't until he came to a stop before you his relieved expression vanished, replaced by one of pure shock and disbelief. With wide eyes he stared at your linked hands, his mouth agape. Why on earth such a seemingly innocent gesture caused this reaction was beyond you, and only added to your growing sense of anxiety. Suddenly, Sami's face broke out in a smirk and he reached up to nervously scratch the back of his head.

"Uhhh…" He stammered, eyes darting between you both, before resting on Rami's. " I think it's time you two had a little discussion..." He raised a brow, nodding knowingly toward Rami who seemed adamant on not meeting his brothers stare.

With a sigh, Rami's eyes met yours and he reluctantly huffed,

"I guess so."

@xmxisxforxmaybe @itsme690 @txmel @ramimalekpan @mezzomercury @teamwolf2411 @sassystrawberryk @malek-lover

#Rami Malek #rami malek fanfiction #rami malek x you #rami malek x reader #rami malek reader #Soulmates #Soul bond #Love #Hate #Curses #rami malek imagine

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jeremiah-kauffman · 5 years

Text

A novel in progress “Beneath the Weeping Willow.”

There are plenty of coming of age stories about boys grappling with their sexuality and coming out to parents, friends, or girlfriends. But what happens when adult men come out to their wives?

“I read the note you left me last night. What are you trying to tell me? Can you please be honest with me for a change?”

Nate sighed deeply and aimlessly fidgeted with the slice of peach pie on his plate. He put his fork down, stood up walked over to the window and stared out at the blinding white snowscape. “I have been engaged in an epic battle with others and within myself since high school. No, since middle school. It’s been an enormous struggle, and it’s time for it to end. I am at a crossroads, Heather. Who do I destroy: You or me? I can’t bear to hurt you, so perhaps the only option is me.”

“Oh spare me! If it were only that simple! Well, it’s a little late for you to start playing the martyr, Nate. That train has already left the station,” she replied sarcastically.

“You don’t understand, Dear,” he pleaded.

“Don’t call me that! You know damn well the only one who’s going to be hurt is me. You can go off and live your life happily ever after as if nothing happened, but I’m the one left alone with a pathetic heap of broken promises and painful memories!”

“Heather, please! I’ve been struggling with this demeaning and debilitating battle my whole life…”

“So, you’re dragging me into it?!” she interrupted. “Do you have any idea how unfair and selfish that is?!”

“Selfish?! Selfish?! Excuse me! Do you have any idea how selfish it is to force someone to live a life God doesn’t want them to live simply because others are too bigoted to accept the truth?”

“Spare me your cowardly philosophy. Just tell me the truth. Why did you marry a women when you’re gay?”

“Because it was the only option I had!” her husband pleaded.

“Don’t give me that!” she countered bitterly.

“You have no idea! It really was my only option. I know you don’t appreciate that, and maybe I shouldn’t expect you to, but it is the truth. It was the only thing I thought I could do, the only choice I had! Jesus Christ! Where in the fucking hell was I going to see happily married gay couples?! Where?! And when your own father constantly preaches that gay people will burn in hell or tells you in front of your own grandparents that all gay people are going to die of AIDS, you quickly come to the conclusion that there is no other option but to try your damnedest to make yourself believe that you’re only attracted to girls, but that’s impossible when all you can think about are other boys and yearn desperately to be able to openly love your deepest crush, to be helplessly infatuated with the boy next to your locker in gym class, to want to hug him, hold him, kiss him and….” Nate’s voice trailed off.

Heather stared hard at her husband, but could only sigh dejectedly.

“You have no idea!” he implored. “And to make matters worse, while you’re constantly falling in love with that boy or the next one, your fucking father makes you date girls, people you don’t even want to spend time with, let alone touch. I had no interest in girls…none! I’m terribly sorry, but that’s just the way it was. I can’t change that. There’s nothing I can do except admit that I have spent a lifetime trying to be someone I’m not. Do you have any idea how neurotic that kind of life is?” he asked sadly. “Is it any wonder I tried to hang myself when I was in high school?”

Heather stood up from the table and walked aimlessly to the kitchen.

Nathan followed her and stood behind her as she looked out the window over the sink and began sobbing. “I’m a fool, a goddamn fool! A fool to think that I was the luckiest woman alive to have a husband who loved me for who I am, a husband who never looked at other women. Now, I know why!” she yelled. She turned around, her furious stare boring into him. “How in the hell could you marry me when you knew….you knew that you weren’t attracted to women! How could you honestly do that?!”

“Oh, Honey! I told you. Marrying a woman was the only option I thought I had, but sadly, it didn’t cure me. Just being married to the opposite sex cannot make those desires disappear. You cannot condition those feelings away. I don’t know what else to say, but I do know I can’t live this way anymore. I just can’t. I have to be myself. There are no other options left, just that or death. Really, I love you very much, and I know this must hurt you deeply, but I need to be honest with you. I still yearn for the love, affection and touch of another man, and a part of me still desires to kill myself to end what should have been a completely avoidable neurosis. But this doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

“You just think you do!”

“Oh yes I do, very deeply. You mean the world to me, and I can’t bear to lose you,” Nate lamented as he stepped towards her and spread his arms to embrace his wife.

“Don’t touch me!” she hissed and backed away.

#writing #lgbtq #coming out #fiction

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kitsunebellproductions · 6 years

Text

Thoughts on Voltron Season 7

SPOILERS, OBVIOUSLY! Things that annoyed/angered/saddened/frustrated me: *Kuron still being treated as though he was nothing more than some evil monster and convenient spare parts for Shiro. I am still nauseated by the whole thing. This poor precious baby boy deserved so much better. *Shiro’s hair -I mean come on, his fringe was pure white before but now it’s grey? What, did the whole process leach colour from the rest of his hair yet restore some to his fringe?! I will just assume it’s meant to be white but they felt this particular shade of white/grey worked best aesthetically with his outfits etc. *Too little Shiro for too many episodes. *Too much Keef. (Sorry, fandom has completely ruined this character for me, he’s not a bad character but I am repulsed by his mere name thanks to the toxicity in this fandom. I wish I could go back to the beginning of watching Voltron when he was just another decent character that I felt neither yay nor nay about, but it is what it is.) *That weird game show -if it was some magical space mage mumbo jumbo thingy that just transported their consciousness, why wasn’t Shiro there? And the whole ‘comedy family’ shtick with the Galra... I mean, it was a bit funny but... mostly weird tbh. The funniest parts were the commercials. *Way too little background/interaction with Shiro and Adam. *Also Adam’s design -like, why do you make an entirely new character that looks a lot like a mix of two other characters who are father and son (Matt and Sam)? You could have done literally anything to his design but you went safe and way too familiar? I mean holy moly did you see Kinkade? Fuck yeah what a gorgeous design, that is exactly what my hopeful heart pictured for Shiro’s boyfriend but nope. Give us generic floppy-hair glasses boy with a generic medium brown palette, it’s so fresh and new and interesting. Not. *Adam FUCKING DYING before Shiro even got back to Earth. You could have at least let the poor boy have a reunion with someone waiting for him on Earth before burying some more gays, but no. He must suffer. *Shiro getting like three seconds to mourn Adam.

*Speaking of burying your gays... (not to mention a delightful dash of the ‘evil lesbians’ trope): Ezor and Zethrid. Yayy on their relationship, nay on them being presumably killed off (I mean killing 3 out of 4 queer characters while keeping the straight characters safe is not a good way to show how queer friendly your show is. And no the ‘we had to show how dark and dangerous war is’ excuse doesn’t work when the only characters you kill are the queer ones. There were plenty of characters back on Earth we’d have felt just as deeply about -or more even- considering we’ve heard about the other paladins’ families back on Earth but we’d never heard of Adam until now. Just imagine if Veronica had died -that would have been intensely emotional and really had gone to show all that you wanted about the dangers of war -especially as I don’t doubt for a second that Lance would have gotten an entire episode at least to mourn her while Shiro got like three seconds. Because Shiro is apparently not allowed to mourn). *And isn’t it funny how the most alien-looking Galra women are the evil ones, while the ‘good’ ones look more or less like lavender-skinned human women (and are also very pretty, petite and with slender, ‘sexy’ bodies.) Like, seriously... *Not to mention how creepy it is that Keef’s Galra mom and the other ‘good’ Galra woman (Acxa, who for whatever reason the show tried to force some out-of-the-blue yucky heteromance together with Keef) look disturbingly much alike (and they look to be the same age too more or less. So sick and tired of the ‘hot young-looking mom’ trope in media but especially animated shows. And especially when the kids end up banging girls looking to be more or less the same age as their mom). *Shiro not reacting when Ezor and Zethrid went for Pidge -he’s consistently been shown to be very protective and self-sacrificing, yet here he barely bats an eye. I get it was a scene framed to lift Lance, but it felt extremely ooc for Shiro to not at least try to help. *Ezor and Zethrid’s relationship being honestly way more explicitly stated than Shiro and Adam’s (which was the relationship hailed as the big lgbtq+ rep for this season). No, they definitely didn’t need to get back together for Shiro to still be considered lgbtq+ rep -you don’t need a partner to be lgbtq+! But when you wave a specific relationship around as a big banner of glorious lgbtq+ rep to come and then barely even hint at it in the show... well... not so much of a rep then, is it? *Not showing Shiro in that worldwide message of ‘these are our beloved brave heroes from Earth’. Like, this boy was kidnapped by aliens, spent a year being tortured, brainwashed, cloned, dismembered, pretty much violated in every concievable way, then immediately after escaping (with a shitload of PTSD in the baggage) he was sent back out into space and chosen to lead some war against seemingly impossible odds, a war that really wasn’t his war to fight, a war he still fought bravely and selflessly despite his physical and mental issues, a war he died in, but meh I guess he wasn’t worthy of mention. (And I don’t know why Keef wasn’t mentioned either, but maybe being half Galra makes you too much alien to be considered part of the world you were born and grew up in *heavy sarcasm*). *Shiro’s bond with the Black Lion and his role as the Black Paladin being pretty much erased/retconned -it’s like Keef gets to sit his ass comfortably down in the seat Shiro shed blood sweat and tears for and struggled so hard for, easily just gliding along on what Shiro has paved the road for but without acknowledging the huge role Shiro had in it all. Shiro was the one who brought out the wings for Keef in the end of the last season because Keef was unable to do it himself, because Keef had never bonded with her the way Shiro did -Shiro and the Black Lion found and saved each other in so many ways, and the Black Lion loved Shiro so much she saved his ‘essence’ inside herself, yet now we’re supposed to just accept that Shiro is old news and no longer worthy of being considered part of the ‘mighty Paladins of Voltron’. Myeah, did not like the feeling I got of this saturating this entire season. Keef can still be a big hero -or even your new main character- without grinding Shiro down into the dirt on the way. *That arm... it’s so big and clumsy-looking it makes him look weirdly lopsided. The comically large arm works for Sendak, considering his ‘evil sadist who loves crushing people with his alien prosthetic’ shtick, but for Shiro it just looks too big to be practical. If it was intentionally meant to imply that Allura just grabbed a prosthetic modelled after someone bigger than Shiro and remade it, and that’s why it’s so big on Shiro, that’s fine. But it feels impractical for anything other than fighting evil alien generals. *Shiro not getting to fulfil his arc as the abused victim and underdog by overcoming and defeating the evils pushing him down, but instead being forced to take the backset to a character forced into a leadership role for what seems like nothing more than a desperate clinging to nostalgia. It is mindboggling that everything Shiro has worked so incredibly hard for, everything he’s struggled and fought for is being taken from him and he’s supposed to be satisfied with a consolation prize. Yeah, Shiro going full Magical Girl Princess was amazing but he didn’t even get to deliver the final blow in any fight -not even his personal fight with Sendak- because apparently Shiro is not allowed any victories at all. *The whole sense of Shiro being punished for choosing his life’s dream over becoming the obedient house wife of his ex -he had only a short few years left to fulfil his dreams, and yet he’s painted as the bad guy for ‘abandoning’ his boyfriend (who was the one that left Shiro, actually). Yes, Adam had the right to choose to not want to separate for so long -during what was likely the last few years Shiro had enough mobility to do all the fun things couples dream of doing together- he had the right to say ‘I’m sorry but I can’t put my life on hold, and I wasn’t really prepared to go straight to caring for someone with a debilitating disease without a few more years of fun in between, I want to break up’. That still doesn’t make Shiro’s choice to follow his dreams any less valid than Adam’s choice to not wait for him. I bet Adam had an exciting bucket list waiting to start ticking off as a consolation when Shiro was denied the role of pilot for the Kerberos mission -I doubt he’d expected Shiro to actually be allowed to go and that probably seriously stumped him- but it’s incredibly cruel and selfish (and ableist) to expect a person to sacrifice their last few years of being able to fulfil their dreams just so their able-bodied partner can fulfil their small dreams and wishes of things they want to do for the last few of that person’s fully mobile years. And yet everything about Shiro’s arc paints a very very grim and ableist story of ‘you chose your own dreams over bending to your partner’s will, now let us show you what a horrible decision that was by torturing you relentlessly throughout the rest of this series without ever letting up. You will never be allowed happiness again because this is your punishment.’ I agree with other people that the way Shiro’s been treated throughout this series -constantly tormented without ever getting a single break or getting a real chance to fight and overcome his demons- seems way too much like torture porn. *The feeling that Shiro’s Magical Girl Moment was only there to blind us to the fact that him being probably the only one able to transform the Atlas means he’ll be conveniently grounded next season, forced to stay on Earth to ‘protect his home’ while the rest of them get to go off being the ‘amazing Defenders of the Universe’, leaving both Shiro and his legacy behind, unsung. I hope I’m wrong, but I get an overwhelming feeling that Shiro is being pushed into the background because they never intended for him to be the hero of the series but by the time they realised that’s exactly what they’d created with him it was too late to take it back, so now they’re trying their hardest to push him back into some mentor/backseat role in a sneaky enough way that they hope people won’t notice because they’ll be dazzled by the shine of his ‘new role’. ... Things that made me happy/excited/pleased: *The animation level. I mean holy mamacita Shiro is so beautiful he glows in like every single frame. *HUNK. Love this big gentle boy and love that he got to show more of who he is and what he has to give this season. *Seeing the families we’ve heard so much of. Seeing them reunited. Seeing flashbacks to happier times with the families. *Pidge finally getting her entire family back together. *The designs of all the alien/Earth tech. Gorgeous. *The design of some of the new characters <3 *So many new Galra characters with faces and personalities even if we only saw them for a few seconds. *All the ‘Earth preparing for alien invasion’ scenes/episodes. *Finally getting to know more about Iverson and who he is as a person. *Sam and Colleen. *Shiro being the new Princess of the new Castle ship. *Shiro fucking transcending being the Princess and transforming the entire Castle ship Atlas into a new Voltron type battle robot. *The Atlas being this beefy paladin type knight on top but t h i c c femme legs on tippy toes/high heels on the bottom. 10/10 what a beauty. *White Lion Shiro... I mean, I’m certainly not the only one thinking it, right? *Just Shiro. Wow. What a strong, beautiful, good person who cares about everybody else above himself. Someone give this poor traumatised boy hero a fucking vacation with the softest bed surrounded by therapy animals. Perfect cinnamonroll too pure for this world. *Shiro fighting Sendak hand-to-hand on top of a fucking space ship free-falling (read: CRASHING) to Earth instead of trying to escape I mean this boy *Keef fucking anime-slicing Sendak in twaine for daring to try to hurt the person he loves like a brother (bloodless and nice for the young’uns of course, but still). *Hunk carrying Shiro. *@ anyone claiming Lance ‘never gets screentime or development’ -fuck you. Look at this brave, strong boy who started out as a self-centered antagonistic jerk yet has grown into such a good and mature person. I may loathe the Lance I see portrayed in the fandom, but in the show he’s still such a good character. *Coran, Coran, the gorgeous man <3 *The mice and Kosmo the space wolf for MVP *Kaltenecker, most chill character in the entire universe. *Shiro’s prosthetic not being attached -at first I was like ‘noooo’, but then I realised... fuck yeah this is exactly what people in fandom need to stop erasing disabled characters. It is way too common for people in fandoms to claim that a person having any kind of high-tech or magical prosthetic that makes their disability less visible (For example Edward Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist) isn’t actually disabled at all ‘because it’s like they have normal limbs’. Having a prosthetic arm that has a big void between itself and the shoulder attachment makes it impossible to ignore the fact that Shiro is missing a whole arm. (And maybe, just maybe, people will finally stop with the shitty ‘he’s got a full sleeve of tattoos instead of a missing arm in this AU fanfic because erasing disabilities is super cool’ trope.) *The entire Shiro/Atlas transformation scene -ugh so beautiful <3 ... Phew, that got long! (=A=;;) I’ve probably forgotten a lot of things -but it’s been a few days since I watched it so it isn’t as fresh in my mind as I’d have liked, however I don’t have the time to rewatch it right now to refresh my memory so it’ll have to do. These are just my personal thoughts -things I found negative might be things someone else found positive, and things I found positive might be things someone else found negative. This isn’t meant to be a debate or attack -just a way for me to put my thoughts down and remember them for the future. And one last thing -please remember to be kind to each other -and don’t go attacking cast or crew -most of them have no real say in what happens on the show anyway, and harrassing and threatening castmembers to the point where they’re scared to even show up at cons is not the way to make the higher-ups listen to your complaints -however legitimate they might be. Now I guess we’ll just have to brace ourselves for season 8...

#voltron spoilers #both negative and positive thoughts on this season #voltron season 7 #takashi shirogane

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goldfaultlines · 6 years

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Light {two}

Pairing: Bucky x reader Summary: Laundry day, once again. Warnings: n/a Tags: Slow burn, multichapter, WIP A/N: This is also going to be available to read on AO3! I’ll post a link as soon as it’s processed!

Y/N flicks her gaze between the book she held in her hand and the machine before her. She was waiting (albeit a little impatiently) for the last spin cycle to begin so she could switch loads over.

She scans the page before her, trying to remember where she had left off and finds her thoughts wandering to yesterday morning. She sighs, dogearing her page and setting down her book.

Her whites still tumble around in the small window and she picks up the notebook beside her to start a journal entry about her encounter with her upstairs neighbor. Bucky. His name is flourished between her script and she feels her cheeks heat. She had seen him before, sure, but never close enough to actually look.

They had locked eyes briefly, blue glass etched with dark fragments of fear and an underlying tenderness that made her heart stutter in her chest. Not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that had made her chest bloom with... what? She hadn’t been sure. All Y/N knew was that when he had looked at her through his lashes, hair falling askew from where he had haphazardly pulled it up, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, she had to say something.

She flips the page and scrawls:

Bucky Barnes: a list

Buck groans softly. He readjusts his clothes basket under his arm and curses.

To whom it may concern:

The laundry facilities are currently closed for maintenance, we apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.

Thank you for your understanding.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There was a laundry mat a couple blocks over, he knew. But that made him nervous. The only other clean shirt he had was much too heavy for the warm spring air. Would he risk exposing himself for the simple pleasure of clean, breathable clothes?

He probably should. Dirty clothes did nothing but make him take steps backwards. To Europe and the army and—

Laundry mat it is. He shoves away the thoughts that threatened to debilitate his outing, decides to come back to them later. When he didn’t smell like sweat and tobacco.

The afternoon sun blinds him when he steps outside, mesh bag slung over his shoulder as he made his way east. He could sort of make out the top of the sign from outside his complex, but it was at least a five minute jog. And today was his rest day. So a fifteen minute walk would have to suffice. Silently curses whatever god thought it was amusing to mess with him.

Bucky tries to ignore the eyes boring into the back of his head as he walked, head down, hands shoved deeply into his pockets.

Almost wishes now that he had grabbed the thermal.

Thinks it might be a small blessing when the arching windows of the RAINBOW LAUNDRY SERVICE come into view. The sign is old— he thinks dryly that he might be as old as this building. Which makes him laugh, just a little.

The bell above the door twinkles upon his entrance, and he finds no one else to be around. The smell of burnt coffee and floral soap overwhelm his senses. A red leather bound notebook sits on the end table closest to him, atop withered and sun faded tabloids dated 2009. A book rests in a plastic chair and he finds himself fidgeting when he realizes that someone else is here. Hopefully they wouldn’t know him, or pay enough mind to even look at him. He’s got his back turned, bag near his feet and feeding dollars into the machine that spat out faded quarters when he hears a voice he knows.

“Hi, Bucky.”

He turns his head to find Y/N occupying the seat he had previously been observing. One leg crossed over the other, tapping her dangling foot. The sunlight of the mid afternoon makes her hair blow out around her head like a soft halo, and he smiles at her. “Hey, Y/N.”

Her eyes light up when he says her name, and he almost wants to do it again, just to keep that expression on her face. He was lucky enough to know it, let alone say it but he digresses. Pops a few quarters into the machine and begins to load in his clothes.

“Bucky,” She measures, amusement lacing her tone.

“Hm?” He glances up to find her looking at him like he’d grown another head. But she’s smiling in a soft way and it makes his chest tighten.

“Are you not sorting your laundry?”

His brows crease, and he reassess the clothes in his bag. The only light colored things he owned were socks. So he cocks a brow at her and responds “...no?”

“You separate things by color,” Y/N explains, getting up from her chair and pulling the clothes from his hands.

(He tries not to think too hard about it. He’s embarrassed himself enough as it is.)

She dutifully sorts them into reds, blues, greens and denim and then tosses the rest of the black and grey articles into the machine. “When I was a kid, I loved helping my mom on laundry day.”

“Oh?” He realizes with flushed cheeks that this is the most she’s talked to him ever, and he tries to still the flutter in his chest. (It doesn’t work but dammit he tried.)

“Yeah. Made me feel like I was helping. We were old school, hung everything up on a line strung from the house to the garage.”

“When I was a kid that was all we had.” Could almost smell fresh cut grass, hearing his mother singing under her breath as she pinned up the sheets. Playing tag with Rebecca and Steve between the swaying fabric.

“That’s one of the things I don’t like about the city,” Y/N admits. “Nowhere to hang my clothes.” She smiles wistfully, like she’s lost in a memory.

The hum of the machines is a calming backdrop to her musing.

“We had these huge lilac bushes outside, and afterwards everything would smell like them.”

Bucky smiles at her and is about to share a fragmented story of his own when a loud buzz cuts through the air. Y/N scurries over to the machine, throwing open the top door and practically climbing in it to access her clothes. Buck chuckles, and wanders over, leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. “Need a hand, doll?” The nickname makes him flinch, but she doesn’t seem to mind, poking her head out and setting her feet back on the ground. “‘S the least I could do.”

She fumbles the wad of clothes in her hands into the bottom tumbler and laughs. “My hero.”

“I wouldn’t go that far...” Bucky mumbles.

He spends the rest of the day listening -intently, didn’t wanna miss a word even though he’d never admit to it- to her tell stories from her childhood. He shares what he can, jots down what’s new. He excuses himself to the bathroom, and when he returns he finds Y/N smiling to herself as she repeatedly bullet points thoughts into her notebook. Can just barely see the top margin, where his name lies in bold cursive, decorated around the perimeter with dots and other indiscernible scribbles. Before he can ask about it, she gathers her things and says “Would you like some company on the walk home?”

“Of course,” Bucky fights the urge to break into a full grin. He had enjoyed her company. Today hadn’t been the total bust he had anticipated.

She chatters idly beside him, about her job, and her projects and her everything and Bucky soaks it in. She feels like a ray of pure white light beside him and his smudged grey soul. And his heart leaps when she waves him off with an ear to ear grin and “Have a good night, Buck.”

For the first time in what he guessed was seventy years, he feels what he thinks could very well be the inklings of a crush permeating his chest. And he doesn’t much mind the nervous tilt to his voice when he says “You too, Y/N.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #reader insert #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #light

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