#often times their judgement is misguided as all they want deep down is to be recognized as a hero | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hansoulo · 4 years ago

Text

whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver. “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

“Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting. “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x you #boba fett fic #boba fett oneshot #boba fett imagine

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shreddedparchment · 4 years ago

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A World of Our Own Pt.07

Decrepit Old Grump

9/29/2020

Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 5,510

Warnings: language, smut, fluff, angst

A/N: Y’all, I have not edited this chapter much at all. I edited the first part and that’s about it. I’m too tired to edit and I may come back and edit later but I didn’t want to make y’all wait anymore as I already made y’all wait a long time before I came back to it. I’m sorry if it stinks. <3 If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work. xoxo

Bucky is gutted.

He can feel the weight of his guilt growing as you sit there on the beach staring out at the crashing waves, sky turning an inky purple where it kisses the sea as the sun sets.

Your skin is enveloped by ocean wind, briny and thick it coats you with sea salt making you sticky with its humidity.

In this light, you’re glowing. A beauty. With tears slowly rolling across one cheek then the other as your sorrow wounds you repeatedly. Over and over you play it all in your head. Remembering the sounds of the chopper, the violent swish of tall grass and palms, gunpowder saturating the air as he lays on the ground and you panic over him pressing your hands against his wound.

Reaching up, he feels the spot, pressing his palm flat against the spot now healed and only a little sore.

The slump of your shoulders, the dead weight of your hands as they rest at your sides on the sand without moving, Bucky can see it all from where he stands by the hut.

You’ve given up. All hope gone. Not only are you stuck here on this island forever, but you were betrayed by Ryan.

Someone that Bucky suddenly wonders might have meant more to you than he realized. A real spark.

Of course, Bucky knows that you love him. It’s in your eyes, or it was before you were both permanently marooned here because of him—this is all his fault after all.

Still, maybe you cared more for Ryan than you were willing to admit? Could you have loved him too?

The two of you had been close. Despite your suspicions, your gentle guarding against him, could your spark have turned into real feelings?

Bucky hates this thing, this oozing pit of green sludge he knows is jealousy.

He knows he shouldn’t feel it. This is bigger than who anyone might be attached to emotionally or attracted to physically. This is life and death.

With being left here, all hopes of a real future are gone.

No jobs. No family. No friends. No children…Why had he gone and told you he wanted to have them with you?

How much must that be hurting you now?

Idiot.

Of course, with you hating him now, maybe the very thought of having kids with him is repulsive? He’d never been able to see himself as a father before you. Maybe this is all for the best? No matter how much it hurts to think.

He hesitates, waiting to see if you’ll turn or rise. You haven’t eaten all day and he knows its depression keeping you anchored here to this beach. A final depression. Dark and consuming.

However, he also knows that despite your giving up, even now your eyes scan the horizon for possible ships. Not in hope, merely habit.

When you continue not to move, he breathes in deep to gather his courage and moves towards you slowly.

You don’t even twitch at the sound of his approach.

You don’t even care that he’s there. Do you?

You’ve been so distant since Ryan left, sleeping in his now empty room on the floor. Bucky was willing to give you space at first.

How you must not be able to look at him…

The pit in his stomach widens, bringing with it painful aches of missing you pressed into his side. He misses the smell of your skin and the touch of your lips against his throat when you’d wake up in the middle of the night, searching for comfort.

He's lost you and he has only himself to blame.

However, whether you hate him or not, he can’t let you keep neglecting yourself the way you have. He can’t keep his distance anymore. Not completely.

He’s still responsible for keeping you alive, even more so with Ryan’s deception.

He'll force you if he has to. He needs you. Even if you can never love him again, he needs to see, hear, and know that you’re well.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hiss of the sand as he walks to you is soft with deliberate steps taken towards you then he stops.

Beside you, Bucky crouches and he penetrates your peripherals, filing you with wretched agony at the scowl in place on his beautiful face.

That face had smiled at you once. Kissed you. Assured you of safety. Loved you.

Now…how can he not despise you after your misguided trust?

How can he not hate you for your reckless friendship with that stupid man. You’re so angry at him you can’t even think his name.

You don’t want to remember him, but your heart will not let you forget.

You’d thought it so many times. So often. He’s a good man. A good father. He’s my friend and he’d never do anything to hurt us.

How very wrong you’d been. How foolish and trusting and generally stupid.

“Get up.” Bucky orders, his voice hard like it had once been so long ago when he’d dragged you up from the beach and through the trees where he’d put the fuselage.

You thought you’d heard the last of that voice. If he hates you, you suppose it makes sense that he’d adopt it once again. Why would he speak with love to you when he clearly can’t trust you or your judgement?

It hurts to hear his dislike of you, you can’t bear to see it to. So, you keep your eyes trained on the horizon, looking at nothing.

You don’t answer him either. This upsets him.

“You can’t keep ignoring me. And you can’t keep sitting here, crying your eyes out, not eating.” He huffs, gets to his feet and towers over you, legs spread slightly as he waits for you to look at him maybe, hands flexing in and out of fists.

What does he want from you? How can he expect you to respond to him when he’s like this after months of feeling his love?

He hadn’t even stopped you when you came back to the hut and told him you were going to sleep in the other room.

“Whatever you want.” He’d said in monotone, sitting stiff by the fire after you’d just cleaned, stitched, and dressed his wound.

He let you go; let you sleep away from him. You’d almost hoped he’d ask you back into your room, but he didn’t, and you weren’t bold enough to ask to come back when he so clearly didn’t want you.

“This isn’t helping anyone, Y/N. Get up.” Bucky chastises, driving a nail through your heart with every stern word. “Are you seriously just going to sit there?”

Your lips twitch tempted to shout at him to leave you alone. Very nearly you look up at him and yell at him to let you starve and die because that would leave him unburdened and free of you. But you picture it, his face, all scowly and angry. A hate in those steel ice eyes that had once overflowed with adoration and love.

No, you can’t look at him. It’ll break your heart more than it already does to wake up in the mornings without him at your side.

You mash your lips together, refusing to answer him and tilt your chin up in defiance.

It happens so quickly and you’re all of a sudden upside down, or…close to it.

Bucky swoops down and grabs you, tossing you over his shoulder and you’re not sure how he does it but he won’t let go and he doesn’t seem to have trouble lifting you—he pulled a literal piece of a plane inland so why would he?—as he turns and marches towards the tree line.

“Bucky! Let me go!” You scream, startled as you bounce against his back.

Trying desperately to find a hold on something, you push yourself against his waist but your hands keep slipping over his hips where you finally take hold of the loops of his jeans and use them to anchor yourself so that you’re not bobbing up and down as much.

“Bucky please-” You begin, an attempt to plead with him because this is the closest you’ve been to him in a month and you can smell him. The heat he radiates, just a bit hotter than normal, penetrates every fiber of clothing you’re wearing.

“I don’t know where the hell you got the idea that this behavior is alright. You want to starve yourself? You do it once I’m dead. Do you have any idea what you look like? What you smell like?” Bucky argues, strutting faster as he swerves between the trees.

The embarrassment you feel overwhelms you into silence because you don’t know what you look like or what you smell like. It must not be good if it’s made Bucky this angry. You feel shame suddenly that the man you love is seeing you like this.

For it to get so bad that he breaks whatever distance he’d wanted to keep between the two of you, it must be disgusting.

Your heart is suddenly thrumming for a whole new reason, and you’re very aware of how close to your butt Bucky’s face must be and with his enhanced senses, just how well he must be able to smell.

“Bucky put me down.” You squirm, pushing against him and pulling yourself up enough to grip his shoulders and hold yourself up a little straighter as the fear in you builds.

His arms only tighten around your legs and waist, refusing to loosen his grip as he continues to march forward.

“Bucky…” You push against him harder, a frenzy taking you over as you kick and squirm, hoping to maybe knock him off balance but instead he stops and suddenly, you’re weightless.

You fall for what feels like forever as your face is overtaken with shock. You see his frown as you fall, his eyes boring into yours until you hit water and sink down into cool green waters.

You gasp, swallowing water but quickly find your footing and push yourself up from the floor of what you realize is the bathing pool that Bucky had rebuilt closer to the hut.

You gasp and choke as you surface, eyes wide with panic as you push the water out of your face and try to catch your breath.

“You wanna let yourself fall apart, you do it on the other side of the island where I can’t watch you do it, because I won’t sit here and put up with it, Y/N. I can’t.” Bucky points at you, his finger firm.

“What the fuck, Bucky?!” You gasp, still wheezing from swallowing water.

“I get that this isn’t exactly an ideal situation.” He starts, pacing a step away from you before coming right back up to the lip of that pool and presses his hand to his chest. “I’m not innocent. I’ve been paying for the crimes I’ve committed ever since Steve pulled me back from the brink and I know that I’ve done a lot of wrong since. Getting you stranded here on this island…if I could take it back, I would. If I could fix it so that you weren’t on that plane when they blew it up, I would do it in a heartbeat.

“I get that this is my fault. I understand that them wanting me dead has put you in this fucked up situation, stuck here with no possible escape, and hate me if you want to. That’s fine, I’m used to it. I get it if you never want to speak to me again, but please stop neglecting yourself. If you want to punish me, I’ll think of some other way for you to do it, but please…please don’t make me the reason you die here because I couldn’t stand it, Y/N. I’ll find you a way off of this place.

“I’ll build a raft or a bigger fire or…I’ll think of something, just…I need you to eat something. I need you to take care of yourself. I need you to care. Don’t let what I did hurt you more than I already have.

“I’ll fix this. I promise. Alright?” He’s still fierce in his words, but slowly his anger has receded into begging.

Before you stands a desperate man, asking you to keep living and all you can think about is one thing.

“I…” You swallow hard, fighting the knots in your stomach and the aching squeeze of your heart as a fleeting hope takes shine within it. “I don’t hate you, Bucky.”

The words are mostly air, still too stunned by his speech and certain parts of it in particular to catch your breath fully from the sudden dunk into very cool water.

He takes a breath, staring at you as you look at his feet, shaking your head before finally meeting his eyes.

You blink against the water still dripping down from your hair into them and wipe at the drops that get trapped in your lashes.

“What?” He asks, his own voice rising in pitch in confusion.

“I don’t hate you.” You repeat, this time strongly with a voice so clear that the birds making nest for the night go quiet. “I could never hate you. How could you even think that?”

You lick your lips, wiping more water away from you face while Bucky stares at you, blinking as he processes the words you’ve spoken. It’s clear in his expression the flurry of thoughts that must be speeding through his mind.

“But you moved out of ro-” He begins, but you don’t let him finish, wrapping your arms around yourself to battle the chill that’s begun to set in.

“Because I thought that you were angry with me…because I trusted him. I kept insisting that he was our friend and I was so…so stupid for believing him.” Your voice breaks, pent up sorrow breaking through as you look away from him because you can’t bear to see the look of disappointment on his face when you admit your crimes.

He says nothing.

“If I’d been more careful maybe we might have noticed something sooner? If I hadn’t been so won over by the story of his kid or the way that he pretended to be nice, I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry that I didn’t-”

There’s a splash and you blink against the rush of water. You have no time to search for the source because he’s there, in front of you, his hands wiping away the water from your cheeks.

He presses himself so close that there isn’t a part of you that isn’t touching him. You tilt your head to look at him, meet his eye and see a desperation in his own as his lips curl into a small sad smile. His eyes are soft, his brow is raised at the center as he drinks in your own expression of surprise.

“You really don’t hate me?” He wonders, voice soft and sweet and full of fading anguish.

“No.” You nearly sob, shaking your head as much as you can in his vice-like hold. “I could never hate you, Bucky. I’ve told you before. You’re my hero. My savior in more ways than one stupid. I love you.”

He closes the distance between you, fierce hungry lips painfully pressed to yours until he gets his fill then pulls back to sweep more water away from your cheeks.

“I’m not angry.” He whispers, reaching down to wrap his right arm around you. “I could never be angry with you for seeing the good in people. How can I when that’s what made you dumb enough to love me?”

You laugh, ecstatic and slightly insulted. “Did you just call me dumb?”

“Fuck yeah, I did.” Bucky shakes his head. “Stupid, lovable, dummy. You’re a hothead too. I hate that in a woman.”

His teasing fills your belly with butterflies and sweet warm tumbles.

You laugh again, then reach behind his neck to pull him down for another kiss, this time holding it for longer as you let your lips meld with his. Soft and fluid as a month’s worth of insecurity washes away in the water of the pool.

He sighs, angling your head with his metal hand as he parts his own lips and the heat of his breath parts your own. He deepens the kiss and you welcome him, a small whimper breaking the silence as you melt against his chest.

He pulls back to tilt his head the other way, “Will you come sleep in our bed now?” He asks, before meeting your lips again.

You nod.

“Mmmph.” He moans, pushing you back until you hit the pool’s wall.

He nudges your legs open and you lift yourself easily in the water and wrap them around his waist as he presses in against you, flesh hand sliding down to your bottom to grab a firm hold.

You break the kiss, gasping as his lips drift to your neck until a sudden flash draws your eyes upwards followed by a sudden boom.

Bucky pulls back, staring up at the sky with you.

“This’ll hit in half an hour.” Bucky guesses, and you know it might hit sooner.

“Bad?” You wonder, dropping back down to your feet as you continue to stare at the canopy as it begins to sway more strongly as the wind picks up.

“Bad enough.” Bucky frowns. “I need to go get the tools secured in the hut and check the nets.”

“I’ll help.” You offer and begin to move around him, but he turns back to you, planting you firmly against the wall.

“No. I wasn’t lying when I said you need a bath. You don’t stink as bad as I made it seem, but you haven’t been taking care of yourself, kitten. I’m not okay with what.” He’s stern again but this time, you can’t blame him.

“I’m sorry.” You allow, feeling shame once again for your inability to be strong through this.

“Don’t be.” He shakes his head. “This isn’t your fault. Or mine. We’re just here and we lost our way for a bit. I should have spoken up sooner. We’ll do better, right?”

You nod, eager to move on from this hiccup. “I’ll do better.”

“We’ll do better, Y/N.” He corrects, reaching up to caress your head. “There should still be some soap in the basket. I’ll bring you a change of clothes.”

He pulls himself out of the pool, untying the basket where you keep the soap you’d made up in the branches of a tree away from where animals might find them. He places it beside the edge and as another flash fills the sky, he hurries back towards the beach to prepare for the coming storm.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hut shakes, a charge fills the air, and you sit up gasping. Clutching the thing almost worn blanket close, you turn your head this way and that, searching for the chopper.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Warm arms wrap around your shoulders, pull you closer as the thunder rumbles into nothing.

The rain is still pelting the outside of the hut, a constant stream of white noise as rain and wind thrash the beach and your island home.

The storm has gotten worse over the past few hours, the waves are loud and chaotic, rising higher than they’ve risen since you’ve been here. The beach and campfire where you usually sit and cook are under water.

Bucky building the hut on stilts has paid off and you curl into him as he drags you back down to lay in the plane cushion bed.

“It’s alright, it’s just the storm.” He promises, still half asleep.

You turn towards him, wrapping your arms around him, placing your palm flat against his chest.

“The storm.” You repeat, still mostly asleep yourself.

As your heart begins to slow, you reach up to trace the shape of his ear, slipping your hands up into his hair you pull him down for a kiss.

He gives it to you, his lips gentle and coaxing as he responds eagerly to the attention.

“Bucky…” You fret, thunder overhead shaking the hut once more as lightning flashes and illuminates the inside of the room.

The sky is a black void of weather, scary and unyielding as mother nature asserts her dominance over both your lives.

“It’s okay…” He promises, traces the curve of your body from hip to shoulder, then back down to your hip.

You snuggle closer, pulling him down for another kiss and this one he holds, his tongue slipping past your lips.

Toes curling, you sigh, pushing yourself up over him for only a second before he rolls you onto your back.

Already mostly naked, Bucky pushes his briefs down then pulls your panties aside and without hesitation pushes into you, stretching your heated cunt with his thick throbbing cock.

Both of you freeze, feeling each other for the first time as the sky flashes and thunders.

His mouth finds yours swallowing your moan as you both give in consequences be damned because you’re both here. You’re stuck, deserted, with no hope of rescue and you love him so much.

He thrusts into you, burying himself deep.

It’s a hazy dream, the pleasure his body pulls from you, until he’s pushing your legs open wide and you obey because you want him closer, deeper.

Suddenly the world is crystal clear. Sharp and detailed and you can feel the tip of his cock sliding against the walls of your cunt, prodding and sliding making your legs quiver and flex.

“More…” You beg, hands raking against taut shoulders, tracing cool metal. “…Bucky…”

He pushes himself onto his knees, angling himself up further until he’s mounted you and you’re trapped in the cage of his arms.

He grunts, driving you mad with the sounds he’s making because they’re better than anything you could have dreamt up.

You pull him down until he’s got his full weight on you, crushing you down as his hips continue to thrust.

The wind grows more violent, the rain falls harder. The lightning feels endless and the thunder never stops but you hear none of it as Bucky’s lips kiss your neck, his tongue tracing circles before his teeth bite into your throat.

The heat in your belly swells over, down into your hips and pelvis and your body is overwhelmed with pleasure. Toes curled, arms locked around Bucky’s shoulders, you stop breathing.

Bucky keeps pumping, drilling into you faster as he chases his own release then he stutters, hips clapping against your thighs as he spills into you, grunting with every thrust.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. Even when he’s finished, his lips trail across your skin, searching for more.

He reaches down and pushes the bottom of your shirt all the way up, exposing one breast which he takes into his mouth, nibbling gently.

“More?” He checks, moving to the other, never once pulling away.

“Never stop.” You hope, pushing him until he’s on his back.

As you settle over him, hands pressed against his chest, he licks his lips and traces your sides. Stopping at your hips, he licks his lips in anticipation.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Bucky!” You call, searching the beach in the distance, too tired to walk all the way out to the nets.

“Yeah?” He calls back, his shout distant enough that you know he’s in the water just beyond the rocks.

“Lunch is ready. Come eat before it gets cold.”

“Let me just finish with this trap.”

“Okay but hurry up.” You relent, knowing that he won’t come until he’s satisfied.

You move the fish away from the flame, careful and quick as they’re hot. Placing the extras on one of the trays you’d salvaged way back when from the plane, you move to take your usual seat beside the fire.

Ten months.

It’s been ten months of being stranded on the island. The two made bearable by the fact that Ryan’s betrayal had helped you and Bucky push into a new stage of intimacy.

You have sex often. Maybe not everyday as sometimes you’re both too exhausted to do more than sleep, but often enough that you’ve begun to wonder if you’ve made the right choice to give in.

There is no doubt in your mind that should a baby come, you and the child would be safe and well kept with Bucky at your side. Although the fear still lingers that something could go wrong, with either you or the baby, you’re sure that if you weren’t around to care for it, Bucky would do an amazing job as protector and keeper.

He doesn’t talk about it, but you know he, like you, wonders.

You’d stopped having regular periods well before you and Bucky began to have sex, so there would be no real way for you to know until you got big enough to show.

With a sigh, you push these thoughts away. This worry is only one of many and there are others much more important than a possible child.

With the storms getting worse, and hurricane season almost over, Bucky is sure that the island will see one more storm before it’s really over.

The idea of being caught in more scary weather fills your tummy with big bats and you want to forget the worry almost as soon as you remember it.

You unwrap your fish and pull it apart, careful to avoid the bones as you pick it to pieces and begin to eat.

You’re almost halfway through when Bucky finally settles in across from you, sighing with relief as he smiles and reaches for his plate.

“Everything good with the nets?” You check, mouth full of fish.

“Yeah, they’re fine. Just had to cast it out a little farther. Season’s changing so we might have to look for new fishing spots.” He explains and tears into his fish hungrily.

“We need to find more boar.” You sigh, pulling more bones from your fish. “We need the protein.”

He meets your gaze, blinking slowly as he watches you eat before nodding.

Neither of you has to vocalize your worry about protein and your health in case of a pregnancy.

“I think I spotted some yuca root on the far side of the island too. Some nopal and jícama too. We’ve been eating a lot of fruit; we’ll need to mix in some vegetables…for…it’ll be good for you.” He smiles, trying so hard to be relaxed.

“Vegetables…” You lament, moaning with desire for the long-forgotten tastes.

“I know. I’d love some good french fries.”

“Oh my-why would you bring up french fries?!”

Bucky chuckles. “Sorry. Just popped in there.”

Nervously, you lick your lips of the flavor of fish and set aside your leaf and tray.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up, focused instead on his food.

“We should make plans, just in case.”

“Not yet.” He sighs, the corners of his mouth curving down.

“We need to.”

“Not yet.” He insists.

“Bucky.” You press.

“Damn it, Y/N,” He looks up at you, shaking his head in resistance. “Not yet.”

“We have to, babe.” You smile sadly, shrugging your shoulders. “You may not want to think about it, but we have to. We gave in and with that comes the chance that the two of us could turn into three and we can’t afford to put this off. If something happens to me while I’m giving birth-”

“Okay!” He cuts you off, nodding. His eyes a little wild as he thinks quicky. “I agree, we need to make plans, but right now I’m not worried about what could happen in months. I need to find the caves Ryan was talking about and take some rations over there so that we have somewhere to go when this hurricane inevitably hits.”

“It might not come.” You argue, more hopeful than right.

“It will.” Bucky assures you. “And I can’t afford to get distracted until we’ve gotten all that setup. We will have this conversation just not yet. Okay? I know you’re worried. So am I.”

“And excited?” You check, a little timidly because yes, although you’re worried, you can’t deny the appeal that having Bucky’s baby holds.

A little one running around that looks like him? Sounds like him? The baby could very well look like you and sound like you too and that wouldn’t be so bad, but a little Bucky is too appealing not to hope for.

Bucky leans towards you, reaching to place his hand over yours as his eyes soften. “Of course, kitten. Yes, I’m excited too. It would be much sooner than I was hoping but I meant it when I said that I wanted this with you.”

Relief washes over you and you’re able to relax a little.

“But we’ll have time for that after I make sure I have somewhere safe for us to go.” He takes his hand back, focusing on his food once again.

You allow him to eat in silence for a bit, leaning back against the palm log as you watch the horizon with unfocused eyes.

A terrible thought has been growing in your mind for a while now. A thought you’ve been too scared to speak aloud for fear of robbing Bucky of his hope. The more determined he gets though you know you can’t avoid it any longer.

“Bucky?”

“Hm?”

“Bucky what if he lied about that too?” You try to subdue your fear as best you can, but you know you can’t hide it all. “What if he was dropped off on the island at some point and then came and joined us as the co-pilot-”

No, wait. You do remember seeing him on the plane though. He really was the co-pilot. Still…

“What if he jumped out and got picked up and then sent back to make sure you were dead? What if there are no caves? What if there’s nowhere safe on the island to sit through a stronger hurricane than the one when we crashed here?”

“The mountains on the other side of the island are large and they go on for almost the entire shoreline. Even if he made up his caves, I’m sure there are some. There has to be.” Bucky insists, determination invigorating his voice. “I’ll find us somewhere safe, kitten. I promise.”

“You’ve been promising me somewhere safe since we landed here. I’m starting to think you mean it.” You tease and hope it’s enough to draw a smile after the cloud you just summoned.

Lucky you, it works, and Bucky huffs a small laugh.

“I love you.” He tells you, voice low and soft.

“I love you, too.”

As the two of you stupidly get lost in each other’s eyes, the sudden sound of a voice echoes in the heated air.

You can’t make out what it says, but it’s clear though distant.

Both your faces are overcome with confusion as you continue to stare at each other.

“What was that?” You wonder, and Bucky shakes his head.

The voice is louder this time, still unintelligible but still clear enough to be a voice.

Bucky suddenly bolts up, turning and running down along the beach from where he’d come.

“Bucky?” You hurry up, chasing after him.

He stops suddenly and squints towards the rocks that jut out into the water blocking the side of the island where you have the nets set up.

“What is it?” You gasp, tired from the run to keep up.

“Shh.” Bucky orders and you swallow hard, trying desperately to quiet your breathing.

“Can anyone hear me?” The voice says, deep and easy. “I am looking for a decrepit old man, probably grumpy. Most definitely surly and usually wearing a frown. Long hair. Needs a cut. Worse looking than me.”

From around the rocks comes a boat, a small vessel meant to travel from a larger ship to land. On it is a whole crew of marines. At the bow holding a steel gray megaphone to his lips is a handsome black man, sturdily built wearing a familiar red and gray suit.

“Bucky…” You gasp, your heart nearly seizing as your brain tries to process the fact that there is a boat full of soldiers right offshore.

“Sam?” Bucky whispers, too shocked to speak any louder.

As this Sam spots the two of you, he breaks into a smile and drops the megaphone to slap against his thigh. He’s ecstatic to see Bucky and when he lifts the megaphone back to his mouth, he laughs once.

“You are a pain in my ass, Barnes.” Sam says, smirking at him from the boat as it stops far enough out that it’ll be an easy swim to reach them. “Why am I always looking for you and why can’t you make it easier? I’m putting a chip in your ass as soon as we get back home.”

#bucky x reader #bucky x reader fanfiction #castaway au #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky x you fanfiction #bucky x reader fanfic #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes x reader fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader fanfic #bucky barnes x reader fic #deserted island au #desert island au #a world of our own #awooo

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solinarimoon · 4 years ago

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Fields of Wildflowers, Chapter 4

Fields of Wildflowers - a Sihtric x OC story.

Chapter 4

A/N: This chapter is pretty heavy. I really tried to work on having the dialogue along with the imagery of each scene flow well. Constructive, but respectful criticism is always welcome.

Warnings: Discussion of rape and trauma surrounding rape

Word Count: 2,749

If you would like to read the earlier chapters of this story, find them here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cwen sat still. Very still. Her eyes bearing down on Eadith across the flickering flames.

The faces around the fire were frozen as well, none knowing what next to say or how to handle such a shocking admission.

Cwen had not meant to allow her companions to know this secret pain she bore. But after being in such close proximity to Eardwulf’s sister, a constant reminder of his roaming hands and lingering bruises, Cwen’s nerves had been a coiled snake ready to strike. And then Sihtric… then Sihtric and his watching eyes. It had been a long time since she had felt seen. Truly seen. And he saw her.

Cwen’s face didn’t hold hostility. It didn’t hold anger or resentment.

There was pain. And loss.

After many moments of shocked silence, Finan spoke up asking “Cwen, are you saying…”

Eadith spoke over top of Finan’s words. She didn’t need confirmation. She knew what Cwen was saying her brother had done. And she knew her words held the truth.

“I didn’t know…” she spoke softly. Her words trailed off not knowing what else to say.

“Of course not,” Cwen sighed, finally dropping her gaze from Eadith’s face. She stared at her fingers twisting and tangling in the tie of her brocade.

After a heartbeat, she brought her eyes up once more to find Sihtric’s stare. His mouth was a firm set line and his jaw flexed as he met her gaze.

The fire reflected in his eyes mirrored the rage swelling in his heart, knowing that his suspicions had been right.

He saw the unshed tears brimming on Cwen’s eyes. He saw the panic set in on her face as she realized now that they knew. That he knew.

She spoke in a frenzied haste, “I am sorry… Excuse me,” and she rose with her cheeks burning red and the tears she had tried to hold back finally slipping down her face, “I am sorry…”

With that Cwen stepped past Young Uhtred, Stiorra, and Finan and walked away from the light of the fire.

Sihtric took a breath then began to rise but Uhtred placed his hand on his brother’s arm.

“Give her a moment,” he spoke quietly but firm.

“She has carried this weight alone,” he paused.

Uhtred stared into the flames. His memories bringing him back to the night Isuelt had rescued Hild from such a violation.

“And now she has bared her soul. Give her a moment.”

At this Uhtred turned to Sihtric, “but then go to her. I see your eyes watching her. And I see her smiles when she sees you watching. Be strong for her and be gentle with her.”

Uhtred shifted his gaze back to the fire and continued, “but first give her a moment alone.”

Sihtric nodded his understanding.

As he rose he said “I will, lord.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sihtric took his time finding her. She had walked back past the tree where the children slumbered. When he did find her, she was crouched down, knees up, and back resting against a large elm tree. Her cheeks were streaked and her eyes red and swollen.

But her tears had dried. She looked up as he approached. No words, no smile, no sigh, or grimace. Just a look.

Sihtric sat next to her, close but not touching her. He did not want to do anything to make her more uncomfortable than she might be already.

He sat with his legs crossed and watched the trees ahead of them. The breeze blew leaves up in small gusts and brought Cwen’s hair to drift across her face in gentle waves.

She brought her hand up and ran her finger behind her ear bringing the tendrils that had escaped her braid to rest out of her face.

They sat in gentle and soothing silence for a long time.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation,”

But Sihtric cut her words off, “No, Cwen, you owe us nothing. Me nothing. Your pain is yours to share or not share with the world.”

Cwen turned her face just a fraction to be better able to see him. His face was still watching the trees. His jaw firm and his arms, resting on his knees were clearly tense.

My pain brought him this anger, Cwen realized.

“I simply wanted to sit with you if you wanted company.” He added while bringing his eyes to meet hers.

The truth was that Sihtric did want to see her pain. To help her heal or cope or come apart and be lost. He meant it when he told her it was her pain to share or not share, but he wanted to be there for her for any and all of it. He had never felt such a need come over him before. The need to be everything for this woman. He saw her in all her strength. And he knew even the strongest person could fall apart.

“Thank you, Sihtric.” Cwen didn’t know if she had ever meant those words more in her life.

The pair sat like that for a long while. Sihtric could feel Cwen’s body begin to relax and unwind next to him. He had so many questions and wanted to share her pain. But just as she did with him, he would not ask. If she wanted to share her past with him, he would let her do it on her own terms. His own childhood and past were not filled with joys. And he had plenty he had thought of sharing with her. But he still held back. He respected her entirely too much to not give her the same courtesy.

But he did watch her. While they sat in silence, he found his face turned to hers and watching as she breathed and returned to the same calm and gentle spirit with whom he had become completely captivated.

Eventually, Cwen lay her head back against the tree and let her knees fall to the ground.

She took another of her deep and calming breaths.

She takes those steadying breaths often, Sihtric pondered.

“Rape is not about sex.” She said quietly. And with a calm and firm voice.

“It is about exerting power. About control. And those are two things that Eardwulf craves yet does not possess.”

She looked at him. His face was watching her. Waiting for her to continue. Sihtric knew she needed to speak more. He could feel it in her, ready to breath it into the world.

“I have spoken of this to no one before tonight.” Cwen admitted, turning her face back towards the forest.

After several moments, Sihtric asked, “The Lady Aethelflaed does not know?” His words held no judgements. There is no blame laid upon her. He just wished to give her an avenue to talk if she so desired.

“No. No one.” She said again.

“I have had a lot of time to think on this. And at first I was ashamed and scared and in pain. Mostly scared. But the more I thought about him and the things he would say to me, the things he would...do to me…” Cwen paused and looked down at her hand again. She took a breath and continued.

“I was of two separate minds. One was that if I spoke about it then it would make it true. It would make it real. And I desperately wanted to believe it was not real. That this agony was not being forced upon me. And the second was to keep the power from him. If I spoke of it and allowed myself to try and find solace and comfort from a friend, it would be giving him even more power. Power over me outside of the moments when he was violating me. So I chose to bear the pain in silence. And find my own peace elsewhere.”

She finished speaking and kept her eyes trained on the trees ahead.

They sat together quiet and still. And the wind whispered through the leaves.

An owl cried somewhere in the distance.

Cwen dropped her head to look at the forest floor.

“I do not wish for pity. I am scared now that things will have changed. I will not be looked at the same. You will not look at me the same.”

Sihtric took his time in replying to Cwen’s fears. Gathered himself. He shifted his weight a bit and picked up a fallen leaf near his boot.

“I told you once that I abandoned my father to swear my loyalty to Uhtred.”

Cwen shifts her eyes to find his, but he is now the one staring off into the trees. Seeing images that are not really there.

“The truth is that my father abandoned the thought of me before I was ever born. Maybe there was never any feeling to abandon in the first place. My father was Kjartan the Cruel. A feared and infamous Dane. My mother was a kitchen slave in his hall. She, like you, was treated with no regard by a man who lived to exert power. As an object for his lusts and I was the result,” Sihtric paused and looked down to the leaf in his hand. There was nothing left but tatters after he had picked it apart.

“He tolerated my existence and when I grew he allowed me to train and be a warrior for him. And at one time, I wanted his approval. I put up with his abuses. The slaps and the name calling. And the way he continued to treat my mother. But I wanted for him to call me son. It was the misguided desire of a wayward bastard. I look back on that boy now, as a man and feel disgust that I ever wished for anything from Kjartan. Knowing that he abused my mother and countless others. I feel shame.”

Cwen reached out and grasped his hand to still his fingers still trying to find pieces of the leaf to tear. She interlaced her fingers with his and shifted her body to lay her head on his shoulder.

“A few months before I found Uhtred, Kjartan had my mother killed. He burned her alive.”

Cwen gasped and lifted her head to look at him. He had his eyes squinted. An effort to keep his tears at bay.

“ He claimed it was because she was found to be stealing food from the kitchens. It was true. She used to give it to the other bastards and orphans. The urchins of Dunholm. And he killed her for it. And my heart was broken. My mother was the only person in my life who showed me real and true love. I had been slowly losing my desire to be counted among Kjartan’s favored sons but that was like a knife to my heart. But I had to continue on as his whipped puppy if I was ever to find my escape. And I found that in Uhtred. Someone worthy of my oath.”

Cwen began, “Sihtric, I …”

But her words were cut off when Sihtric said “I do not tell you for your pity. I tell you this because we all have a past. And most of us in this group have a pretty bad one. The others’ stories are not mine to tell you. But trust me that there is pain behind them as well. And I also tell you because it is possible to share your pain and still be seen as strong. I will share your pain, if you desire.”

They were looking into each other’s eyes now. Faces merely inches apart.

“I do not pity you or find you weak, Cwen. I feel rage over what you have been forced to endure. We all have pain. But knowing that does not make me want to take yours away any less. And I will do all in my power to see you are never put in that pain or danger again. But know that this does not define you. You have not given him that power.”

With that final declaration, Sihtric brought his forehead to rest on Cwen’s own.

The pair rested like this. In each other’s solace until Cwen finally declared that she needed sleep and to check on the children.

They walked back to find the others nestled in the roots of the tree. All except Uhtred, on watch for the early part of the evening.

When he saw them approaching, Sihtric’s arm wrapped protectively around Cwen’s shoulders, he spoke.

“Are you alright, Lady?”

“No. But I will be, Lord. I am sorry to have caused..”

Uhtred raised his hand and gently hissed for her to be quiet. “Nothing to forgive. You spoke truths and shared your soul. We value that. And we value you. As I know Aethelflaed does. Rest now.”

“Thank you, Lord.”

Cwen nestled herself between the sleeping children and exhausted from reliving and sharing such trauma, she was asleep within minutes.

Sihtric watched her for a while longer. He had meant all he had confessed to her. He would do anything in his power to keep her from harm. But he also knew all too well that sometimes harm came regardless of someone’s desires and efforts to avoid it.

It was this thought plaguing him as he drifted to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Upon waking in the morning, the group made ready for their departure.

“Where is Ealfwin?” Cwen asked when she realized the girl was not still laying under the tree as she had been moments before.

“She had wandered that way last I saw her,” Stiorra replied. “She was still in sight. But she must have just gone over that ridge.”

“We will find her, come on,” Finan said as the group spread out in the direction Stiorra had seen Ealfwin wander.

Uhtred found her. Along with the sleeping forms of Mercian soldiers. And Eardwulf.

Quickly and quietly, the warriors returned and found the others. Cwen wrapped Ealfwin in her arms as Sihtric rushed to her sidetaking her arm.

“Eardwulf is here. Ealfwin nearly walked right into them sleeping. We must run.”

And they did. They ran as their lives depended on it stopping only for short minutes to catch their breath and check on the children.

Ealfwin’s energy continued to fade. Her complexion grew paler and there was no denying that she felt warm to the touch.

Afternoon found them at a slow moving river bed. Here they stopped to properly rest.

Cwen sat cradling Ealfwin in her arms as Osferth and Eadith approached to offer the child some water and check on her well-being.

“Thank you. Both of you.” Cwen said while meeting Eadith’s stare.

“Osferth, will you sit with her a moment. I would like a word with Eadith.”

“Of course, Cwen.” Osferth replied.

The two ladies walked several paces down the riverbed, near to a slow trickling waterfall.

“I owe you an apology,” Eadith said with a start as Cwen slowed her pace to trim and look at her.

“You do not.” Cwen sated plainly and gently.

“It is not you who forced themselves on me. You are not your brother. And I am sorry that I have told you an ugly truth about him. But it is the truth.”

The two women looked at one another until Eadith turned her gaze to the water, “I know. I mean I did not know about this before last night. But I do know who he is. I am seeing him for who he really is more and more. And I know you speak truly. And I am still sorry. I did not rape you but I am sorry that you have been preyed upon. I am not unfamiliar with sexual coercion.”

Eadith turned her face back to Cwen.

“You are tired of being controlled.” Cwen echoed her Eadith’s own words back to her.

“Yes. And we deserve better.”

“You are right. And I believe we will find it.” Cwen stated.

In that small moment at the stream’s edge, the women found kindred spirits in one another. It was a welcome thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To be continued….

Let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list.

Tag List: @maggiescarborough @pokeasleepingsmaug @nxrdist @mystic-shadows42 @emilyhufflepufftlk @magravenwrites @lauwrite1225 @morosemagick @thebohemianpenguin @mrsalwayswrite @notyourwildestdream @obipoelover @ecarroll1978

#The Last Kingdom #sihtric x oc #sihtric #Uhtred and his pretty boys

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kittinsrkillers · 4 years ago

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So I'm a die-hard wonder woman fan, and I'll be honest, I'm super not into all these internet edge lords hating on WW84.

It came out yesterday my dudes, you can not feasibly have a fully fleshed out opinion on it yet.

Give it a few more days, talk to a few people about what they thought about it, I guarantee that you will view it much more positively.

That is, of course, if the conversation had isn't actively trying to tear it down.

This is made mostly in response to all the reviews that didn't understand either or both of the film's villains and about the magical McGuffin involved.

Actual spoilers below (it's where I start really complaining)

Now what I said above also applies to me, but I did spend several hours analyzing the movie with friends and family so there is that.

I'm going to be talking about things I've seen and how I think those opinions are one dimensional

1) Barbara did need to be in the movie and/or her storyline dragged

I think this is mostly clouded by the iffy cgi when Barbra becomes Cheetah, because her storyline actively parallels Diana's. Max Lord is not the antagonist to Diana but to Wonder Woman, Barbra is Diana's “antagonist”. She gives up her kindness to gain power and Diana gives up her power, her ability to help other, to gain Steve. Diana relinquishes her wish but we never have any confirmation Barbra does the same despite knowing it will only hurt her. One is willing to see the truth of their world, while the other let their desires consume them.

2) Max Lord doesn't have any clear motivations

Most of the complaints I’ve seen of this don’t understand how he could let things get so bad, as if people don’t dig their heels in and refuse to change plans when things go wrong every day. He is already shown to fall into that with his cooperation, he falls into sunk cost fallacy so easily, his greed blinds him to the cost of his actions, he just needs a little more power and then his son will be proud of him, he will be respected, just a little more, and then things go wrong so he needs just a little more power to fix them and the cycle repeats.

3) The villains' didn’t do anything that bad, they shouldn't of been vilified

They didn’t and they weren’t. I have seen posts addressing this but I’ll do so too, to be inclusive. The villains’ were just regular people blinded by the injustices of the world till they too became part of the problem

Max Lord wanted to be respected and successful so he “cheating” others like he felt life had cheated him.

Barbra was trampled on by people her whole life, so when she got power she trampled on others too. Though hers is harder to talk about because the dream stone stole her warmth and empathy, she no longer cared for other people the way she once used to.

Then they were “forgiven”, able to grow past their mistakes to try and be better.

4) Steve was forced into the movie and he didn’t add anything

This is where my personal opinions really start to show up because I personally don’t think that that was really Steve. I think he was Diana’s memory of Steve, the Steve she wished for.

But before I get into that, if you pay attention to Steve's timeline then he’s just come off major character development and is now more idealistic, he trusts in Diana's judgement and his already strong moral code, he doesn't even consider that Diana could lose because he’s already seen her fight a literal god of war. He has already made sacrifices for the good of mankind, he can and will do so again.

The next bit is connected to my “Steve is a memory come to life” theory so I’ll include it here.

Diana only knew Steve for like a week why is he the one thing she wished for

How could Steve fly a 1980′s jet

Diana left Themyscira for mankind, she attached to Steve so hard because he is one of if not her first love. He was the catalyst for her leaving her home, possibly forever, he was her connection to mankind, so she fixated on him. She is also much older than a human and has a much longer lifespan, theoretically, it could mean she views time as much less important, she can grieve over her dead boyfriend for decades because she will be alive for millennia's.

We do not hear the specifics of Diana’s wish. We do not know the wording used, thus we could hand wave away a lot of the weird bits about Steve. Diana first meets Steve when his plane crashes and she last sees him when he detonates the aircraft full of poison gas. He introduces himself as a pilot, but the lasso of truth compels his to divulge that he is a spy, the rest of the movie focuses more on his ability to spy than his ability to pilot, and with seventy years of nostalgia, Diana , who knew Steve for a week, likely only came to know Steve truly through the rose-tinted stories of his old friends and family. Thus, when he is returned to her, he is her perfect, idealized Steve. The one who she admired for his ability to fly.

Of course, I’m sure there is just as much, if not more evidence to indicate something else entirely, but it’s only been a single day since I saw the movie.

5) It is campy, cartoonish, and less impactful than the first movie

Being campy and cartoonish does not make it less valuable. What does cartoonish mean in this context? Does it mean childish? Does it mean silly or simplistic? Does it mean better actualized through animated film? Because this is a comic book movie. A Wonder Woman comic book movie to boot. It will be hopeful and inspiring, about an incredibly powerful, mythical woman who helps humans by inspiring them to be better. Though a crude comparison, she can be likened to a “Girl Superman” though the tone of the two heroes is drastically different.

I genuinely don’t know why people are criticizing the themes and message this movie is trying to make. People keep throwing around words like heavy and deep about the first movie because it talks about mankind's willingness to hurt others to achieve their own petty goals, as if this movie isn’t exploring how mankind will hurt themselves in their own misguided desire for what they don’t have, how their greedy desires will only hurt themselves and others.

Is it because this one doesn't have a war in it?

I’m getting petty now so I’ll only cover one more thing.

6) A lot of the plot is just handwaved away and we’re just supposed to believe things

This is particularly used regarded the dream stone, it wasn’t explicitly explained and the god that made it is only vaguely mentioned. This applies to all the magic and mythical elements of the movie. Magic and gods are often portrayed as based in belief. Wonder Woman has unwavering belief, belief in people, gods, truth, justice, forgiveness, honor. In return people believe in her. This belief is the main force behind the magic involved in the movie.

We the audience believe in this universe created -> this universe has gods in it capable of incredible feats of magic -> these gods do not always approve of or care for humans -> these gods do not necessarily force humans to participate in what they hold domain over -> A god of lies and deceit made a wish granting stone -> the stone shows the lies of human greed -> the lasso of truth is the embodiment of truth -> one is unable to lie in its hold -> one can “see the truth” in its hold -> the particle satellite thing was wished into working perfectly -> Now the particles “touch” all of mankind (though they can only understand Max Lord through their screens) -> The lasso of truth becomes part of the broadcast thus “holding” all of mankind -> all of mankind can mow see the truth (though the screens only show the magical golden light because they are machines without thoughts)

And though it does not matter if this fits into the DCEU timeline, by all of the other movies, 30 to 35 years have passed, it was a week of unexplained, but certainly not known to be magical, chaos when all of the rest of the justice league was either a child or simply not born yet.

I’m sorry for the crazy rant, but I feel like the internet is full of people who seek out reactions so I made this for people to read when they feel like WW84 is being clogged with negativity. You don’t need to give them the reaction, I already have.

(P.S. The Trump thing isn’t real, Max Lord is the 80′s archetype of the cooperate raider, I didn’t even make that possible connection till the bigots online with their ever present victim-complex started acting all offended)

#ww84 #Positive ww84 #Wonder Woman 1984 #only about the plot #in reaction to weird complaints about the movie #no negativity

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kingofdirtandnothing · 4 years ago

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@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Seventeen

Dean isn’t even sure he believes in God.

That sure as shit doesn’t stop him from showing up at the church every day. He sits in the silence of the times between services, surrounded by warm wood and golden light. The quiet in here doesn’t feel as drowning as it does back in his apartment. Sometimes, Dean felt like this was the only place he could really take a deep breath and be.

It was something about the way the place was built. The idea that people sat in these exact same spots hundreds of years ago, looking for guidance or comfort. No matter how bad things got, this church was still here. Still standing.

No matter how low Dean got, no matter how many days he spent in bed or didn’t brush his teeth or forgot to eat, the church would always be here.

“Hello, Dean.”

And maybe there’s another reason he keeps sticking around here. Not that he’s ever going to admit that out loud. Dean tosses a little smile over to the man who sits down next to him on the pew, even though the whole damn place is empty.

The first time it happened, it set Dean’s teeth on edge. Like the guy was trying to make him uncomfortable (he was succeeding) or to run him off (no way was he succeeding). But he figured out real fast that it was just Cas being Cas. The man had no concept of personal space. Your bubble didn’t exist in Cas’ world. Dean was starting to like it.

When you got used to people keeping their distance from you, even the odd duck at the church who sat close to you felt like intimacy. “Hey Cas.” Dean keeps his voice pitched low, riding the edges of a whisper. They weren’t bothering anyone, but there was just something about this place. Something solemn and old that Dean didn’t want to disrupt with his loud ass voice. “How are you doing, man?”

Cas smiles at him, a slow and steady thing that makes Dean’s heart do stupid flips in his chest. It was weird, it wasn’t like Cas didn’t smile all that often. He smiled all the time. But there was something about it that felt special every time that Dean saw it. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” Sometimes, talking to Cas was like talking to a brick wall. And sometimes, it was like talking to a bulldog with a bone. Polite conversation wasn’t something he did. If he wanted to know something, he asked. And didn’t back down until you answered. Some days, Dean loved it. Some days, Dean hated it. The jury was still out about where he was standing in the road today.

“I’m doing good.” Mostly. Dean sighs, and sees the doubt in those pretty blue eyes. Cas was good at being gently judgemental, and without any words. “I’m hanging in there.” That’s the truth. Today was one of those days where getting out of bed wasn’t so easy. Dean had spent a good half hour just staring at the white paint strokes on the ceiling of his apartment, trying to will his body to do anything but feel like sludge.

He got there. Eventually. Which meant dragging his sad carcass out of bed and changing the Metallica t-shirt and sweats he’d been wearing for the last three days. A shower had been too much of an effort, so Dean slapped on deodorant and washed his face in the sink. You had to take what you could get, some days.

Cas smiles at him, and Dean will tell himself ninety nine times out of a hundred that the smile was the reason he admitted this stuff at all. The other time out of a hundred, he might actually admit to himself that it felt good to be able to tell somebody how he was feeling. “Now.” Dean jabs him in the shoulder with his index finger and gets a huff of laughter for his trouble. “How are you, Cas?”

Cas reaches down to tug on the sleeve of the sweater he was wearing over his button down shirt. With anyone else, Dean would have called it a nervous gesture. But Cas seemed like the kind of guy who was rarely nervous. “I’m well, thank you.” And he definitely wasn’t the type to lie. Not even little white lies to protect someone’s feelings. A fact Dean learned firsthand a few weeks ago when Cas sat down next to him on this very same pew and told him he looked awful.

From Cas, it wasn’t a jab at Dean’s cleanliness or the fact that he’d been a little far past a haircut. It had been a moment of worry from someone who cared about him. Dean was pretty sure that if Cas wasn’t so damn pretty that all these heavy handed conversations would land a little harder.

Lucky for him, Cas was very pretty. Like, unnaturally pretty. It was distracting, honestly.

“Glad to hear it.” Cas was better at silences than Dean was. One settles over them as they sit, Dean lacing his hands together over the top the pew in front of him. Cas keeps his hands in his lap, shoulders nice and loose. Maybe he didn’t get lost in his head the same way Dean did. He couldn’t help but wonder what that was like. Not getting lost in the exhaustion and the worry that circled in his brain what felt like twenty four seven.

Must be nice, that was for sure.

“There is a summer festival they have here.” Cas knew that Dean had only been here a couple of months now. And with the way the down swings hit him, he hadn’t explored more than a few blocks from his place. The church was only around the corner from Dean’s place, and sometimes it took all the energy he had just to drag his ass over here and sit down.

“Yeah?” Maybe it’d be close enough that Dean could see the decorations and stuff outside of his window. That’d be a nice thing to wake up to. Bright colors flapping in the wind and the sound of music and people laughing.

“Yes.” Cas nods. “There are booths where people sell food. I don’t think there are any pies, but I know there are donuts and other sweet things.” Dean huffs a quiet laugh of his own. He’d made a comment once about liking pie, and Cas had taken it to heart.

“That sounds awesome.” Dean’s gotten pretty good at making all the right noises at the right times. He’s had lots of practice when Sam calls. Sam tells him about his law practice and his pretty deaf wife and their struggles with conception and Dean makes all the right noises so that Sam doesn’t think about asking about Dean’s life.

“I’d like you to go with me.” Those words snap Dean right out of his train of thought and he turns to look at Cas, wide eyed. This was a change of pace. The way things were, they sat here together, they talked in hushed whispers and they went their own ways. Dean didn’t give Cas his number, and Cas didn’t give Dean his. Their relationship existed solely within the confines of this church, even if you could call it a relationship. Dean was hesitant to even use the word friendship. And now he didn’t know what the hell was being asked of him. And which one would be worse.

Would it be worse to kill this budding friendship on the off chance of a spark? Or would it be worse for Dean to go places with Cas and sit and stew in the feeling taking hold in his chest and never say a word about it?

“Cas-” It comes out like a warning, and for the first time, Dean sees nervousness in those deep blue eyes. But Cas, he was strong. He wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to back down. Dean always envied that about him.

“No, Dean.” This is soft, just like the hand that reaches out to cup over Dean’s where they’ve fallen useless into his lap. “I know these kinds of declarations make you uncomfortable, but I’m not going to change the subject.”

“Geez.” Dean laughs nervously, his heart pounding a loud tattoo against his ears. “Call a guy out, why don’t you? Isn’t that cutting a little close to the quick?”

Cas doesn’t rise to the bait, and Dean thinks maybe he’s grateful that he didn’t. Cas takes a deep, audible breath, steeling himself before he speaks again. “I enjoy our talks. You’re my friend, and I want what’s best for you. But I have to say something.”

Oh shit, here it is. Dean can feel his hackles raising. He can smell a well meaning, but misguided intervention from a mile away. Hell, the last time this happened he was living back in the states with Benny. Dean took that talk so badly that he moved across the ocean just to get away from it.

Dean starts to pull his hands away, but Cas’ grip tightens, keeping Dean’s hands pinned against his knee. “I care about you, Dean. And I want to keep our friendship. But I can’t keep going on without telling you how I feel.”

Wow. Well, okay. That was not what Dean was expecting. He swallows, a little white around the eyes like a spooked horse, but still pinned to the spot by Cas’ gravel voice. “This isn’t where I saw this going, if we’re being honest.” Yeah, there’s that half manic nervous laugh again. Cas knew him. Cas knew all his bullshit and his depression. How could he still want that?

“Dean.” He’s never known anybody else who could help curb the tide of rising anxiety in his chest with a single word like Cas could. “I care about you. And I’d like you to come with me to the summer festival.” There’s an awkward beat there, Cas working up his nerve. “Romantically.”

“Like a date?” Romantically made it sound like so much more than a date. Like there was weight behind it. (Dean liked the sound of ‘romantically’ a lot better than he liked the sound of dating.)

“A date.” Cas nods, solemn and sweet as ever, and not for the first or the damn last time, Dean wonders what it would be like to kiss him. Just to feel the pressure of lips. Maybe he’d get to feel the way a smile felt on Cas’ lips, up close and personal.

He could have that, maybe. If he manned up and went to the summer festival with him. “I’d like that. I’d like it a lot, actually.” Dean can’t let himself think about the next low swing or what he’d do if the festival happened on a day he had a hard time getting out of bed.

“I’ll come to you. Early. That way, if you’re having one of your bad days, we have plenty of time to help you feel well enough to go.” Cas answers, like he’s reading Dean’s thoughts in neon above his head.

It was enough to make his throat tight. Dean had never had anybody before who saw him, and wanted to stick around. He was a handful on his good days. For Cas to know how low he got and still want to go out with him? That was huge. And planning for a low swing? That was more than icing on the cake. That was a whole other damn cake.

Dean feels warm, right beneath his sternum. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt since before they buried his dad, all those years ago.

It was hope.

“Guess that means I should give you my address and my cell number.”

Cas’ grip on his hands finally loosens, but he doesn’t pull away. He brushes his thumb over the ridges of Dean’s knuckles and smiles.

“I guess you should.”

#ch: dean #polyfacetious | cas #v: expats row #queued #carlota's christmas drabbles

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jane-fucking-seymour · 5 years ago

Text

Legend of the Six

Chapter 19: Wildfire

Words: 5678

AO3 link

Catherine of Aragon understood a few things.

One, that leading people meant having empathy, and that empathy was particularly hard to come by nowadays.

Two, reports of Blesseds being absolutely unheard of in this part of the Realm (and in the upcoming part of Holbein) seemed to be accurate, with absolutely none responding for her calls for aide.

And three, if her luck continued, she might have to return to the so-called “Six” empty-handed.

The first place Catherine had gone was to a small town on the border of the Realm and Holbein, a place that often served as a Blessed training ground.

The usually lively city of Nacht was, from what she remembered, one of the most beautiful cities in the region, and often the center of public festivals and charity work. If you needed help - of any kind, really - you could go to Nacht and have your fill. The city served as a place for the sick, the weary, the injured and the unwell to be able to be healed up by Blesseds in training, as well as where the annual Squire Selections took place. Every year, new Blesseds would arrive to Nacht and the Light would lead them to their partners, their assistants, their closest confidants that would help them on their Blessed journey.

In truth, Catherine hadn’t overly believed in the Blessed’s cause before she became one herself - why would she, when the only time she heard about what they could do was through myths and showcases that were more about the powers than their duty? But then she protected that woman, unlocked her Blessed powers, and trained with two of the best Blesseds the Realm had - only the best for the then-queen.

For months, she had studied the more active powers that Blesseds had - mainly, warfare and various aggressive techniques. It would be a bit later, when Mary came about, where she’d dedicate her studies to more passive and healing techniques, but before then Catherine was considered one of the best swordsmen the world had ever seen.

The second best was still considered to be Anna, but the third was a hot topic for the world. It mainly came down to two people who performed consistently well in inter-kingdom tournaments - mainly, Avril and Maria.

It brought Anna and Catherine closer as rivals, and dare they even say friends.

Regardless, Maria and Avril would always go back and forth on third and fourth place finishes. At last count, they were tied in record, though Avril had won their last bout.

It happened on the same day that the new Blesseds would find their own Squires, part of the opening ceremonies for that year’s Squire Selection, and Catherine can’t help but remember with a fond smile how hers went every time she thinks of it.

Catherine knew her selection within the month of becoming a Blessed; after all, Maria had instantly helped her when she was struck by Henry’s men for protecting the scared, vulnerable woman they had chosen to attack. The two had always been close, and it just made sense to her for them to grow even closer.

When she arrived at the ceremony that year, she had been with Maria, having travelled by foot to the Capitol to get to Nacht. She remembers the day fondly, as vividly as her most precious memories:

“Do you think Henry will make an appearance?” Maria had asked. “He said he would, right?”

“He did,” Catherine agreed, “but doesn’t mean he will. I’d be surprised to find him here, he never did think much of Blesseds.”

“He thought they weren’t powerful or something?” Maria asked.

“No, he just thinks they are useless in battle.” Catherine shrugged. “Called Blesseds unremarkable and flimsy.”

“But Blesseds fight for good,” Maria pressed. “Why would he think that?”

Catherine didn’t answer as they moved through the gates of the city.

They arrived just in time for the opening ceremonies, where all of the new Blesseds would formally be recognized by the rest of the group.

Maria cheered the loudest when Catherine was announced.

Then came the tournament, where the new Blesseds would fight each other, one versus one, in an attempt to showcase the strength of the new class.

Catherine had, by all accounts, won the tournament handsomely.

There were a few other things - things that were done behind closed doors, open only to the Blesseds themselves - before the final, big event occured: the Bathing of Light and Squire Selection.

Two things happened at that time: first, the new Blesseds formally take the Oath that they took when they first got their powers in front of the rest of the Blesseds in the area, formally recognizing their status and leaving their old, civilian ways behind. They were then bathed in the light of an alter set up in the middle of Nacht, where they would be “transformed” (showcase a bit of their power) and set on the Path of Light. It was more of a formality, a publicized ritual that occurred for centuries before them and would (hopefully) happen for melinia after them.

The second, however, would happen immediately after that ended.

The new Blessed would raise their weapon of choice - their sword, their staff, their hand, whatever they would prefer to use - and it would glow with a brilliant light before a ray of that power would shoot out and touch someone else. That person would glow with light and, if accepted, would be formally recognized as the Blessed’s Squire, their assistant and partner throughout all of their time as a Blessed.

For some, their Squire trained with them from the start and it would just be assumed that that person would eventually become their full-fledged Squire. However, that was not always the case; the Squire is chosen is one of the greatest mysteries of the Realm, and Blesseds say that it’s up to the Light itself to make the decision.

Catherine was the last to make the Selection, as customary for the victor of the tournament preceding the event. She held up her sword and took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she felt something in her heart and soul stir, shoot up into her arm and into her sword, then immediately splinter off…

… and right to Maria.

Maria’s eyes widened as she started to glow, looking down at her hands before she looked up at Catherine excitedly. She took the Oath and became a Squire only a few moments later, ending the ritual in a hug with her Blessed.

At the end, Catherine couldn’t help but ask:

“Did you expect that? You made it look like you weren’t, is all. I couldn’t think of anyone better, and I’m glad the Light agreed.”

Maria chuckled.

“Not really, I never thought I’d be in contention because we never talked about it,” Maria shrugged. “I expected to be jealous of whoever was, if I’m being honest.” Maria winked then, downing her drink. “Guess I don’t have to be.”

Catherine chuckled.

“No,” she says, holding up her drink. “You really don’t have to be.”

The memory fades from Catherine’s mind just in time for her to see Nacht in it’s current state: burned to the ground, destroyed, looted.

Gone.

Blessed tapestries and banners were burned by the looks of it. To Catherine’s horror, she saw what looks like piles of ashe littering the area.

All Blesseds.

All gone.

She was just about to leave before she heard someone in one of the very few still-standing buildings. With a frown, she followed in, only to find a young girl looking for food.

“Hello?” Catherine asks, and it spooks the girl so bad she screams. “No! It’s okay, little one, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Catherine softly glows with golden, warm energy, and the Blessed’s magick pays off: the girl starts to calm down a bit.

“Do you know what happened here, little one?” Catherine asks.

“To Nacht? It’s been destroyed for months now,” the girl says, frowning. She’s tense, but she’s not screaming; a better condition, if you asked Catherine.

“Do you know who did it?”

“The Realm. Shortly after the face stealers were revealed.”

Catherine nods. “Thank you. Do you want some coin?”

The girl looks nervous. “Who… are you? You’re a Blessed, I know, but… who are you?”

Catherine tilts her head. “Do you not recognize me?”

“Should I?”

Catherine takes a moment before she shrugs; guess Henry’s pulled her out of the history books or something.

No matter, she’ll get it back once it’s all settled.

“I’m a friend,” Catherine replies, taking out her bag and putting four gold pieces on the ground. “You look hungry. This should help.”

The girl doesn’t move, so Catherine backs up and leaves instead.

She continues walking, looking around the area, trying to figure out if this mission was even salvageable at this point. She didn’t expect Henry to attack Blessed facilities - why would he, when he had deemed them unnecessary? - and now she was afraid that her decision with the Final Mercy were all in vain. If this continued, they’d really be stuck, and Catherine may have dealt the deciding blow…

… but then again, she doesn’t feel like she’s alone. She feels like she’s going to be okay, that this will work out. And Catherine of Aragon is not one to abandon her better judgement, unlike someone she knew.

Someone that, with a chuckle, Catherine immediately sensed.

“Come to say hi, Maria?”

Immediately, she moves to her right as an arrow flies past her head. She looks behind her with a bigger grin at the sight of Lyrena herself.

“That’s not my name,” Lyrena replies, “and you’d be wise to yield.”

“Why would I?” Catherine asks, a bit of pep in her step as she looks back at her former Squire. “You’re not going to do anything.”

“I’m actively trying to kill you,” Lyrena replies.

“Try’s the keyword here, babes.” Catherine quips… right before she pulses away.

“Hey!” Lyrena yells, giving chase.

The two pulse through the area, dodging trees and wildlife and various other hazards as Catherine leads them exactly where they needed to go - exactly where her plan was leading, and where Catherine hoped she wasn’t too late.

All the while, Lyrena is attacking, but Catherine is able to dodge. Not once does she ever raise a weapon against her misguided friend.

When Catherine finally stops, she can’t help but sigh in relief.

“Finally given up?” Lyrena says as she touches down near Catherine.

“Hm? Oh, no,” Catherine says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just happy it’s here.”

She makes a gesture towards the thing before them.

“The Sanctuary of Holbein.”

The Sanctuary was a small village that surrounded a series of golden platforms, on top of which was an altar. Though the Sanctuary in the Realm had been destroyed, this one seemed to be in prime condition.

A stroke of luck, just in time.

“Why are you even coming here, face-stealer?” Lyrena growled out. “Only Blesseds are allowed on this sacred ground.”

“Usually, yes, but today is a very important, very needed day,” Catherine replies. “Besides, I’m not a face-stealer, and you know this.”

Lyrena narrows her eyes. Catherine continues.

“You know it, I know you do. You’re just not saying it for some reason. Do you even know why?”

Lyrena takes out her blade. It does not deter Catherine.

“I don’t know, not yet, but I imagine we’ll figure it out when you start swinging that thing at me. I, however, won’t be raising my own weapon. I won’t need it.”

Lyrena rolls her eyes. “Cheeky.”

Catherine smiles. “Only for you.”

And with that, the one-sided fight begins.

Lyrena strikes, Catherine dodges.

Lyrena strikes again, Catherine simply moves out of the hit.

Lyrena continues to strike, continues her attack… but she just can’t do it. She just can’t catch her former Blessed.

And as the attacks continue, Catherine gets the impression that she doesn’t really want to.

Eventually, Lyrena, tired out for the moment, stops and stares at Catherine. Catherine stands, sword still in its sheath.

Lyrena practically growls in frustration.

“Use it.”

Catherine simply shakes her head, and Lyrena goes for another attack. Again, Catherine dodges. Lyrena is getting more upset now.

“USE IT!”

Again and again, Lyrena attacks, and again and again, Catherine dodges. Eventually, however, Lyrena manages to adjust, hitting Catherine in the shoulder.

Catherine yelps, falls to a knee, holding the shoulder that she just hit. It only hit the woman’s armor, not going any further, but the impact still hurt.

Catherine smirks.

“Remembering me, are you? My movements, how I dodge? It’s been forever, but I figured you’d adapt relatively quickly.” She smiles. “You know it’s me, yet you’re still attacking. Why?”

Lyrena yells out in anger and goes for the girl again, attacking over and over and over. Catherine, once again, either dodges or takes the hit.

By the end, Catherine ends up on the ground, Lyrena on top of her, blade at the ready to strike a devastating blow.

Catherine just watches.

Lyrena is furious.

“DO SOMETHING!”

“I swore to you, all those years ago, that I would not strike you down unless it’s necessary or in practice,” Catherine says. “And I don’t need to here.”

“I’m literally about to kill you.”

“You won’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you know who I am.”

“You’re a face-stealer-”

“Liar.”

Lyrena narrows her eyes. Catherine tilts her head.

“Maria-”

“Don’t call me that!”

Catherine blinks.

“Oh, right, I get it, you’re not Maria right now because Maria’s not a coward, hm? Lyrena’s the coward? Nice compartmentalizing.”

Lyrena freezes at the question, so Catherine continues.

“You were lost in your grief, so you believed anything. I get it. It’s human of you to do that. But I would have…” Catherine’s got tears in her eyes now. “I expected you to know better eventually. I expected you to be able to overcome the lies. I think you did, but you never acted on it.” She shrugs. “It’s why you haven’t killed me yet, right?”

Lyrena says nothing, so Catherine slowly sits up. Lyrena is still on top of her, but only on her legs; Catherine’s propped up on her elbows as she watches Lyrena fight with herself.

“I know you know I’m real, I know you knew that since before Katherine was stabbed in the palace. What I don’t know is… why didn’t you say anything about it? Why didn’t you do anything?” Catherine frowns. “What happened to Maria de Salinas, the best Squire in Blessed history?”

Lyrena is shaking, blade at the ready… before it drops harmlessly to the side. Lyrena sags a bit, sitting on Catherine’s legs as she looks down, defeated.

“She lost her faith, Catherine.”

Lyrena shakes her head.

“Your death… it didn’t feel real from the start. I knew something was wrong. But everyone else was convinced and I… I’m not strong enough, Catherine. I lost you - I had already given into that face. And I just… I wanted to do what you always made me promise I’d do if you were gone.”

Catherine nods. “Take care of Mary.”

Lyrena nods back. “I had absolutely no way to track you. Nothing I used worked. Blessed energy faded. By all accounts… you were dead.”

“Except in the account where you knew I wasn’t,” Catherine says softly. Lyrena shook her head.

“But I had nothing to prove it. Just a gut feeling. So I figured it was wrong, and I took care of Mary instead.”

“And she led you into the Darkness, it seems,” Catherine says. “I can’t help but be disappointed in you, Lyrena.”

Lyrena looks absolutely broken by the statement.

She shakes her head, head down, and all Catherine does is watch her closely.

“I… I’m sorry, Catherine-” Lyrena starts, but Catherine continues.

“Did you kill anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Soldiers. In war.”

“That happens all the time.”

“They were on the right side. They were the defenders.”

“During the different wars that Henry put you through, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever use banned magicks?”

Lyrena looks shocked at the question, snapping her head up to look at Catherine.

“What? No! I would never-”

“Did you ever aide in the magicks being casted?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then I think you’re still good, in all honesty.”

Lyrena blinks, then tilts her head.

“Why did you come here, Catherine?

Catherine sighs. “I came back for her.”

Lyrena tilts her head. “For Mary?”

“For Katherine.”

Lyrena says nothing as Catherine gets up and moves forward, towards the flame. It’s dawn now, and the flame seems to have gotten brighter throughout the night. Now, as the sun peeks over the mountains, the flame is almost blinding.

Lyrena moves with Catherine, only a step behind her, as they approach. Catherine steps up to the pedestal, watching the flame dance with life and renewed energy.

“And I imagine you’ll take the Blessed Oath once more?” Lyrena asks.

Catherine nods.

“I owe her that much.” She looks back, a soft smile on her face. “And with you as my Squire, how could she ever go off the Path of Light?”

Lyrena raises an eyebrow. “And you think I’ll just… go back to that? After everything I’ve done-”

“After everything Lyrena has done,” Catherine is quick to reply. “Take up Maria again. I miss her, and I think you do too. Let Lyrena go… or build off of her, one of the two. Take Lyrena’s crimes and redeem yourself through Maria.”

Lyrena watches Catherine carefully, clearly struggling with what Catherine was suggesting.

“I killed people for her, Catherine. I killed and destroyed for Mary - and for Henry.”

“And I’m not saying just completely forget what happened,” Catherine says, tone neutral. “But I think you can grow from it and I know you want to make amends. I see it in your eyes, Maria.”

Lyrena shakes her head. “Please don’t call me that.”

“I’m calling you that because that’s your name. Your actual name. You’re from the light, you’re just, you were just… misguided. Swayed by grief into the dark.”

Catherine offers her hand.

“Let me help you come back to the Light.”

Lyrena takes a deep breath, watching the hand for a moment. It glows softly with Radiant energy.

For a moment, Catherine really thought her oldest friend would walk out of the Sanctuary right then and there.

Instead, Lyrena nods.

“Okay.”

She takes Catherine’s hand, eyes squeezing shut as she feels Blessed energy pulses through Catherine’s hand and into her body again. Her armor returns to the pristine, gold-tinted form it was back then, and she can feel her eyes pulse with Radiant energy again.

Maria stands tall, once again a full-fledged Squire of a Blessed.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Catherine asks, smile growing as she watches Maria take it all in.

Maria nods in awe, looking down at her hands. “I forgot what it really felt like, to be able to wield this…” she squeezes her hands shut. “The amount of good we can do… maybe it’ll be enough.”

Catherine pulls her Squire into a hug, which Maria happily returns with as much force.

“I missed you,” Maria mumbled.

“I missed you too, love,” Catherine replies, sighing with relief that this worked out as well as it did.

They’re silent for a moment, enjoying the hug, before Catherine pulls back. “We have work to do, no?”

Maria’s smile falls. “What about Mary-”

“She will never walk the Path of Light again,” Catherine interrupts, “but she can still be saved. If anything, her not having her powers now should help save the lives she swore to protect.” Catherine looks into the flame. “We have a plan, so let’s stick to it.”

Maria thinks about it for a moment before she nods, a hand on Catherine’s shoulder.

Maria nods. “Let’s get to it then-”

Suddenly, faster than what Maria can react to, a woman with wings tackles her. With great speed, Maria is bashed into a nearby wall, leaving Catherine alone where they were just standing a moment ago.

Their attacker pulses towards Maria again, but Catherine defends her Squire.

“Easy now,” Catherine says, shield up as the attack hits it. She raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you have wings, Anna?”

Anna immediately stops, yielding, and smirks. “You like?” She shows off the wings. “It’s those gauntlets I told you I’d get made.”

“They… make you have wings?”

“It’s Peleazar’s wings.”

“The dragon?”

“The dragon.”

“And why do you have those wings?”

“Because he’s in my head now.”

“Your-”

“Yeah. It’s a thing.”

After a moment of silence, Catherine shrugs then turns to Maria. “She’s good now,” Catherine says to Anna, moving to help her Squire up. “She’s with us.”

“That so?” Anna asks, walking towards them.

Maria huffs. “I told you I was going to talk to her,” Maria mumbles, straightening herself out.

“Yeah, well, call it payback for the past few months,” Anna replies, wings now gone. “I’m glad Catherine trusts you again.”

Maria smiles and nods, right before Catherine moves past them and to the alter.

“Alright. Here we go.”

Anna steps back and Maria steps forward as the Blessed and her Squire approach the alter.

Anna keeps watch, looking around to see if there were any unwanted visitors.

As she does, both Catherine and Maria stand at the alter and, together, put their hands into the flame. It grows ten times as big and, with a few words that Anna doesn’t recognize, they set off the start of the Blessed magicks.

It’s a weird feeling, but for Anna, it’s almost like… the souls of past, present, and future Blesseds swirl around them with a warm, wonderful surge. Thousands - millions? - of flames surround them, all slowly but surely turning into an inferno of light.

Anna is in awe, but Maria and Catherine continue the ritual. With a final declaration, Catherine summons a ball of light into her hand and thrusts it into the flame.

The explosion it creates blinds them all for a few moments, but when the flare dies down, they are all at the foot of the alter, staring up at it.

And there, at the top of the altar, is none other than Katherine Howard.

Her clothing has a gold trim to it now, staff next to her apparently made of pure sunlight. She’s levitating off the ground, shimmering wings of what seems to be Blessed energy attached to her back as she slowly comes to.

The girl looks up, then around, then at the wings, then at the people below her. They’re bowing, and it’s confusing.

Gently, oh so gently, the Druid is brought to the ground.

“Are you alright?” Anna is the first to speak, closing the distance between them to help Katherine steady herself. The wings burst into light and fade off.

Katherine blinks, a hand to her head. She frowns, deep in thought, until a hand comes into view. She looks up to find Catherine of Aragon there, smiling gently. Lyrena - Maria? - is next to her. On Katherine’s left is Anna, looking as relieved as she is in awe.

Katherine takes the hand that Aragon offers, tilting her head curiously. “What’s happened?”

“You’ve been reborn,” Catherine replies. “These powers travel from one person to the next… I imagine you got my Mary’s when she broke her Oath.” Then, with an even bigger smile:

“Welcome back, Blessed Howard.”

Katherine’s eyes go wide before she nods, looking down at her hands again before she looks back up. Her eyes glow gold for a moment before she hurries down the stairs, quickly moving to their side.

“They’re coming.”

Anna frowns. “Who?”

“Realmmen. About 500 of them.” Katherine tilts her head, as if listening to something the others can’t hear. “The trees are talking about them… more than they’ve ever spoken to me before.”

“Blessed Druids are fairly powerful usually, and Life itself can strengthen its voice through them,” Maria replies. “It’s not surprising that they’re chatty right now.”

Katherine moves forward, extending her hand. Her staff returns to her - filled with pure Radiant energy, more powerful than it ever was - and she stands tall as the Realmmen arrive.

Catherine stands to her left, Anna to her right, Maria immediately next to Catherine.

“500 vs four is a bit touchy odds,” Anna says, getting her sword ready.

Catherine watches the men for a moment before she takes a step back. “We’re not ready for this.”

“We’ll lose the Sanctuary,” Maria warns, but she’s already caught on to what Catherine was going to do and quickly grabs the stone Catherine offers, opening the portal.

“We don’t have a choice, not when Katherine’s only just returned,” Catherine replies. They all escape safely.

They end up rushing through the living room, Katherine falling to her knees.

“Easy there,” Catherine says quietly, kneeling to gently hold Katherine’s shoulder. “You only just came back, it’ll take some time-”

“What’s going on?”

The four look up to find Cathy and Anne standing there. Anne is absolutely frozen in shock.

“Katherine?”

Kat gives a soft smile and, shakily stands up.

“I… I don’t know what’s really happened,” Katherine mumbles tiredly. “But I’m back, yeah. It’s me, Annie-”

Instantly, she’s pulled into a very, very tight hug by her cousin.

Katherine hugs back with everything she has, smiling brightly as Anne hugs her even tighter.

Cathy looks over at Catherine. “Was this your plan?”

Catherine nods. “The Final Mercy was to bring her back as a Blessed, yes.”

Anna continues. “We knew she had Blessed powers because of Avril’s detecting us that one night. The three of us talked it over for a few minutes and came to the conclusion rather quickly- well, that and her saving me from a dragon. That helped the argument, too.”

“All Blesseds are required to be reborn to unlock their full potential,” Catherine continues. “So when she was injured beyond repair… well, Jane made the decision for us, really.”

Cathy hums, leaning back a bit in thought. “Do you think Jane knew about that? We both knew she was something special, but she researched Blesseds far more than I did…”

“We’ll get the chance to ask her when we storm the castle,” Catherine replies, but her next sentence is cut off when another woman arrives in the room. “Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth stands tall with a soft smile on her face. “Hello, Catherine. It’s wonderful to see you again.” She looks over at the cousin’s reunion with a smile before tapping Katherine on the shoulder. When Kat sees her, she squeals with delight and hugs the woman tightly.

“It’s great to see you all back, safe and sound,” Elizabeth says with a soft sight, keeping Katherine close. “Even you, Lyrena.”

“It’s Maria now,” Maria replies. “Finally decided to just… do it.”

It makes Liz smile even wider.

“So,” Catherine says, sitting back against the windowsill. She motions to Katherine, who immediately goes to hug her with a grin. “I take it everyone’s work was a success?”

“Mostly,” Anna replies. “Holbein is holding off what they can, but the mind magicks usage means the Realm has the upper hand by a wide margin. It won’t be long until Holbein falls, but Avril and Bessie are both ready to go and lead Holbein to victory when we are. Oh, and when we’re done here, Anne, I have some gauntlets I need to show you.”

Catherine nods, then turns to her daughter. “How’s Weston?”

“The Revolution is well under way,” Cathy says, “and they’re willing to help us. I have my sister on standby for further orders. They’re not warriors by any means, but a mob’s a mob and they did fight off a full team of Realm soldiers.”

“Maggie’s in the other room, she’s resting after what happened,” Anne says. “She’s a bit out of it, it’s been years since she was conscious, but she’s handling it as well as she can - maybe Catherine can help her further with some Blessed healing or something. Oh, and uh, I got Elizabeth, too, in case you didn’t notice, so… wasn’t too bad of a solo mission, if I do say so myself.”

“Good. And now Katherine is back, and Jane can be handled later,” Catherine says. “This is as good of a shape as we’re going to get. If we want to attack, now’s probably the best time.”

Cathy tilts her head. “Do you have a plan?”

“Nothing concrete, but I think we can figure it out on the way.” Catherine says, moving towards the portal. Maria loyally follows, but Anne can’t help but ask:

“On the way to where?”

Catherine smirks.

“You know the Moonlight Festival that’s upcoming, right?” Catherine asks. When Anne nods, she continues. “It’s the only time where the guards are a bit more scattered than normal. I expect them to be a bit more strained because of the Holbein issue, too, so-”

“Perfect time to strike,” Anne says.

“Well, not like we could wait for much longer, either,” Anna says. “Alright then. Some of us can stay here while the others travel. If we’re fast, we can be well on our way by first light.”

“Katherine should stay here to rest,” Catherine says. “Cathy can tend to the others. Elizabeth might be useful in that regard as well, no?”

“I’ll head on out with you, Maria and Anna, then,” Anne says. “Scout a bit to make sure we’re safe, too.”

“We’ll figure out a place to base ourselves and then move forward with coming up with a plan,” Catherine says. “For the moment, we need to set ourselves up closer to Henry. Once we do that, we’ll be ready.”

With a nod, the group disperses.

As soon as they’re out of the portal, Anna, Catherine, Maria and Anne head towards the Capitol, one step at a time.

As they walk, Anne can’t help but say it:

“Really couldn’t have let me in on the whole make-Kat-a-Blessed thing, hm?”

Catherine winces at that. “... we didn’t know if it would truly work because we didn’t know if any Sanctuaries were left, so-”

“I’m okay with it because it worked,” Anne interrupts. “And Kat’s safe and sound back at base. I guess… giving me false hope would have been worse, hm?”

Catherine nods. “Exactly what we were trying to avoid, yeah.”

Anne nods. “I get it. Just… I dunno, do it faster next time? Feels like years since I last saw her.”

Catherine chuckles. “If I have to resurrect a loved one of yours using ancient magicks again, I’ll be sure to hasten the very strict and formal ritual, yes.”

Anne winks. “Good, we’re at an understanding, then.”

A few hours in, Anne and Maria had gone ahead to scout, and Anna can’t help but ask Catherine:

“Do you think Jane knew this would happen?”

Catherine raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well… she did some research on Blesseds, right? And it wasn’t hard to figure out that Katherine would be the next one. Do you think… maybe… she helped us on this?”

Catherine stops.

“Do you think she did?”

“I think she’s smart and witty and not entirely on Henry’s side,” Anna replies. “I don’t think she’s a good person. But I don’t think she’s against us, either.”

Catherine watches Anna for a moment before she continues to walk. “I don’t know, in all honesty,” Catherine says as Anna catches up, “but I wouldn’t put it past her. We’ll have to ask her when we get to her.”

“If Anne will even let us have a chance to speak to her before she kills her, you mean,” Anna says with a frown, and Catherine sighs.

“It’s my duty as a Blessed to make sure there are no needless casualties,” Catherine rattles off part of the Oath almost mindlessly. “So she’s probably safe from Anne’s blade.”

“Only probably?” Anna asks, but they’re cut off by Maria and Anne returning.

“Find anything?” Catherine asks.

“Only a few smaller squads in the area,” Maria says. “Nothing too major. We’ve found a path that’ll steer us clear of them but still fairly direct to the Capitol.”

“The longer we go, the harder it’ll be to feign detection through normal means,” Anne warns. “We should have Cathy get potions ready.”

“She’s already on it. Now that she has a bit more time with Elizabeth back, she’s been getting to prep things more,” Catherine explains. “We’ll be ready.”

“Once we’re there, I’m sure a few old buddies of mine can help with finding us some good places to lay low,” Anne says as they continue to walk. “Maybe even find us some food and the like, should help with the others’ recoveries.”

“I’ve still got a few friends that can help keep us safe and get us some potions and the like. We can really stock up on what we need for this final push.”

“And I know some guards that owe me a few favors,” Maria says. “They’ll look the other way on a few things. Shouldn’t be an issue.

“See? We’re practically overpowered with how much good stuff we’ve got going for us now,” Anne says with a grin. “I’ll go tell the others that, make sure they know this is in the bag.”

“I don’t think-” Catherine starts, but Anne is quickly portaled back to base.

Anna chuckles. “I think she just wanted to see everyone in the portal again,” Anna quips. “Probably not letting either of them out of her sight ever again.”

“Poor Kat and Mags, they’re going to have to get used to it,” Maria quips.

Catherine chuckles. “She deserves some good news after the hell she just went through. And until we get to the Capitol, she’s more than welcome to do whatever she wants to lift her spirits a bit more.” Catherine sobers up then. “With what’s about to happen… it might never be as happy for her again.”

They’re silent, deep in thought, as they continue their walk.

#six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fanfic #six fanfiction #sixfic #six the musical #catherine of aragon #catherine parr #anne boleyn #katherine howard #maria #maria liw #jane seymour #maggie #maggie liw

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7deadlycinderellas · 5 years ago

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If the summer of our lives could just come again, ch2

Ao3 Link

Catelyn

Lady Catelyn would be ashamed to admit it took her much longer than her husband to notice something amiss with her children.

Bran’s accident had distracted her enough, that one of them could have disappeared and she might not have noticed. Every day she spent much of her free time sitting with him. She did her best not to neglect her duties, but it was often difficult.

One morning, Sansa had asked her to help brush and fix her hair. It was a bit off to start that she hadn’t simply asked one of the servants to help, Sansa took great care and pride in her appearance, and often spent much of the morning with one of the girls twisting it into a style more befitting of a southern lady than one from the stalwart north.

Running the brush through her daughter’s hair, Cat hums softly. Sansa asks her,

“How much longer until the King and his men leave?”

“Just two more days,” Cat tells her. This seems a good enough time to broach the topic.

“What happened to make you suddenly not wish to marry Prince Joffrey anymore?”

Catelyn had never really been in favor of the match. Southern boys were so different from the world her daughter knew, and she feared her sudden infatuation would cause her to make a rash decision. Still, she was curious what caused the sudden change.

Sansa worries her lip with her teeth. “Later that night after the feast, I heard him making fun of Arya. He called her- it was foul, I won’t repeat it.”

Oh. That was really not what Catelyn had expected. Perhaps that would explain why the two sisters had seemed closer than before.

“And then, later, I heard him being cruel about Bran’s accident. Laughing about it even. Enough that even his own uncle slapped him. How in the world could I marry someone like that?”

She leans forward to wrap her arms around her daughter’s chest and squeeze her.

“I wasn’t ready to lose you to marriage anyhow.”

Sansa grabs and squeezes her wrist, her eyes focusing somewhere far away.

“It does make me wonder.”

“What’s that sweetheart?”

“If he treats children this way, how will he treat his subjects.”

Catelyn has always been proud of her daughter’s accomplishments and protective of her dreams even when she recognized them as dangerously guileless. Now she’s very proud of her judgement.

Once she finishes the simple braid Sansa requests, Catelyn fixes the end, gives it a tug and gets up to leave.

“Don’t worry Sansa, one day you’ll meet a good man, who is brave and good and loves you, and you’ll fall in love and marry him just like you’ve always wanted.”

She leaves and shuts the door, and so can’t hear Sansa’s quiet response of,

“No, that’s Arya.”

Bran

“Any new bird updates?”

Sansa and Arya had taken to slipping in to visit Bran before bed at night, to touch base.

“The Reeds are halfway here. Davos has convinced Stannis to let him take Shireen to stay with Renly. He tells him being in a less grim household will be good for her.”

“Oh!” Sansa squeaks with surprise, “That’s probably a good idea, she’ll be safer there.”

“Unless Renly still tries to challenge Stannis for the throne,” Arya adds grimly.

Bran shakes his head.

“King Robert’s death is still a bit away, if it still happens at all. Davos hasn’t spoken where he plans to go after Storm’s End, but his maps are to King’s Landing, then up to White Harbor. And he’s smuggled several large crates, full of dragonglass.”

“A smuggler still, “ Sansa says, smiling.

“Anything of Gendry?” Arya asks, trying not to sound too anxious.

Bran shakes his head again.

“Not too much. His master has noticed that he knows how to do things he hasn’t taught him yet. Gendry’s being rather mouthy and stubborn with him too-”

“When is he not?”

“I think he’s trying to get himself kicked out so he can leave.”

Arya slumps forward.

“I wish I could tell him it’s not safe to try and leave by himself, that Davos is probably coming for him.”

“Gendry’s stubborn, you’ve said it enough.” Sansa insists, “Even if we could he might not heed our advice.”

Attempting to change the subject, Bran interjects with,

“Anything new around Winterfell?”

Arya perks up a bit.

“Jon gave me Needle earlier today, way earlier than he did before!”

“He’s probably noticed you’ve been all morose,” Sansa says, wryly.

Arya shrugs her off.

“Sneaking off to practice isn’t going to be fun though, especially since I’ve noticed Father watching me more.”

Sansa is suddenly quiet, contemplating her next words.

“I’m writing a letter to send with Lord Tyrion. I think having his eyes in King’s Landing will be invaluable.”

Bran looks at her askance. His own interactions with the man had been very limited, though admittedly, positive. The special saddle he’d designed had been one of the few things to have truly made him feel like maybe he wasn’t broken.

“Do you think that wise?”

Sansa’s lips are squeezed in a tight line.

“He is both a clever man and a careful one. Not much can get past him , and I know it might not make sense, but I trust him.”

Arya is still unconvinced,

“There’s a lot of information to try and stuff into a letter.”

Sansa cocks an eyebrow at her.

“I might just be laying my claim on a series of nebulous visions. But I’ve got enough bits of information that I shouldn’t that he won’t be able to ignore me. Things he told me in confidence, that no one outside his immediate family should know.”

“Speaking of Lannisters,” Arya interrupts,”...Bran you should be careful, I saw Jamie skulking around here earlier, but Father was sitting with you so I he didn’t try anything.”

“Did we ever figure out who sent the assassin after you before?” Sansa asks.

“It was Joffrey, some kind of fucked up misguided sense of mercy. I don’t think he’ll try that now, since all I’ve got are broken bones.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. As if they needed another reason to hate Joffrey.

“Actually, I kind of want to talk to Jamie at some point.”

“Anything urgent to tell him?”

“I thought ‘stop fucking your sister, even if it weren’t disgusting, she’s a horrible person who does her best to make you one too’ might be too on the nose, but it’s all I’ve come up with.”

Arya claps him on the shoulder.

“You will definitely die if you tell him that.”

Jon

Jon had known that leaving Winterfell for the Watch was going to be hard. He had still been completely willing to stick to his plans. But in the past week, his resolve was being tested.

Lord and Lady Stark were treating him much the same, Ned with kindness, and Catelyn with barely concealed glee that he was soon going to be out of her hair. Robb still treated him as a brother. But his younger siblings…

Sansa had, just the other day, while outside the Maester’s tower, suddenly thrown her arms about him and declared how much she was going to miss him. It involved more words than Jon could remember her ever sparing him before. Sansa had never been cruel to him, true, but she had dismissed him nearly as much as her mother had.

Bran’s fall has tested him as well. But then the boy had woken, in near impossible spirits for a child hurt so badly. And he had beamed at Jon when the guards had helped him to the training yard (against Maester Luwin’s recommendations) so he could watch the older boys train.

Arya had been unusually reticent with him. It’s so unlike her, that it genuinely worries him. It worries him enough that he chooses to give her the gift he’d had made for her several days early.

She had cackled with joy when presented with the sword, naming it “Needle” with hardly a misstep. He’s later spotted her with it, alone in the training yard, after the evening meal. Her movements were untrained, and unconventional, almost like a dance. He secretly hopes that she’ll never have to use it.

He also swears he hears her mutter something about having “stupid little doll hands,” but he can’t make heads or tails of that.

Sansa

“We have to tell Jon,” Arya insists.

She’s right, Sansa knows. It’s horrifically unfair to send Jon off unprepared with as much as what they know is going to happen. But how?

“How should we even get him alone?” Bran tries to figure.

“Sansa, you can grab him after we’re all supposed to be in bed, you’re closest. I can sneak down here easily. If anyone catches us, just tell them that we were going to miss Jon terribly, and wanted to spend as much time with him as we could.”

Arya’s plan is a good one, Sansa thinks. It’s mostly true. Even so, she still feels her stomach flutter when she stands outside Jon’s chambers waiting for him to appear, hoping he’s alone, and hoping she’s right that all the servants have finished their business near there.

He is, to their luck. He looks surprised to see her, and she understands. This is entirely unlike her old self, which is why it was a good choice for her to be the one to get him. Young Sansa always followed rules, always did what she was supposed to, rarely even stayed up past when she was supposed to be in bed. And she did not spend her free time consorting with her bastard half-brother.

Which explains Jon’s terribly confused face when she reaches to grasp him by the arm and says, “come with me”.

“Sansa, what in the wo-”

She drags him down the hallway, and into Bran’s room. Arya is sitting in the chair beside his bed, and Bran has pulled himself up so that he’s sitting unsupported.

Jon’s eyes track between the two of them slowly, and then back to Sansa, who’s bolting the door just in case. When she finishes, she sits at the end of the bed, and gestures for Jon to do the same on the other side.

“We wanted-we had to talk to you before…” Sansa trails off. There’s so damn much, how do they even start?

“You’re leaving in what, two days?” Arya asks.

“...Yes, Uncle Benjen and the others are leaving for the Wall in two days.”

Arya glances at Bran.

“How long-”

Bran shakes his head.

“Three or four more.”

“What are you-”

Bran takes a deep breath.

“You will leave in two days, and you will make it to the wall. The other men of the Night’s Watch are concerned about why the Wildlings are fleeing their villages. You will find out. You will rise in the ranks, and you will do great things, but any glory will be for naught.”

Jon is confused. That is putting it lightly. He would almost think they were just trying to be encouraging, but the tone in Bran’s voice….he desperately wants to interrupt him, but he can’t.

“It will be for naught, because that deserter Father executed a few weeks back was absolutely right, the dead are rising and the Others have returned.”

Jon’s head is swimming. Deserters, white walkers, he wants to accuse them of making up stories, of Bran having spent too much time listening to Old Nan while he was recovering.

“So many people will die, and they will rise as the Night King’s wights-”

Finally, Jon has the voice to interrupt Bran.

“Stop it! I don’t know why you three brought me here if you’re just going to be making up stories-”

“Because we lived them Jon!” Arya interrupts, her voice angry. Genuinely angry, not the anger of an impatient and impudent little girl. “All three of us watched it happen. And now we’re back here, and we won’t fucking let it happen again.”

Admittedly, Arya is often foul-mouthed, but she’s rarely been so casual about it. Jon is choosing to focus on this instead of what she’s said.

“We lived it...and then we came back. There was, some sort of, anomaly or hole, or something, in the middle of the Neck, and we went through it, and we woke up back here, years before. It was a long time,” Sansa admits, “Lots of things happened. Babies were born, people married...lots of people died, but not always at the hands of beasts.”

There’s a tilt to her voice, one full of pain.

Arya speaks up again.

“Father was the first. He figured out the secret that got Jon Arryn killed, and they killed him for it too.”

Jon is aghast.

“You’re telling me this and just expecting me to hear it and then leave?”

Sansa takes a deep breath.

“So much of what happened....It mattered at the time, and it will matter again, but if we don’t deal with the threat the Night King and the white walkers bring, there won’t be anything left in Westeros to fight over.”

Jon sits, contemplative for a moment.

“What do you think I should do?”

“Just be who you always are,” Arya comments, smiling, “Brave, kind, just. The man Father raised you to be. And know that any rumours you hear about the things we told you are true.”

“You’re going to end up being involved with everything anyway.” Sansa tells him solemnly, “Just because of who you were born.”

There’s a long pause there, and the three Stark siblings think hard on what to say next.

“What would you say,” Bran starts, “If we told you we knew who your mother was?”

Jon freezes. This truly is the one bit of knowledge that has haunted his life, the ever present question.

“I would ask how you knew, and why you three, and not Father or Mother?”

Sansa has her head bowed, and continues, quietly.

“What would you say if we told you you were not our brother, but in fact our cousin?”

Jon’s face turns white. His mind turns the statement over in his mind.

“Uncle BenJen took the black, and Uncle Brandon….”

Bran shakes his head. This was going to be hard enough without them getting side-tracked.

Jon catches his meaning without comment.

“Aunt Lyanna?”

When Bran nods softly, Jon’s mind takes off. He’d heard the stories of course, of beautiful, strong-willed, Lyanna Stark. And the story of her kidnapping, rape and death.

“Wha-how, what- what are you saying?”

“We’re saying,” Arya starts, with her usual candor, “That Father was right, you may not have our name, but you are a Stark…but you are also, a Targaryan.”

Jon feels his throat seize. He wants to yell, wants to demand an explanation, but no words will leave his mouth.”

Sansa reaches out to gently touch him on the shoulder.

“It doesn’t change how we feel about you. You’ll always be our brother, and to us, you’ll always be a Stark.”

“Does...does anyone else know this?”

The three look at each other, and let Bran speak.

“There were four other people on the boat with us when we went back, and they all remember. One of them is Howland Reed.”

Bran waits for a look of recognition, to be sure that Jon remembered Father speaking of the man.

“He is the only other person alive who was with Father the day you were born. And he can confirm the rest of our story as well.”

“Is he-”

“Him and his son and daughter are on the road north to find us. They want to change things as much as we do. We were hoping he would get here before you and Benjen leave so we could do everything at once- we weren’t even sure if we should tell anyone at first. But we had to.”

When Bran finishes, Arya interjects.

“You were still alive, and helping us try and save the realm. You should have been with us when we went back. But you’re here now, and we’re going to help you. We couldn't just send you off not knowing anything. Especially since, you know, with the Targaryan thing, had to make sure you wouldn't find a way to try and fuck a blood relative.”

All of them groan and this and Sansa peels off one of her gloves and flings it at Arya

Jon tilts his head up to look at them.

“How are you even sure that anything will be different?”

“Because it already is,” Sansa tells him gravely.

“I wasn’t here this time before, “ Bran admits, “The fall didn’t just break my leg. I was comatose for a month, and when I woke up, I was partially paralyzed. I haven’t walked properly in nearly ten years.”

Well shit, Jon thinks, this is so much bigger than anything he’s ever considered. It’s overwhelming. There are so many things he wants to ask. He looks over all their faces, and swears he can see the ghosts of those years worn on top of their youth.

“There are so many things I want to ask you.”

“We don’t have much time,” Arya admits, “You’re leaving in a day. But we’ll answer what we can.”

“Especially since we have a favor or two to ask of you,” Sansa adds.

“Nearly ten years…” Jon says slowly, “What’s the most shocking thing that happened?”

“Arya got married,” Sansa inserts abruptly, before anyone can object.

“Really Sansa? You lead with that?” Arya mutters.

“I was pretty shocked when I found out, and I’ve seen nearly everything that’s ever happened.” Bran says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Arya crosses her arms over her chest and scowls.

“If I’m getting dragged out in the mud here, we should bring up that time you lived in a cave for a year and came out an all seeing bird prophet.”

“That’s a pretty long story,” Bran retorts.

Jon leans back against the blanket. He’ll listen as long as they can talk.

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #gendrya #time travel fix it #fic

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queer-autistic · 6 years ago

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Why do parents of autistic children have a tendency to react so strongly in opposition to adult autistic advocates?

My understanding is that they have been indoctrinated by the dominant narrative surrounding autism.

The demonising, scaremongering, dehumanising rhetoric pushed by the majority of autism organisations and their "awareness" campaigns.

Autism $peaks being the most well-known culprit, but they are by no means the only one.

This pervasive narrative is full of ableist constructs and deductions that are lacking in deeper insight because they are made by professionals who have been observing us from the outside and interpreting our behaviours via the allistic framework of existing and functioning.

From inside our community we have a very different view and it clashes greatly with the picture that has been painted of us.

When we speak up about these discrepancies it challenges the deeply held beliefs of parents who have invested in this narrative of pathology and deficit and burden.

Having deeply held beliefs challenged feels akin to an attack and elicits a state of fear and resistance.

Also parents are under immense pressure, women especially, to be Doing Everything Right and that can foster a sense of insecurity that awakens when their parenting techniques and choices are questioned.

One defence mechanism for feeling insecure is to double down and go on the offensive as a means of self-preservation.

Autistic activists challenge what people think they know about autism and what they think they know about parenting an autistic child and that can be too overwhelming for some people.

It may be especially hard for them when we as activists may not have the energy, ability, patience or desire to construct our sentences in a way that dances around a person's ego and instead we just get right to the point.

We can be blunt and they can interpret it as aggression.

In a lot of situations, not just interacting with parents of autistic kids, we are expected to mask to some degree for what we say to be palatable instead of people just taking on board the information they have been given.

This is other people making us responsible for their own emotional regulation, they don't want the way we say things to cause them any discomfort or distress or else they won't even engage with the words we saying.

Unfortunately we cannot dictate or control other people's emotional reactions aside from pre-empting sensitivity and going gently to try and account for that.

All we can really do is to try and anticipate a defensive and emotional reaction and then decide if we are going to try and deliver our information in a way that accounts for the fragile and defensive state they may be in.

Some days we need to express and honour our pain and anger we let other activists be the gentle patient ones.

There is not a single true and proper way to pursue activism and the message is valid regardless of its delivery: autistic adults know more about the needs of autistic children than ANYONE because we have had 18 years lived experience in that role.

Of course there is always the risk of pushing people away by forcefully, and truthfully, telling them that, by using behaviourist approaches and/or engaging in pursuits to eradicate undesirable autistic traits, they are complicit in the abuse of their child and that they are setting their child up for a lifetime of PTSD.

Most people find that so hard to hear that they decide we are aggressive and unreasonable and that we are telling them are evil.

Being unwittingly complicit in abuse is not the same thing as consciously setting out to damage someone, good people do bad things all the time, but that nuance is often lost on people who feel that being called out on one behaviour/belief/attitide is an attack on their entire existence and is akin to character assassination.

I am aware, from experience, that it can really challenge our sense of identity as morally robust people to be told that our choices and behaviours are harmful.

Thankfully I eventually arrived at a place where I understood that being a good person is less about an inherent internal source of goodness and more about the actions we make, what motivates us to make them and how much care we take to genuinely ensure that we minimise harm and act in the kindest and most nurturing ways possible.

Obviously not everything I do is good because everyone is fallible, to be human is to err.

But learning from mistakes and taking time to force myself to take a seat and observe and listen to people with different lived experiences has helped me wrangle with that wounded feeling that spurs defensive action when informed that I have made a choice that has caused, encouraged, condoned or perpetuated harm.

It's a really really uncomfortable place to be emotionally, and to engage with it and allow it to exist is not at all pleasant - but the outcome is personal growth and a deepening of my compassion and that feels joyful and loving and much more peaceful.

Misguided choices, even with the best of intentions, can cause irrevocable harm.

It does not make you a bad person, it makes you a person who has made a harmful choice - something I can guarantee literally everybody has done in some way or other countless times throughout their lives with varying levels of awareness about the impact of their choices.

For example: my mum loves me fiercely, but the way she raised me has caused me deep hurt and I am spending my adulthood healing from that.

She is, objectively, a good person and I love her very much.

But she made ill-informed judgements and choices and I carry the trauma of that.

My hope is that we can spread awareness and shift attitudes such that actually autistic voices are afforded the gravitas and weight and power to make an impact in the global social narrative around autism.

Where we lead in creating spaces and services for autistic people, autistic people and their families flourish.

It's a very simple notion but shifting the weight and location of power from outside the autistic community to within the autistic community is a massive task and I know I won't live to see my dream realised in its entirety.

I can only hope to observe what progress we are capable of driving forward during my next 50+ years on this planet.

#actually autistic #autistic activists #nothing about us without us #autistic advocacy #my thoughts #autism parents #behaviourism #ableism #autistic trauma #autism awareness #autism acceptance

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architectuul · 6 years ago

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Three Hours of Kiev’s Modernism

With only three hours to spare, Evan Panagopoulos rushed through Kiev’s complex Socialist Modernist architecture and 20th century history last winter. This is the account of his brief emotional journey in the Ukrainian capital.

The former Institute of Scientific, Technical and Economic Information in Kiev.

As the chilling wind numbed my face on that cold February morning, I accepted that Kiev was no small town by any measure. I found it to be a gritty and often overwhelming modern metropolis that would keep challenging me. There’s nothing more attractive than a city full of opportunities to push boundaries and ask questions.

The ghostly ferris wheel in Pripyat.

Dwellers abandoned the buildings in Pripyat.

It made perfect sense to invest most of my winter’s daylight inside the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, that was the plan. The overarching purpose of my trip to the Ukraine was to experience the abandoned magnificence of Pripyat. My visit to the irradiated ghost town was a humbling experience: it’s a testament to man’s occasional failure to command nature.

The abandoned coach station in Pripyat.

But Kiev, which I’d mostly seen through fogged car windows and the sine-qua-non short stroll down the nearest pub, hadn’t ceased beckoning to me from the background. I thought that I’d never forgive myself if I’d miss out on an opportunity to record its extraordinary architecture, and perhaps get a cursory glimpse of its complex past and present along the way.

A vacant apartment block in Pripyat.

I have neither time nor energy left at the point where I commit to rush through Kiev. I’d already spent an incredible 4 days in the Exclusion Zone, ploughing through deep, knee high snow and dodging radiation hot spots. I’d endured freezing temperatures, scaled rusty Soviet radars, and explored crumbling factories and high rises. My body had been screaming for a rest on the long way back to Kiev, but I wasn’t prepared to make an excuse yet: despite having to catch an early afternoon flight next day, I remained determined to see as much of Kiev as I could squeeze into what little time I had left.

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It’s 06.30 in the morning as I venture outside. The fog is thick, the temperature is sub-zero, my body is aching, and as the cold wind hits me, I’m questioning my sanity. A few nights before, I found myself trapped for over an hour inside a cab, stuck in one of Kiev’s frequent gridlocks: a contingent of angry young men in military fatigues, brandishing torches and black flags had blocked the entire downtown, marching the streets in protest. Helplessly stuck in traffic, I had plenty of time to ponder the many complexities of Kiev: An entire city unable to commute. An entire nation unable to move on. Stuck in a post-Soviet impasse, the enduring clash between Ukraine’s European aspirations and its many dependencies with Russia has had the country grinding to a halt. Caught in the political crossfire of a simmering state of war, many Ukrainians choose to escape via the obvious side streets: call it ultra-nationalism, call it even worse. But who but the luckiest ever got home faster by venturing into the side streets in a standstill? One of us decides to get out of the taxi and walk. He’ll probably make it home before the rest of us. The smart, decisive minority – it’s always there. I’m hoping there’s one for Ukraine too.

The hotel Salyut was built in 1984 by the late Avram Miletsky, the most celebrated son of Kyiv when it comes to Socialist Modernist architecture.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to see everything I wanted, so starting location matters. I was lucky to have been repairing at the Hotel Salyut the night before, since it is an agreeable Socialist Modernist marvel, and a well-regarded landmark. It was built in 1984 by the late Avram Miletsky, the most celebrated son of Kyiv when it comes to Socialist Modernist architecture, and it’s incredibly easy to scratch that itch by simply staying the night there. I am standing outside it now, the streets are empty, and it’s dark, foggy and bitterly cold. But it’s definitely worth it: there’s not a living soul around, and here I am, enjoying an exclusive, unobstructed view of Salyut’s modernist majesty as my reward. As it is often the case with visionary architecture, the original, unrealized design was supposed to be a sky scraping three times taller, but funding problems and political bickering meant that the resulting building eventually fell short of Miletsky’s original ambition.

Next to the hotel, Avram Miletsky created together with Edward Bilsky the Palace of Pioneers, another Socialist Modernist gem. The Palace was a place for learning and creative pastime, and consequently also a center for the indoctrination of Soviet youth to communist ideals. These ideals had been transliterated to its internal and external architectural language, through Socialist Realist murals, and Futurist spaces and flourishes.

Today, the Palace is retaining this educational character as Kiev’s Palace of Children and Youth. But despite the sensibility of utilizing the space according to its original function, an unfortunate clash with Ukraine’s new character persists. I’ve heard that the government is determined to further alter its utilization, and is seeking to turn it into a business or conference center. This kind of forcible interrupt with the past is a common manifestation of the post-Soviet conundrum of Eastern European democracies. Buildings perceived as carrying a stigma are being alienated, rather than given a chance to assimilate. Could they ever commit to enhance architectural function and memory in a constructive way, rather than seeking to disrupt it?

I have to make the hard choice to move on and postpone the Palace visit for another time, not least because its daybreak, and it’ll be another 2 hours before it even opens. But just across the road from Salyut and the former Palace of Pioneers, one can find the entrance to the Memorial Park of Eternal Glory, dedicated to the victory over the Nazis and built during the late 1950’s, although a memorial space existed here since 1894. Its imposing 26 m obelisk is approached through a path lined with the graves of 34 Heroes of the Soviet Union. The Eternal Flame honoring the Unknown Soldier at the base of the obelisk was reportedly lit at its inauguration in 1957 with light brought in from the Eternal Flame at the Mamaev Kurgan Monument in Stalingrad.

Commanding attention : The Memorial of Eternal Glory

The adoptive Soviet narrative of the monument has so far eluded the effects of Ukraine’s strict decommunization laws, since all WW II related monuments fall short of its scope. It is after all, a monument commemorating the struggle of Ukrainians against invaders, but it’s also very much a Red Army memorial. Therefore, it’s a space that divides public opinion in Kiev. But it's also a monument that commands attention, and perhaps can be received in a less politicized way: military monuments can be about how men die, and not necessarily about why.

The Memorial Park has been expanded beyond the Eternal Glory obelisk to include the Monument to the Great Famine known as the Holodomor. It is a result of misguided Soviet economic policies of the time. It resulted to a catastrophic loss of life: millions of Ukrainians starved to death, marking one of the darkest pages in the history of the country. It is a desperate, haunting space, heavy with symbolism.

The Candle of Memory at the Holodomor Monument

This is an overwhelming location. This is where I feel compelled to ask why. For me, memorials to men, women and children as victims of ideology evoke the most powerful of emotions. I see these as spaces enabling us to pass judgement, and I find it meaningful to erect this counter-memorial to those who suffered as a result of Soviet callousness, so close to another seen to exalt Soviet military prowess. It is such contrast that stimulates thought and provides us with critical responses to events through a visual narrative. In my mind this approach is superior to re-purposing monuments, and definitely better than destroying these while attempting to relate a historic account.

But the clock is ticking, and I have to keep pushing on towards the prize asset: it’s the astonishing Motherland monument. This is surely the pièce de résistance when it comes to monumental architecture in Kiev. But between the Holodomor monument and the Mother, one encounters the sprawling religious complex of Pechersk Lavra, with its golden domed cathedrals and monasteries. An important piece of advice here: if you’re aiming to get straight to the Motherland Monument, don’t go through the Lavra. Trying to reach her as the crow flies is just the wrong way to go, as I had already found on my first day in Kiev.

And speaking of crows, there are literally thousands of them perching on the trees surrounding the Lavra. Their sight is mesmerising, although I should have listened to their ominous cawing and changed direction earlier. Instead, I ended up spending an inordinate amount of time trying to grind my way through the monasteries without result. The many nooks and crannies, steep slopes and dead ends had me hopelessly lost, stuck in a cemetery next to its wall without a visible through exit to the Mother.

I was better prepared on that Sunday morning, and quickly powered my way past the churches, toward the entrance to the War Museum. Immediately past the Lavra, the open spaces on either side of the grand pathway toward its main entrance are lined with all sorts of equipment: tanks, warplanes, artillery, even a mobile ICBM launcher. It hurts me to have to rush past this uniquely interesting collection of materiel in a hurry, but I have to stick to my commitment, I am now aware that over an hour has already flown by.

Tanks in the courtyard of the War Museum

But the curse of the crows had not worn out yet. Kiev can become extremely foggy, especially in the early hours of the morning. It makes for intense atmosphere and great photography, but it also means that visibility is extremely low. You might have guessed it already: despite my best efforts, I found the Mother of Ukraine shrouded in thick fog. So thick, that not even the base of the statue was visible from the entrance of the museum she’s standing atop. All I could make was the blurry outline of her monumental proportions as she remained obscured into the cold, milky atmosphere. Taking into account my previous failed attempt, this was the second time we have been prevented from acquaintance. It’s was exasperating.

Despite my disappointment over this part-failed interaction, not everything is lost. The cavernous main entrance to the War Museum is a satisfying combination of well poured concrete and Socialist Realist reliefs portraying the Red Army in combat. The piece closest to the museum stands out: an evocative statue of troops crossing the Dnieper to liberate Kiev in 1943. The lingering fog adds volumes to the heroic character of this ensemble, bringing it to life: there’s already an inherent fluidity in the sculpture, and looking at it through the blur, the bodies, limbs and firearms of the soldiers appear to be in motion, rendered in epic proportion. It is a visceral scene, engaging the viewer at a primal level. It’s so alive, to the point it emanates presence, and therefore its very existence elicits disapproval among locals. The daily encounter with powerful Soviet art still stimulates a fight or flight response to the trauma, or danger it can be considered to represent for Ukrainians today.

Crossing the Dnieper; an evocative socialist realist monument.

My thoughts are arrested as I am gripped by frost, and time is running out. I hop on a taxi to rush towards my next stop. I find it hard to explain where I want to go to the taxi driver: He’s not aware of an Institute of Scientific and Technical Information, a flying saucer. It is a sign of the changing times: an impressively Modernist cultural centre overshadowed by a non-descript temple of consumerism in the collective short term memory of those who claim the knowledge of the city.

It was conceived by Florian Yuryev, a controversial painter, composer and architect. In the mid 1950’s he developed a new art theory revolving around the phenomenon of Synesthesia, in particular about the sensory perception of sound through colors. To that end, he created an experimental light and music orchestra, and imagined a suitable auditorium equipped with a system of light and sound transmission for the realisation of his art project.

I am not certain as to the point when the ensemble was named The Institute of Scientific and Technical Information, but rumour has it that the KGB sponsored its construction, allowing Yuryev to deploy his futuristic design. Could they see a potential military or intelligence application in his art project? It’s difficult to tell, although I like this theory. It is known that the auditorium was eventually used as the Institute’s cinema and lecture hall, which means that the original Synesthesia project might have expired, or maybe axed by the powers that be at some point. As the cranes of yet another shopping mall rise ominously behind it, the now boarded up Institute awaits its new fate. It said that it may be turned into one of the malls entrances, even demolished. It would be a harrowing fate for the site of such an ambitious and futuristic project.

A stream of early Sunday shoppers are crowding the mall already. They appear somewhat indifferent to the Flying Saucer, and more intent to the discount shopping opportunities on offer. I hardly have one hour left, and I feel like lamenting this impending loss. I hop on another taxi and make my way to the nearby Memory Park, inside Kiev’s main cemetery. It is yet another complex space, and the result of a precarious balance between the architect Avram Miletsky, and the artists Ada Rybachuk and Vladimir Melnichenko. Although Miletsky is usually credited with the photogenic Crematorium masterpiece atop the Balkova Hill, it was Rybachuk and Melnichenko who were involved in conceptualising the space as a landscaped Memory Park, including features like the Wall of Memory, a now defunct relief aiming to soothe mourners through the use of a visual art narrative. The Wall of Memory took almost 10 years to accomplish, but was concreted over in 1982 at the orders of the Communist Party leadership. I am not aware of the reasons, but can’t help thinking that this is a great excuse for today’s government to do their utmost to uncover it. I notice the massive head of a statue protruding through the concrete shroud: I’ve never hoped for cement to be so brittle as in the case of the Wall of Memory.

Death is only the beginning at the crematorium.

Cremation as a funerary solution was not a popular concept in post-war Ukraine. With memories of the horrific massacres at nearby Babi Yar still vivid, public opinion had been apprehensive towards the idea of creating a place for the ceremonial incineration of bodies in Kyiv. This must have been an emotional journey for Avram Miletsky too, a man of Jewish heritage. I can witness a tidal wave of this emotion in the flowing shapes of his Crematorium, built in the mid 70’s. It is a poignant building designed to provide visual succour, and I discover it to almost be like a gateway to another, better world. When seen contextually within the greater Memory Park and Wall of Memory concept, the entire ensemble functions as a space for healing and contemplation, something like a departure station to a mystical final destination. This reminds me that Miletsky, Rybachuk and Melnichenko were actually involved in the building of another modernist departure terminal before: the Kyiv Central Bus Station which is very close to the cemetery.

Hetman Bohdan Khmelnitsky at Sophia Square.

But it is with regret that I realise that I have ran out of time and I won’t be able to visit the Central Bus Terminal. My last stop is Kiev’s central Sophia Square, dominated by the historic Cathedral of Saint Sophia, and the statue of the Cossack Hetman (Chief) Bohdan Khmelnitsky from 1888. I take a few moments to think about the important context of this space. It is one of the oldest parts of Kiev, with significant connections to Ukrainian heritage and independence, not least the monument of Khmelnitsky, the creator of the first independent Ukrainian Cossack state, and for many the founding father of Ukraine.

Despite its direct links with Ukrainian national identity, this is a statue whose existence had once been encouraged by the Czar of Russia, funded by Russian public subscription, and cast at a foundry in St.Petersburg. And despite its nationalist character, the statue seems to have survived Soviet times: Khmelnitsky had sponsored the eventual union of his Hetmanate with Imperial Russia, so that might have been an excuse for its preservation. Can similar excuses still be made in the course of preserving Kiev’s significant ex-Soviet heritage? I think there is space for that, and even offered some perspective on how this might happen. The fog becomes Kiev, but I have great expectations for much clearer skies next time I visit.

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Text and photos (unless stated otherwise) by Evan Panagopoulos

Evan Panagopoulos is the urban storyteller behind the alternative travel site explorabilia and the Abandoned Sector blog. He’s an avid fan of brutalist and mid-century architecture, a knowledgeable WW2 and Victorian era enthusiast, and likes engaging with abandoned spaces and obscure history. He has a knack for rediscovering forgotten and unseen spaces hiding in plain sight, and expresses what he’s passionate about through writing, photography and interviewing people with a fascinating story to share.

#architecture #kiev #architecture tours

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sky-scribbles · 6 years ago

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8, 11-14, 20, 38-41, 58, and 63 for Sarai!! c:

I can’t tell you how happy I am to do so manyof these, thank you!!! (Some of these answers may be subject to change as I playfurther and learn more about her, but I’m pretty sure about most of them.)

And as a bonus, here’s what she looks like::

8. Howdoes your OC talk/what does your OC’s voice sound like?

She talks by listening first. She’ll usuallywait for someone else to start the conversation, and will sometimes leave you waiting for a response for a few seconds, as she considers the best thing to say. Speech comesslowly, softly, punctuated with a few mmmswhile she works out how toword things. Each word is hand-picked so that it won’t ruffle your feathers inany way. Once a Jedi negotiator, always a Jedi negotiator.

I’m still undecided on her accent, since theExile isn’t voiced – I’ve been imagining her speech in British RP, but I might change that… Welsh, maybe? Or whatever theequivalent of that is in the SW universe.

11-14: What is your OC’srelationship with his/her mother? Whatis your OC’s relationship with his/her father? How many siblings does your OCand what is his/her relationship with them? Who is the mother and/or fatherfigure in your OC’s life?

I’ve not worked out all the details, but Isee Sarai as growing up with a single father. I’m leaning towards her being adopted, since her dad was aroace but wanted a child. I don’t think she has anysiblings (but again, I might change my mind.)

I do know that Sarai and her father were very close indeed. Hewas a gentle, creative person, always making up stories for her and encouragingher to think up the next parts. Perhaps that was why he didn’t realise for along time that his daughter was Force-sensitive. Little Sarai couldonly express the deep, almost personal connection she had to the living Forceby personifying it, treating it as an imaginary friend. When she told her dadabout the ‘friendly magic’ she sensed in the world around her, it sounded to him like a story she wasmaking up, and he played along. Until she was five years old and startedaccidentally throwing objects around with the Force.

If Sarai’s powers hadn’t started to manifestphysically in public, Mannas would probably have tried to keep herForce-sensitivity secret. As it was, giving up his daughter to the Jedi justabout killed him.

As for any other parental figures… after beingbrought to the Jedi, Sarai spent a long time training with an Ithorian masternamed Yshora. Like many Force-sensitives of her species, she had a strongconnection to the living Force, and was able to teach Sarai how to refine herown abilities. The two spent many peaceful hours sitting together and sensingthe flow of energy in the world around her, the shift of matter between waterand earth and plants and air. Sarai’s bond with Yshora definitely influencedher quick decision to work with the Ithorians on Telos.

(The rest is under a readmore because I inevitably write essays when I get an excuse to ramble about OCs)

20. What kind of mother/father would your OCbe?

A bit of a paradox: at once very attentive –occasionally to the point of being overbearing – and a little too lax. She’dalways be trying to soothe and smooth over any problems her kids might have, but would also be desperate to avoid conflictwith them. So if she thought ‘parental guidance’ might involve disagreeing orarguing with them… she might not say anything, even if she really should. Ithink her best trait as a parent would be that no matter what problem you cameto her with, she’d never tell you that it was small.

21. How does your OC react to and handlestress?

By avoiding it. She tends to throw herself intoenjoyable activities so she can forget her stress, or elseconvinces herself it’s not really that bad. Of course, there are some stresses she just can’t distract and rationalise away,things she really should confront and work through. But she doesn’t. So thesethings keep eating away at her, until eventually it all bursts out. Sometimes,she’ll just break down in tears – other times, she’ll make snap decisions totry and make it go away.

(Like, for instance, the time when she could feel the Mandalorian War ripping a woundin the galaxy, and she couldn’t bear it and there had to be a way to end it, and weren’t the Jedi supposed to bringpeace, the masters promised her that Jedi brought peace, they told her there is no chaos, there is harmony, andyet they weren’t doing anything, and nothing made any sense anymore –

And then Revan told her, I’ll bring peace. And Sarai, without hesitation, followed her.)

How does your OC handle anger?

Sarai’s always thought that anger createsdiscordance in the Force. Disharmony. So she always wants to fix it, like shewants to fix everything that creates conflict.

Again, she’ll try to distract herself from heranger and talk herself out of it, sometimes (if she’s alone) holding entire conversationswith herself, talking herself down, justifying the other person’s point ofview. Sometimes this helps her work through things and calm down… and sometimesit’s just another way to bottle up emotions that need to be let out. (And no,she will not vent to a friend. Unthinkable. She has to be a good Jedi, she can’tlump her problems on people, she has to keep everything in harmony, she has to.

If only she’d realise that the Force is anatural thing, and all natural things have a little chaos in them.)

When she finally lets her anger out, it’ll usuallytake the form of a quiet, even tearful, but ferocious defiance. The kind thatleads to you stabbing a stone with your lightsaber in front of the entire JediCouncil, for instance.

How does your OC handle grief?

She cries. She just cries. And then she startsthinking about what she could have done to stop it, and gets lost in endlessfantasies about what would have happened if she’d done things differently. Ifshe imagines everything being good again, maybe she can forget how much it all hurts.

What is your OC’s greatest fear?

A secretshe can’t admit to anyone: she’s afraid that the Force isn’t what she thought.She’s afraid that the comforting, harmonious presence she sensed as a child isa lie, a traitor. That the Force has a will, and that will is cold andapathetic and cruel. That the Force she considered her friend as a child wantsher to suffer and be apart and lost and broken and alone.

How does your OC take criticism?

This is where Sarai excels. She’s born to be amediator. If someone criticises her, she’s instantly analysing whatever they’vejust said, trying to work out if it’s justified. If so, she’ll be making plansto make sure she never repeats the mistake, and will apologise instantly andearnestly. If it’s not justified, then she’ll start working out why the personsaid it, trying to see their point of view – are they lashing out in frustration?Are they misguided? How can she most gently point out to them that they’rebeing unfair, and settle the dispute?

Of course, this doesn’t always work – like when you’refaced with a bunch of narrow-minded Jedi masters telling you that you shouldn’thave gone to war. And when Sarai knowscriticism isn’t justified, it’s one of the rare occasions on which she will digin her heels and tell you to your face that you’re wrong. If you won’t let her be the peacemaker she wasborn to be, then she will damn well make you doubt your own judgement beforeshe leaves. You’re welcome, Atris.

How does your OC display love?

She’ll tell you what she really thinks, notwhat she thinks will promote harmony. Oddly, you might notice yourselfdisagreeing with her more often, as she stops trying to melt into yourpersonality and shows you more of her own. It means she trusts you enough thatshe doesn’t care about being unobtrusive any more, she just wants you to knowher.

She’s also very physically affectionate – she lovesresting her head against people, and giving little forehead and cheek kisses(she’s tiny, so she usually has to stand on tiptoe to do this, and it’sadorable) After all that time separated from the Force – from the energybinding her to the people around her – she values closeness above everythingelse.

#kotor 2 #jedi exile #this was so good for helping me work things out about her #thank you! :)#it's still a little hard to describe her #because she tries so hard to melt into the people around her #maybe soon i'll write something about her unique force powers...#oc: sarai aster

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charmingyourheart · 6 years ago

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Never Seduce a Scot by Maya Banks

Rating: ❤❤❤❤1/2

Genre: Historical Romance

Release Date: 25 September 2012

Synopsis: Eveline Armstrong is fiercely loved and protected by her powerful clan, but outsiders consider her “touched.” Beautiful, fey, with a level, intent gaze, she doesn’t speak. No one, not even her family, knows that she cannot hear. Content with her life of seclusion, Eveline has taught herself to read lips and allows the outside world to view her as daft. But when an arranged marriage into a rival clan makes Graeme Montgomery her husband, Eveline accepts her duty—unprepared for the delights to come. Graeme is a rugged warrior with a voice so deep and powerful that his new bride can hear it, and hands and kisses so tender and skilled that he stirs her deepest passions.

Graeme is intrigued by the mysterious Eveline, whose silent lips are ripe with temptation and whose bright, intelligent eyes can see into his soul. As intimacy deepens, he learns her secret. But when clan rivalries and dark deeds threaten the wife he has only begun to cherish, the Scottish warrior will move heaven and earth to save the woman who has awakened his heart to the beautiful song of a rare and magical love.

Never Seduce a Scot is the first book in Maya Banks’ The Montgomerys and the Armstrongs series and I have to say this is one of my favourite highland romances. It’s fun, sexy, entertaining, sweet, and has just the right amount of cheese for me. Is it historically accurate? Probably not. Is it realistic? Not really. Is it an unputdownable, feel good, burning hot read? HELL YES.

There was so much I freaking adored about this, but I also get that this is a book not everyone will love. It’s cliche, predictable, and not wholly original, but oh man is it down well. Banks definitely ticked off everything on the historical romance list, but it certainly didn’t make me enjoy it less.

The characters are great. Eveline is one of the sweetest, bravest heroines I have ever read even if she was a little misguided in hiding her condition. Though I can appreciate her motivation, she was between a rock and a hard place and either decision wouldn’t work too well in her favour. Graeme was a sheer delight, he is all about his family even if that means he has to marry his enemies daughter who is touched in the head. He has no reason to be kind to her but he is. He has no reason to protect her from his clan but he does and in the end I desperately wanted this two wonderful characters to live their lives in happiness - there love scenes are smoking hot as well. One of the standout characters was Graeme’s sister Rorie who is just such a beautiful person and I loved her and I hope when Bank’s gets around to it she gets her own happy ending.

“I love you, Eveline," he whispered, though he knew she could not hear him. "Somehow, I'll make you hear me and you'll know that I love you as fiercely as it's possible for a man to love a woman.”

The story is, of course, set in the Scottish Highlands (the best setting for a romance in my opinion) and I loved every moment of this. The political intrigue is little, but it’s enough to keep you engaged and interested. It’s the clan feuds that I love to read about and this one has a doozy.

Maya Banks has a wonderful writing style that flows effortlessly. Her dialogue is sweet and sharp and feels natural. I love that she is not overly flowery in her prose but gives you all the information you need. With this particular novel it’s wonderful to see has chosen to write a heroine with a real disability and I want to see more of it.

Okay I’m going to come out and say it. This book was too freaking cute and maybe my judgement is impaired because this is exactly what I needed at the time. It melted my cold dead heart. You know what I loved most about it? There is NO IDIOTIC MOMENTS! There is no stupid reason to break up, everyone is measured and *gasp* rational. This has an alpha male who is considerate and a heroine who is not a total wuss but had a quiet, dignified strength.

So the villain was a little over the top, but who doesn’t love that? Besides he had motivation so it all evens out in the end. The pace was great, just enough action, sex, and sweet moments to keep it going without growing dull. It did, however, end rather abruptly and I wish it had an epilogue because Graeme with babies would make my ovaries explode. Yeah, he is that good of a HR hero.

Not going to lie. I have read this particular book a few times (not something I often do) and I have enjoyed it each and every time. It never gets old and I don’t know why but I sure ain’t complaining.

Highly recommend for lovers of Highland Romances or people who are just in need of a fun, hot, feel good read.

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pomefioreundergroundlab · 3 years ago

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nsrs

I'm that same anon who posted about the villain archetypes stuff. Apologies if I had a hard time understanding about the plot point of Twst. I do understand the real conflict of this story is more of self conflict than real conflict.

I just that I wanted to include some characters or situations that would push these people to test their self identity and worth or so I think? Like having the characters encounter kinds of villains would eventually make them reflect onto their past misdeeds and make them grow and learn to make it through life little by little. They're living in a world where struggle is real and where society is divided into 2 different moralities even if we're aware grey morality exist, as well as clouded judgements. (But then again it wasn't just the society and upbringing that affects the person's self conflict, it's mostly the decisions they make as well as their distorted mindset, even if they are still good people deep down)

My OCs face alot of serious issues in their life that makes them question their own existence as well as their sanity. Honestly their past is too serious to be even considered to be in Disney, but since they did tackle on to real life conflicts that affect the way people see themselves like in Encanto and Turning Red, I do think it's ok?

To me being a teenager is being in between a child and an adult, part of them is growing more to become mature but there's still that childlike part of them that makes them misguided whenever they go out on their own, this is why probably that the boys in Twst are that problematic? Being in teen stage is still part of maturing hence why teens are still reckless with their actions and decisions.

At least that's what I understand. Feel free to say if there's something that you disagree on or if you're a bit uncomfortable with this.

All right, I think I understand what are you trying to say. You are trying to put your OC into situations that could make them develop , that would make them question if their actions or their very existence worth it, and what they should do.

I personally think, the most effective for that is, to put them in situations that would trigger their PTSD or sensitive spot, and ask, why they are sensitive about it. The trigger cen be anything, be it dialogue, place, situation or person who reminds them of the trauma/sensitive spot. (example: azul being pressured by Leona give him PTSD from bullied in his childhood, or Jamil actually takes offense at the idea of being treated as one set to Kalim , or any implication of it, or Jack being honest like Farena piss Leona off)

We already know Disney already allowed a lot of dark stuff from Kingdom hearts, and while on the topic of it, the idea of someone trapped in eldritch location, with loads of symbolism and imagery or even hallucinations of their issues and force them to face their issues through the illusions/copies.... that or they become monsters themselves.TW is already psychological horror with the idea of blot, so let's just get into it altogether.

Silent Hill and Persona are good examples on how "eldritch locations forces you to face your trauma through reminders, symbolism and imagery, " but if you want example to how much Disney allowed that, look at Kingdom Hearts 2.8. The monsters aren't as deformed as typical horror monsters, but with how eerie the situation is, the scary feel is there. And then the premise. The heroine failed to save her friend, so she keep seeing hallucinations of him being fine, but said hallucination flat out tells her it's simply her hallucination, her wish, that he's actually not okay. Then she faced a copy of herself that keep reminding her how she's failure and soon will join the monsters of that place, naming her mistakes and insecurities one by one in the fight. this is just an example.

As you say, even they have good mindset,they often do have distorted minds , in their own bubble of reality, and breaking that bubble is what needs to be done. (example: Ace telling Riddle that while law is necessary to life, THAT amount of lawfulness is unhealthy, similarly, as well Rook reminding Vil that yes, people do have limit, people cannot stay in prime condition forever/all the time and votes for RSA in the VDC for it)

What you describe is exactly that. Teenagers are starting to be robbed from their childhood rights as much having the adult responsibilities push them, and their journey to shape themselves up is how teenage days is. TBH, there are many cases of real teenagers being way more problematic than TWST boys, so i think, while they are psychologically realisitic, they are not THAT problematic, per se.

all in all, yea, you wanted writing tips, for now this is what I can give.

-Mod Drace

#submission #twisted wonderland #answered asks #mod drace #answered #anon #OC

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extremedivas · 7 years ago

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WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TO CL ON 2018?

Basic on 2018 - The Lovers can be about any unions. CL asking about a business decisions, the Lovers suggests contracts, unions and working together. I see CL will most likely have to choose between two people . She could even make a choice between staying in an unhappy relationship or being single and happier in romance.

The Lovers is also a card for moving forward in life and its appearance in a reading will suggest that it is safe to move forward with whatever CL is planning.

1. January - The Three of Cups is celebration for CL. I see CL might be going out dancing with friends for a night on the town. It could be a late-night thing at the night club or a chilled out house party. Everything around Cl will be bountiful and fun! I see CL trying to reunited with Minzy to has a 2ne1 reunion for corporate fund raisers. It can be a time of achievement and celebrations for 2ne1 fulfillment . However, We see that CL will go to party and club a lot in January.

2. February - The Judgement reversed suggests that CL could be unable to let things go. I see her in denial about someone or a situation. I see CL isn’t let 2ne1 go (Look at January) she think that 2ne1 can be save if Minzy be there. However, CL need let Minzy, Bom, Sandara has their moment in the spotlight in 2ne1. CL need to learn that everything is not about her but more into a group. That’s the problem with CL may also be bad-mouthing others, gossiping or bitching on others. Reputations can be ruined and real hurt caused by her careless remarks. However, others may be treating or judging her unfairly. An angry mob or group may be looking for someone to blame and want to make a scape goat out of CL.

3. March - The Empress can indicate pregnancy, so if CL don’t want to become pregnant, be careful. The Empress is also associated with creativity – how can cl best express herself? CL seek to express her creativity, ideas or thoughts without reservations. Don’t hold back – be open. If CL are asking about starting a creative project, this is a green light for her.

The Empress encourages the growth and development of all things so lots should be happening around CL. In fact life may very well be taking off for her in a very pleasant direction. She suggests a happy period in life, especially on the domestic front with much activity, socializing and a strong sense of inner contentment. CL feel at one with the world and full of joy. So, I see CL will becoming into her own skin finally.

4. April - The Moon warns that CL is a little delusional and have unrealistic hopes and dreams for herself. The Moon can distort reality. Things look very different under the light of the moon. CL look very closely behind the outward appearance of things for they may not be what they appear to be. Lies and deceit may surround her. Someone may be very pleasant and friendly to her face but behind the scenes are plotting, scheming, gossiping or working against CL. This will be underhand and covert so she will need to dig deep behind the illusion in front of her. It is a time to trust no one but herself. The Moon may illuminate her friends in a new light and leave them feeling confused as to who they can trust and whether she have any friends at all. Something CL imagine to be dangerous may not be or something she believe is benign may be the lethal.

CL need to learn her power and psychic power causing bad luck toward herself. So, She must to do her power to do good and not evil.

5. May - The Three of Pentacles in love suggests that CL met someone at work or on a social media website. She will fell in love with a Mars in Capricorn man or a Capricorn man who is rich and he came from a wealthy family background. However, CL need to pull together in order to get something done on her solo career.CL cannot waste people time and her time for other. I see CL family issues that she made call to a family meeting and she put her heads together to see how she can move forward and what needs to be done. I think is something to do with her younger sister Harin Lee. She will be surprised to find out that others want to help and have much to contribute on her family issues and her solo career. CL please don’t try to do it all on her own. It may also be time to get expert help or advice. Look after your youngest sister CL.

6. June - The Two of Swords reversed, CL either tear the blindfold off or it is ripped off by someone else to reveal the truth of the situation. There is no getting away from the facts now as it is exposed in full color before her. It may be painful to discover that she have been living a lie all this time. CL may see so-called friends in a new light or feel shocked by what she discover. However painful this may be, it has been for her own good. Once the truth is out in the open, CL do not have to carry the burden of pretense anymore and are now free to move on with her life. This may be easier to do than her imagined as she feel a weight lifted off both her mind and heart. CL will learn being fake and having fake friends will get you hurt and damage. She will see her hidden enemies unfolded in front of her.

7. July - The King of Wands takes action and manifests CL ideas in the real in the world with confidence, agility and great success. She likes to work with people who think and act like her. No one doubts for one moment that she is the boss but this woman likes to get close to her work force. She moves among them, works beside them, is eager to hear what they have to say or any ideas they may have. CL office door is always open and she is very approachable. CL encourages her employees to think big and out of the box. CL views problems as challenges when they arise in the workplace and will call everyone on board to find solutions. Her mind is open to suggestions and new approaches. CL demands loyalty from her staff but will never stifle initiative or personal ambition among them. CL will have a few die-hard long-term staff or fans who she will view as indispensable. These will be the employees who look after the more tedious end of business which allows her the freedom to do what he does best. CL likes to recruit the young and ambitious before they turn stale and un-adventurous. She will hold weekly brainstorming sessions and reward her staff well for their enthusiasm. I see CL becoming a businesswoman with clothes brands in her name.

8. August - The Hierophant represents marriage cards, especially arranged marriage and marriages of conveniences. CL is taking or thinking of taking the traditional approach with her relationship such as getting married, settling down or deciding to start a family. She is following in the line of what Korean woman traditionally do. I see CL is getting married this month on August with arranged marriage or her planned marriage. he Hierophant can suggest that you are doing what everyone expects of you. You may be keeping up appearances on the outside when things are far from right inside.

The Heirophant can represent the CL wishes to leave her partner but fears what people will think. She stands for doing her duty in a relationship. Her presence can also suggest a very conventional and traditional relationship. She can be a sign that a relationship or marriage is in a rut. Change is needed but the couple continue to behave as they always have done and do things the way everyone else does. It may be time to break with tradition and watch the jaws of family, friends and neighbors drop as tongues wag, heads shake and net curtains twitch.

9. September - The Four of Pentacles is a positive and welcome card for savings, investments or retirement plans. It indicates that you are accumulating goods, wealth and possibly even power. A financially successful business which is growing steadily and is stable and secure. A lot of hard work has gone into the establishing of this business and it shows. CL is holding on to her money. She is saving money and don't spend all her money. CL is think of creative ways to pinch pennies right now. If she is working, stay focused on her work and get it done in an efficient manner in order to maximize her output.

10. October - The Eight of Wands often suggests travel in connection with CL work. For certain, CL work schedule is very hectic and busy. CL job requires her to think on her feet and be able to multi-task. This is a high-energy work environment where there is much activity and certainly a lot of travelling involved. Travel does not have to be long distance but CL are bound to be out and about for appointments, presentations and meetings.

I see CL is being very busy and traveling on her businesses and solo career on October.

11. November - The Chariot reversed mean CL could be misguided and misdirected by the people she work with. They may have mixed feelings and cannot make a firm commitment or decision on her career. CL may feel that she will never advance in her career or that her relationship is stuck in a rut. CL gonna riding for a fall by her diva ego. CL need to be careful with her diva ego because people will not help the divas to succeed in her career. CL be careful with car while traveling too.

12. December - The Hanged Man appears at this time to remind CL that struggle at this time is futile and it is best to surrender to the situation and let it go, for as much as she fight to stay on top of whatever is involved, it will only succeed in depleting her energies, encouraging her to slide further into despair, negativity and pessimism. CL just not going to get anywhere at the moment or change much. CL need takes this time to go within and re-connect with her spiritual purpose in life. I see CL didn’t force anything. Let go and surrender to time and patience. CL finally know that she cannot force things to happen, if CL do this she might see good thing happen to her.

13. Overall signification - The Nine of Pentacles suggests that CL are in the process of developing self-worth and self discipline. This will ensure that she will never lose her wealth.

The Nine of Pentacles can suggest retirement or vacation for CL.

#cl #chaerin lee #tarot reading #celebrity psychic reading #chaelin lee #Chae Rin Lee #kpop #2018 predictions

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crimsonrevolt · 7 years ago

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Congratulations Alex you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Frank Longbottom!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

We’re so excited to have you back in the rp, Alex! The way you fleshed out Frank’s app was beautiful and the thought and dedication that you placed into it shone through. There’s a lot of complexities to his character, and the struggles he’s going to face in the future were completely evident. We can’t wait to see how you develop Frank further and how his story progresses in this different timeline of the Marauders!

application beneath the cut (tw: Torture, Kidnapping, PTSD, Violence)

OUT OF CHARACTER ♔ INTRODUCTION

Name: Alex

Age: 20

Pronouns: She/her

Timezone: EST

♔ ACTIVITY

6-7/10 I sam online a lot of the time however I am in college so there are some times when I get very busy. That being said I am normally online at least once a day and tend to lurk more than that. So 6-7 maybe lower than winds up being accurate but that it the minimum of how often I will be on.

♔ ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE

I’ve been roleplaying on tumblr for over 5 years now on my River Song roleplay blog. Recently my muse from her has been a bit less so my most recent threads aren’t my favorites but I have gained a lot of experience from the blog. I love the character and writing her I’ve just been having a hard time because after 5 years the fandom has died down.

http://riverxxsong.tumblr.com/

My old Lucinda blog:

https://lucindaxxtalkalot.tumblr.com/

My old Frank blong:

https://frankxlongbottom.tumblr.com/

♔ TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

♔ HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I was in CRT for a long time! <3

♔ ANYTHING ELSE?

I’ve missed Frank and the CRT community so much since I’ve left I would love the opportunity to continue to develop his character. IN CHARACTER ♔ DESIRED CHARACTER Frank Longbottom

♔ FACE CLAIM Penn Badgley ♔ REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER First Application Reasons:

I had never really thought about Frank Longbottom until joining this group, but as I started interacting more and reading all of the threads I fell in love with Frank. Then also when Lucinda got together with Alice I fell in love with her and just because Lucinda has to lose her doesn’t mean I want to. I really love Frank’s story line and had wanted to take on the challenge of writing as a person of the opposite gender. I am really hopeful that I will get to play him and develop his character, his deep love for Alice, his dark side, his frustration with the war, and all the other things that makes him such an amazing and complex character.

I am extremely excited to play on the idea of Frank’s dark side; I think far too often he is portrayed as a big teddy bear when in fact I think he might be one of the most vicious of the “good guys”. I don’t think Frank would ever hurt anyone just for pleasure, but he sees the line between good and evil as blurry especially during war times. During school he saw far too many of his house mates tortured to let it slide without any acknowledgement. Being from the Longbottom family, one of the sacred 28, other purebloods often expected him to fall on their side, that is until he got the reputation of breaking their noses. People who don’t know him often find him jaded and aggressive and he can come off as a flirt. He is unrelenting in his pursual of a better world, but he doesn’t always see where the lines lay.

It is because of this more aggressive nature that Frank first became affiliated with Aversio. The group was a better match for his personal ideologies and were willing to see that the ends justify the means. Frank is often surprised that even among Aversio he is on the more aggressive end of the spectrum. He is highly impulsive and will push for, as well as take on dangerous missions, before thinking through the consequences for himself and others. He lacks a sense of self preservation and considers the war a worthy cause to die for. He fluctuates between being extremely self confident and extremely insecure depending on the situation and how long he’s taken to think.

Thinking has actually often time been a hindrance to Frank as he finds that once he starts thinking things through he’s nervous and worrying side surfaces. It is when this side emerges that he finds it harder to be a good member of Aversio and do what needs to be done. However this is in stark contrast to how is more worrisome side is seen in the Order where caution and careful planning and strategy are praised.

Second Application Reasons:

I simply adore Frank Longbottom. I think he can be one of the most complex characters in the series especially with the way his skeleton is written in our group. I have missed him since I left the group a few months ago and would love to get to write as him again. I think Frank is dynamic and real and struggles with the questions of morality which many of us don’t need to think about in our life. I think he has so much growth left in his character and in his current state he is so angry and focused, I think as he grows his views may change rapidly.

I would love to dive more into his darker tendencies because I think at certain levels he could rival some of the death eaters for cruelty. His views right now are extremely polarized, you are either good or you’re bad. He feels as though people in the Order are good but when he allows himself to be honest about what he thinks about them he feels they are cowards and are afraid to do what is necessary. Frank believes that Death Eaters lives are worthless and if they are not helping him further the goal of ending the war than they should be terminated from existence. I would love to have the people who love him who aren’t in aversio slowly bring him toward a more moderate view but I would also love for him to have one or two people in Aversio who encourage this extremist view and push him forward with his plans.

I think there could be some extremely interesting plays with insanity with Frank allowing us to see the lengths that one will go to in order to do what they see as right. Frank believes in his mission and thinks he is entirely right and righteous in his beliefs. One of the most fascinating aspects of the potencial I see with this starting point I am seeing for him is having his behaviors be almost identical to those of the death eaters but serving the Aversio agenda. Getting to write him being unaware of the extremes which he is reaching and having the characters around him see him unraveling could be fascinating.

Following this downward spiral, which I think would be amazing also having it tied in with him being newly engaged with Alice and having them be adversaries for a few months in their ideologies, I think he needs to come to a breaking point. Most people are made of a series of moments and I believe that but I also think that there are some moments which are more defining than others and I think Frank’s path will be violent and cruel in the beginning of this new era for him, I think that part of the character was lost and I became too involved in the relationship between Frank and Alice. I still am planning to have Alice be a large part of Frank’s narrative but I would love for him to have some other characters to support that. I would love to collaborate with one or two other Aversio players who also want to take their characters down this morally ambiguous path in the pursuit of a better world. On the other side I want Frank to have work friends who are in the Order and more in line with Alice’s way of thinking. I think Frank would confess to Alice his allegiance and if she couldn’t convince him to change his ways I think calling in backup of these individuals who are morally aligned with the Order, I’d love to see the fight which could even turn physical. In a huge fight like this I would love the insanity to appear in full and have Frank either injure or almost severely injure people he cares about. At that point I think Frank would break down and he’d change his allegiance leaving behind Aversio forever. However, the anger which naturally exists within him would still be there and he would still have an internal struggle over the actions which should be taken. The transitioning allegiance going quickly to be fully aligned with the Order. Additionally, what Frank would do with the information he had gained while in Aversio.

Overall, I’d love to see Frank as a character who build in extremist beliefs until it hits a point where he either would lose the people he cares for most or switch sides and I would like to have him switch sides. However, I think switching sides would be painful and he would struggle with identity and guilt and his own morals. Overtime I think he would come to see Aversio as a terrorist organization and be a major public advocate against it as well as being on a possible anti Aversio task force within the order. I would love Frank’s story to be one of misguided good intentions and the dangers of thinking that the ends justify the means and the corrupting power of a seemingly quick solution and self distributed justice.

Elaborate on why you would like to play this character. Just tell us, what made you pick this character and what made you feel in love with them. This can be as long or as short as you want to, though showing your love for the character is encouraged as it is something we look at when we can’t decide between applications. In this section you should also describe the character and how you see them. At least in a few sentences that offer additional information to what we provided in the character’s bio. You don’t have to do a complete personality analysis here, but just glimpse us of them by giving reasons for why you decided for this character. Don’t write what you think that we want to hear, but just make this character your own. ♔ CHARACTER’S SEXUALITY Heterosexual. Frank has never really had the urge to be with a man. He thinks his friends are good looking blokes but that’s about it. That being said he has no judgement about who people choose to love and encourages his loved ones to do what makes them happy. Before he and Alice were serious he was a big flirt, his lovelife consisting mainly of hookups. Until Alice came into his life, friends were his only priority and he had no interest in finding a girlfriend. He was a major fuckboy but had his own code about hooking up with girls, never spreading rumors or bragging about the people he would hook up with.

I love Fralice!

♔ PERSONALITY TRAITS Please elaborate on at least 2 of the traits listed on the bio (one positive and one negative). Explain why you believe they were assigned these traits and what they mean in the context of the character.

✓ Dependable

Frank always considered himself lucky, he grew up in a happy stable family without all of the normal stigma that came with being a pureblood. Frank is extremely dedicated to those he loved and because of that he will never fail to be there when they need him. Frank’s dedication runs to an extreme level that it never wanes even when being there for a friend could put himself in danger, in that situation he would just run faster to help the ones he cares for.

Frank will always be there to protect Alice, it is the only reason he didn’t ask for a change of partner after they broke up. He needs to be there for her, to protect her, even though it kills him inside. There is a physical pain in his chest when he sees Alice and remembers she doesn’t want to be with him, but he can’t stand the idea that she would run into danger without him at her side. ✓ Loving

Frank’s friends are a central part of his life. He would do anything for them and drop everything in his life to help them. It is this platonic form of love that has dominated Frank’s life so far and only in his developing relationship with Alice do we see how romantic love looks for him. Frank is amazingly loyal to his friends at school he would often find getting into fights trying to protect them. He is definitely what people would describe as rough around the edges, but those who get to know him would describe him as a true Hufflepuff, loyal to a fault. ✓ Ready-mind

As a Hufflepuff through and through, Frank always had an open mind and was ready and willing to learn new things. What set him apart is his dedication to his studies during school, although he was not a bookworm, he was a dedicated hard worker and would often be seen with his brow furrowed as he completed homework in the Hufflepuff common room. ✓ Unstoppable

Frank is an oncoming storm. He would burn cities to the ground for those he loves. He is not afraid of using force to get what he wants, and once he sets his mind to something you better get out of his way or get crushed in the process. This is a great benefit when you are on his side as he will stop at nothing to keep his word and protect those he loves. Those who stand against him though should be wary as when he sees someone as opposition, he feels no remorse for what he does to meet his goal. ✕ Doesn’t know limits

Frank doesn’t know when to stop. He struggles to not lose himself in the war. He finds himself more inline with the ideals of Aversio than with the Order of the Phoenix as he has trouble waiting to take action. He oftentimes has to fight to prevent the extent of his aggression from being seen. He doesn’t just want the Death Eaters locked up, he wants them dead with their homes burnt to the ground and any trace of them destroyed. He thinks they are traitors to the wizarding world and shouldn’t be allowed the privilege of having existing. He wants to see the end of their regime with no trace of it left to be built upon and thinks it is worth exterminating the entire population in order to fulfill that goal. ✕ Lacks self-control

He is highly impulsive and has a desire to take action. Frank will volunteer often volunteer for missions before thinking of the risks to himself or the others on his team. He has no sense of self preservation which adds to his likelihood of doing something that could get himself hurt.

Frank sees his impulsivity as a strength it allows him to act when he needs to and prevents him from missing a moment when he should have gone. He thinks the personal danger this lack of self control puts him in is negligible given the amount of good he feels these actions accomplish. ✕ Worrier

Frank has no regard for his own well being and is only worried about his friends and loved ones. He thinks about them all the time and is extremely concerned about their safety during these uncertain times. His loved ones are his main concern at all times, but it is often his worrying breaks his determination. In stopping to think he realizes the risk to himself and others and feels he can’t fight in the war as well. He thinks of his lack of self control as a positive and strives to not think about things to deeply in order to avoid being bogged down by his thoughts. ✕ Dark thoughts

Frank offer suffers from very dark thoughts. He doesn’t just want to win the war but he oftentimes finds his thoughts drifting to the idea of obliterating the opposition. He wants to be the type of person who is patient, kind and merciful, but he feels war is not the times for this virtues. During school he worked to always keep himself in check and to ensure he (usually) played by the rules, but war has allowed him to explore, this other side of himself which had stayed buried for so long. His only fear is he kind of likes it .

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

The following section should be looked at like a survey for your character. Answer them in character and feel free to use gifs. Or, if you’d rather, answer them in third person or OOC without gifs. Answers do not have to be extremely lengthy.

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“I would invent a spell which allows me to locate people who use the unforgivable curses. I would have the auror department run it at all times because if we were able to know where these curses were being used it would make finding and destroying death eaters much easier.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“I would bring Alice Prewett. She’s always had my back in the feild and I know she’d have my back in the forest. I easily trust her with my life. As for an object… I would bring a flashlight, so I could have my wand ready in case I need to immediately cast a spell for self defense.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“I am worst a making decisions which involve not immediately punishing those doing wrong in the hopes of a longer plan. I understand that it may not be best to stop things when we know they are occuring, due to the sensitivity of sources but when there is an injustice occurring… I can’t help but want to take actions and when someone tells me it’s impulsive or short sighted I just find myself getting angry.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“I would never want someone to say I’m disloyal. Loyalty to the people who matter to me in my life is one of the most important things to me. My friends and family are most important to me. I am always on their side so anyone suggesting I’m not would break my heart.”

EXTRAS (SEMI-OPTIONAL) This portion is not obligatory, but it is heavily encouraged. This section can include, but is not limited to: mock blogs, future plot points, a questionnaire, your character’s wand, boggart, patronus quotes, playlists, moodboards, edits and everything else you can think of. It’s kind of a ‘everything can, nothing must’-section. Even if this section is in no way required, please keep in mind that this can be something that makes me decide for one applicant or another if I can’t decide just looking at the obligatory part. This doesn’t mean I’ll only have a look at it if I can’t decide- for that I’m far too curious what awesome things you’re all going to do-, but is something that plays great importance when I can’t decide for one applicant.

https://frankxlongbottom.tumblr.com/

PlayList:

Frank in Love (Fralice songs):

Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillet

*Come to me by the goo goo dolls*

Angel with a Shotgun by the Cab

Say You won’t go - James Arthur

Backseat Serenade-All Time Low

Frank’s anthem:

The Phoenix - Fall out boy

Smells like Teen Spirit - Nirvana

Uprising - Muse

Burn It To The Ground - Nickelback

Ready Aim Fire - Imagine Dragons

The Crimson Bow & Arrow - Jonathan Young

The World - Jonathan Young

For Alice Post Break Up Feeling

Iris - The goo goo dolls

Impossible Year- Panic! At The Disco

Young Frank:

The Good, The Bad And The Dirty - Panic! At The Disco

Girls/Girls/Boys - Panic! At The Disco

Head cannon:

Frank got into a lot of fights in school (mostly) protecting others and standing up for his beliefs.

Frank enjoys his darker impulses and worries that they will one day take him over however he also feels justified in the actions he’s taking given that he is at war.

Frank was a flirt and a player during his school days.

Frank’s friends are the most important thing to him (Alice too later)

Frank’s sense of loyalty is deeply ingrained but his impulses take control when it comes to his loved ones.

Frank is happy to die for the war and gives very little thought to his life down the road.

I think this would vary depending his state of mind but at times when he feels disconnected from most things or during some of his largest fights with Alice and during the time she left him he escalated his commitment to the cause to an almost suicidal level

I think these impulses will settle as Frank grows older but he still will not hesitate to throw himself in front of danger to protect his loved ones

Frank really struggles with his dark impulses and despite knowledge that he should want to take the moral high ground he finds himself drawn to extremely violent and extreme plans that may kill more death eaters rather than trying to break up the organization

Frank often find himself wanting to slaughter the death eaters and finds them to be irredeemable

I’d love for this to be challenged by someone close in his life where a close friend of his is in truth a DE or someone switches sides

James, Lily, Frank and Alice are couple friends and will at times go on double dates. They relate very well to each other and struggle to be newly married in a period of such chaos

James, Lily, Frank and Alice spend time talking with each other about their hopes and fears of being a new parent and rely on each other for support.

Frank will be an extremely dedicated new parent but I am unsure if having a child will lead to an escalation of his extreme thoughts to try and end the war quickly or if a child would bring him to see things from more of a moderate view to the point where he moves almost entirely to the order.

Frank is a year older than Alice so he would currently be 20.

Future Plot Points:

Flashback- Frank and guy friends at school talking about girls and the future

Flashback- Frank’s various hogwarts adventuress

Flashback- Frank’s start as an auror

Frank tries to start a bar fight with a pureblood

Frank pushes an even more aggressive Aversio

Alice finds out Frank is in Aversio

Frank and Alice move in together

Frank and Alice get married

Frank wants to start a family or Alice gets pregnant

Frank and Alice have Neville

Frank becomes a major aggressor in the war and starts trying to pursue Death Eaters to a larger extent

Frank attempts to sabotage the lives of people who he suspects to be death eaters

Frank has a few HUGE fights with people he loves about his being in Aversio (Moody, Alice, Augusta, anyone he is very close with)

Frank leaves Aversio

Frank struggles with switching over to the mentality of the Order

Frank eventually perceives Aversio as a terrorist group WRITING SAMPLE

Prompt:

The last sane night. We all know how the dreaded-end-game occurs; but what if your character had the insight to know things were going to come to a quick end for him? How would he spend his last night before he is tortured to the brink?

TW: Torutre, sexul assault

The ground was cold beneath him; the packed dirt floor of the cell slowing drinking the heat from his body. As Frank stirred slowly from the numb comfort of unconsciousness, he felt as if the world was trying to pull him down to its core. The weight on his chest made each breath agony, he tried to open his eyes. His eyes seemed stuck shut at first unwilling to open,he took another agonizing breath before forcing his eyes open. The light from the hall wasn’t much, but in that moment it felt like he had stared directly into the sun. He panicked for a moment waiting for the world to come into focus, as it did he remembered, Alice. Where was Alice? The pain in his body shifted to the background as the thought of his wife came fully into the forefront of his mind. Tears welled in his eyes, the war had ended. Frank had let his guard down for only a moment, he remembered the night in horror.

Voldemort had been destroyed. The war was finally over. That was the mantra Frank had been repeating to himself since he had first heard the news. He still had trouble believing it was true, it was as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Frank knew he need to move past it. This was a new chapter in his life, the one he had been fighting for. They had won the war, and now he could relax and enjoy his family.

It was for that reason that Frank had come home late. He had just made one stop after work. Frank had bought a nice dinner for he and Alice to share together; he had even purchased champagne. He hadn’t been worried about leaving at home alone; the war was over and they had won. He didn’t even sense something was wrong until he got home.

As he walked up to the front door he saw it was open, a pit formed in his stomach his throat clenched making it hard to breathe. We’re not at war he tried to reassure himself his hands shaking slightly. He walked closer to the door stepping slowly not wanting to over react and scare Alice and Neville.

The packages fell to the ground, Frank had gotten close enough to the door to see that it had been opened by force. He couldn’t remember what happened next, but he found himself in the hallway wand in hand. “Alice!” He cried voice shaking in a panick. “Please, Ali, please answer me and tell me you and Neville are fine.” He couldn’t breathe, he should have been home over an hour ago. He should have been here. It was amidst all these thoughts that a cold feminine laugh escaped him. He whipped around staring into the living room in horror at the scene before him. Before him stood four of Voldemort’s most loyal followers, the Lestrange brothers had Alice restrained, their hands running all over the pieces of her that were only for him. Frank’s entire body shook, “If you touch her again I,”

“What will you do?” Bellatrix Lestrange stood in front of him her sharp features had grown ever more gaunt during the war, now she look somewhere between dead and alive. “We have your wife and son.” She said in a voice which was almost sweet looking down at Neville who she held in her arms. “You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to them now would you.” She then turned and held Neville by his feet waking him and starting him to start screaming. “Now put down your wand slowly.” Barty Crouch Jr. stood at the ready want aimed at him even if he were to risk Alice and Neville by trying something

Tears began streaking down Frank’s face and he slowly bent towards the floor and placed his wand down. “Please,” His voice was distorted by a choked sob. “Take me instead just leave Alice and Neville, I will do anything!” He had failed them. He had failed to protect his family at the time when it counted most, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to fix it.

Rodolphus looked Alice over his eyes filled with lust. “Bella, we get to keep her right? You said this would be fun.” He looked over at Bellatrix like a puppy waiting for a treat. “Yes, I did Rod. You can play with her for now. Just don’t break her… Yet.” Bellatrix replied her voice calm and cool as if giving someone permission to borrow a book. Rodolphus smiled a malicious, smile before ripping Alice’s shirt revealing her breasts now contained only by her bra.

“No!” Frank shouted, he couldn’t let them hurt her. He’d rather die than let them lay their filthy hands on her. He started to run towards he his core impulse taking control. He told her he’d always protect her and he’d be damned if he failed now.

“Petrificus totalus!” Frank had only taken three steps when he was hit. Every muscle in his body suddenly stopped he fell forward because of the momentum he had gained from trying to reach Alice. Tears clouded his vision as Crouch came over and sat him up so that he could still see Alice and Neville. There was red on Alice now, and her chest was entirely exposed. Her cream skin had been sliced by Rodolphus and he was powerless to stop it. He watched as those men continued to grab at his wife, at his Alice. How could he have failed her like this? How could he be so powerless.

Frank couldn’t believe that had only been a day ago, or at least he thought it was a day. He rolled to his side ignoring the shrieking of his every nerve in his body. He took a deep breath not focused on his own pain any longer. His mind was only Alice, he didn’t care if he lived or died he never had it had always been about her. Frank pushed himself up slowly so he was in a seated position as he scanned the room for her, his beautiful wife, the only thing, besides their son, that he had ever cared about.

He looked around trying to find her in this cavernous cell. His heart froze for a moment when he thought she might not be here but that was when he saw it. It was just a tiny movement from the back dark corner of the room but it had to be her. Frank couldn’t let himself believe otherwise. He shook as he tried to stand cursing his own body for failing him. It seemed as though he weren’t good for anything as of late. So he crawled on his hands and knees, probably looking like the broken man he was. “Hey, Al is that you?” He said as softly as he could his voice dry and raspy. He moved closer finding her small scarcely clothed form curled up in the corner.

The sight of her like this brought tears to his eyes. “I don’t deserve you. I never have.” He said softly. “Ali, what have they done to you?” His voice shook in horror as he began to notice smaller details. She had cuts all over her body and her eyes. Something had changed. “Alice, what happened? How long have we been here?”

Alice, the love of his life, his wife and the mother of his child, merely tilted her head as if confused. “Who are you?” She said her voice nervous but intrigued. “Who is Alice?”

#Accepted App

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