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insurrection-if · 1 year ago

Note

TW: trauma, and others.

"When an MC drinks the blood of a Gifted, they become connected to their heart, mind, and soul. They may feel past sensations, experience current emotions, or become foreign in their own skin."

After reading this from an anon's romance-centric ask, I suddenly have terrible ideas.

Just imagine MC experiencing the following:

Drinking blood from a dying/suddenly killed Gifted

How about blood from a badly tortured Gifted?

Then there's blood drinking from some psycho Gifted with zero remorse for the inhumane crimes (up to your imagination) they committed

Bruh. The side effects alone can either make the MC more intimate with their ROs or traumatized to the point that they might be averse to drinking Gifted blood. 👀

You've considered this as well, right? Will this be tackled on the story? How deep the darkness goes?

Extra: If you've got some ideas and time, how would ROs (minor and main) deal with a gentle, caring MC who was shaken and pitifully terrified after experiencing any of the scenarios?

(；´∀｀) Yes, when it comes to blood drinking, certain dark elements may be touched upon depending on one's choices, particularly in relation to trauma from other characters. Hence, uh, an aversion to blood drinking is certainly a possible option for the MC. Their experience with Elov in adolescence will inform them of this risk.

It’s also not as though their mother, who shared the same gift, didn’t struggle with the very same ‘costs’. The MC’s father has deep (and occasionally silenced) reservations against the MC developing a dependence on their gift due to the toll he witnessed on their mother.

I will say that Mockingbird should have an awareness towards certain individuals offering a higher risk of these unsavory linked experienced when drunken from. Drinking from characters such as Retriever, Imka, and Lempo would have a much lower (though a non-zero) risk of scarring mental or physical experiences compared to, say, Dearil, Bones, or Fyodor. Not that those characters lack past horrible experiences / prevailing issues in the present, but there are notable differences in their states of emotional healing and mental fixations (as well as the side effects of their gifts) which would influence Mockingbird's experience with their blood.

Onto the (considerably generalized) scenarios . . .

. . . with a general assumption / vibe(?) of an already established relationship for some, most, maybe? I don’t know it’s all loose. ʅ（´◔౪◔）ʃ

Main ROs

Akil

"It is not your fault.”

For someone with a heart so kind, with care even for those who deserve none, he says what should be known. His voice remains even. Enunciated, clear. On the surface, he is the pinnacle of reliable calm.

“You are not the cause of their pain. This is theirs to bear, not yours.”

He reassures with inarguable truth.

“It is a phantom pain. Breathe, please."

He tries to guide the pace of your breaths with his own. Sorrow cuts through him, but it does not surface.

If possible, he will order for the source of your blood, the one who acts as the origin for this translated pain you carry, to be tended to. That is where this pain is most tangible, most addressable. He cares not for who or what they might be—Cardinal or Hawk, innocent or vile—so long as the easement of their suffering reaches you.

But he knows that the mercy of your heart will cling to the miserable knowledge that such a pain like this exists at all in another. Physically inflicted, mentally imbedded, emotionally ingrained. Fleeting or constant. Dull or sharp.

He knows that the most crucial moments in helping you has yet to come. The hours and days after this shock are when he must become vigilant against the scars that can form, scars not as simple to address as those on skin.

He will be there for counsel, for support, however you require. He will be there to guide you through this darkness. He will do all he can to preserve what innocence remains from a trial as horrendous as this.

Kamiko

She calls your name in a tentative whisper. Her entire body seems to ache for a nearness to you, yet she does not close the gap of space between.

A gloved hands hovers above your cheek, her dark brown eyes searching for a sign that it is okay to touch you in this moment. A sign that her presence in this moment is accepted.

More than anything, she hopes for her presence—her support in this moment—to be wanted.

To be useless to you here, now . . . She could not forgive herself if that were the case.

She finds herself unable to ask of you what she would demand from herself. To bury this, to swallow any pity or fear in exchange for cold indifference. But you have a heart that bleeds. A heart that takes in everything—everyone—with such depth and grace. It feels acutely, intensely. Even for someone like her, human and unworthy of you, you feel her love and pain as though it were your own.

She loves your heart more than anything, but it is at times like this she cannot help but dread its vulnerable nature.

How can she ever hope to protect you from yourself; this sensitivity that defines the one she loves.

"You . . ."

Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. Weak, afraid. Protocol for this moment runs through her head. She knows what she is supposed to do. The routine, the procedure, the manual that lacks the human quality of this ache that is witnessing your pain.

". . . Please, tell me how to help you."

Sigmund

“I’m here. I’m here for you.”

Worry seeps in against his will, yet he curses at how hollow a comfort his words are.

He wants to wrap you in his arms. To anchor you with his heart. If he could only ground you with a touch, or a wisely spoken word— but his uses are limited, and the fault of your pain lies on him for not being enough to keep you from the blood and its toll.

“Songbird, Herz,” he tries again as his hand reaches for your cheek, a slow and visible reach as to not frighten you more, “Look at me.”

Your fear is tangible in the grit of your teeth, the vague tremble beneath your skin.

"Focus on me." It is as gentle a command as any man could ever give. His hand lowers to rest beneath your chin, urging your gaze to meet his as delicately as he possibly can. It is your delicacy that frightens him. It is your pain that hurts him more than anything else ever could.

Actions will always mean far more than words. Words are weak, quick to fail, and never seem to do what needs to be done.

If his love allows, he will (take you into his arms / guide you away from here with his strength as support) his hands squeezing for a moment - gentle and firm - as though to say, 'I am here, and beside you is where I will forever remain.'

He moves without thinking, a sole purpose guiding him forward. To take you somewhere safe. Quiet and calm, where you can scream or cry, laugh or rest, tremble or cling to him without fear of harm from the eyes and hands that have led you to this pain.

And if there is no quiet and calm to be found, no haven to steal you away into . . . then he will have to make such a refuge. Those who stand in his way will not be met with any hint of mercy.

Imka

"It's not right."

The feeble plea to the world falls past her trembling lips. Her hands seem to bear the most of her overwhelming sorrow as they reach for your own, caress your own, before making a panicked and tender journey to cusp your tortured expression. Her fingers stretch across your cheeks, worried at the thought of tears staining the face she loves.

"You don't deserve—Your gift shouldn't have to hurt you like this. It's not right."

She wishes she could take you away from here. She wishes she could take you somewhere where you never need to think of this pain again, where you can heal and rest and forget.

A place where you never crave for this agony, and never need to forsake yourself to it. This blood . . .

“I’m sorry,” coats her every shallow breath. She does not know whether she should hug you with all her might or pry herself from you so you might find your own breath again.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry,” she whispers to you, to no one, as though these words held the power to transfer all your anguish onto her. If only she had a stronger gift, a less painful life, for your sake alone.

In the days and nights that follow, she seems lost, her hesitant smiles and cautious touches all distracted by the unshakable memories of your pain. She searches for an opening to approach the subject, scared to reopen this emotional wound when you are not ready or willing, but finds her attempts to speak comforts weak. Yet she does not for a moment give you doubt that she is here for you to lean on, a willing and loving presence that will listen to everything that needs to be said and will stand patiently beside you through all that cannot be spoken.

Elouan

His hand has yet to release your own, his bared touch offering a small presence of light and warmth. A string of curses flow beneath his breath, breaking now and then when he brings your hand to his lips to kiss, their soft texture pressed against your skin with an almost desperate touch.

“Curse them,” he mutters bitterly, blue eyes focused on nowhere and burning with a victimless rage, “For every ounce of pain ever felt or caused, curse us all. Mon amor, you have me going mad, helplessly mad. Here I sit useless, wishing for utopias and condemning victims just so you never have to feel this again.”

His sarcastic grin falters beneath unswallowable concern, his facade of control crumbling beneath your every shaken breath. He kisses your hand again, eyes fluttering closed as if to hide from the sight of your hurt, before summoning a weak smile once again.

“You are too good for us. You should not be made to bear our evils like this. Not mine, not theirs, none but your own—and, my love, you have no evils. Only pain inflicted by others, taken with such selfless grace that I fear I love a saint.”

It terrifies him. There is not a day that passes where he does not fear for the purity of your heart, a trait that once aggravated him to no end.

The blood is too tainted. His own blood especially—strawberries, rich and too sweet, you now attested it to be—had always proved itself far too foul for your lips, too ruined to ever be an offering to you. If he had been a better man before you met, he would have been worthy of you now. This truth is one he will forever regret.

"But you are alive, at least. You are alive and that is all a man as selfish as I can ask for. Live another day with me, ange, and I will do all I can to ease your pain."

Jae

"You'll make it," she chants breathlessly for the umpteenth time, the mantra affirmed more like a threat against the world for what would happen if you did not.

"Stay with me." Her arm secures itself around your hips, pulling you tighter against her, pressing you together as if she could physically transfer her strength to you by doing so. "Birdie, eyes on me. Please, fuck, please look at me."

The blood coils around her fingers, filthy crimson strings that she draws from your lips like it were poison. Fuck, that's exactly what it is.

Poison. Something so against your nature that she worries it is killing you ever so slowly with each drink. Something that takes from the light in your eyes, the gentleness of your touch. Something that takes and gives nothing but rot.

She summons what she can from your teeth, your tongue, any trace that might further trigger your gift with its taste. The blood obeys. It glides seamlessly from your opened lips to her tense hold.

She sneers at its presence.

When the last drop is lured from your lips, she casts it away somewhere far and unseen. Its stain should not remain anywhere near you, her pure-hearted love.

"It's gone. It's over," she promises, though she knows the memories of this will be scarred on you for countless nights to come. A rage burns within her at the thought of this truth.

Rage towards the CARDINALS, the HAWKS, the source of your blood, and the source of the pain you felt. To turn your own gift into a weapon against you, to twist the beauty of it in this way . . .

She forces a smile over the acidic fury that boils within her. A smile for you and you alone, hoping to inspire one of your own.

Hoping to help you leave this time in the past, buried and forgotten beneath whatever may come tomorrow.

"Leave here with me, please."

Niccolò

“It will end. You are you, and no one else. This pain is not meant to be kept.”

There is a soft gravity with which he speaks, his words as delicate as the touch he offers to your arms. His fingers brush against you in hopeful want for an invitation to hold you.

Despite your panic, your agony and grief carved so harshly and wrongly onto your being, the smile he shares is sincere. Small, and uncertain, but it is a smile born from an endearment towards all that you are, even the sides of you that are frightened, shaken, or slowly being lost to a gift you cannot tame.

“They are a sickness to you," he states as though it were the most blatant truth, a firmness mixing into his warm tone, "But you are resilient, and you will heal. I promise you, cuore mio, that I will not rest until you are comfortable with yourself again.”

And he knows that time will come again. The time will come for you to smile again, laugh again, just as you will inevitably cry and shake and break at the hands of this gift you cannot contain.

Mutya

“Dammit!”

Her voice pierces through the haze around you, forcing her to the front of the world that is your muddled thoughts.

Her hands are quick to follow—desperate, grabbing, caressing, only to retreat into curled fists that punch down onto her thighs. She has kneeled beside you without a thought, practically collapsing into a heap of furious cries.

"Fuck, I can't - I can't let this happen to you!"

She wipes the blood from your lips with her hands—as if that could sever the bond and all its costs—and chokes on all the curses and blame that overwhelm her.

She doesn't know what to do. How to help. Her panic only endangers you both, her thoughts pressing against her skull with the ache of her fears wishing for life.

“Mahal,” she whispers above the splitting pain that rings in her ears, “I can’t lose you to this.”

She is harsher on herself in the days to come. Vigilant for any signs of your distress that lingers, the memory of this pain that haunts your wounded gentleness. She vows to never let someone allow you to be hurt like this again.

She vows to be all that you need to heal from whatever this gift threatens to scar upon you, to make you become.

Fyodor

"Why are you frightened, душа моя?"

This is not the response he had expected.

Mishka says the blood is good for you. Necessary, like how Mishka is to him. And just as blood is needed, so is the pain.

Only with the blood would you be free. With the blood, you would be content.

But this . . . this he cannot allow.

"You are too delicate for them,” he affirms as a truth that should have been so obvious is only now seen before his very eyes. “For us.”

He kneels beside you with the slow movements of one approaching a nervous animal. The focus of his gaze does not stray from red gloss that wrongly coats your lips; something akin to hurt, a muddled picture of remorse, only heightening the natural intensity behind the way he looked at you.

“Little heart,” he calls. Beckons, truly, for the brush of his hand against your cheek is his wordless plea for you to draw nearer to him. To want—to desire and cling to—his presence as he would yours. “Ask me to change our fate, and I will.”

He is impatient. He tilts your chin so your gaze might meet his, guides those lips colored by ruin so he can briefly capture them with his own. Chaste and soft is the gesture.

When he draws away, he tastes what remains of the cause for your pain.

Yes, in this moment, his patience is lost. For the Hawks that cannot protect you. For the Cardinals that have pushed you to drink this dirty blood.

The human eye cannot perceive what occurs next. There is a light, then darkness. A warmth that encompasses you entirely. A rumble reminiscent of thunder in its strength, leaving cracks within the earth.

In a moment, you are stolen away. Until it is safe, until the world has once again earned the privilege of your grace, he will keep you where no further harm can be done.

Minor ROs

Dearil

"It's an acquired taste," comes the low hum of his voice from above, his looming figure visible just from the corner of your eye. Crumpled to the floor, almost lifeless at his feet, you feel his gaze pressed upon you like a weight, cold and foreign as though you were strangers once again.

Dreadful are those seconds that pass, their silence broken by his crooked and false laughter.

“Don’t play cute, little bird. Even children are quick to learn that there are consequences to greed like this."

On one knee he kneels beside you. He does not make to reach for you, to hold you.

He simply studies you. The focus of his eye flits over the panic you wear, the blood that stains your lips—at any other time, such a sight would please him.

Instead, in the weariness of his features, you see . . . disappointment.

"You take and take, more and more without a thought, so helpless and innocent on the surface. You fret and worry over those around you like someone truly sweet of heart, endearing others with your pleasant grace, pretending like blood doesn't stick to your teeth behind those patient smiles . . . Songbird, you feed like a starved beast living its last days."

And there it is. The endearment cuts through his former cold with a savored warmth that unsettles you. Fondness, so sudden that it is almost frightening to witness yet again how quickly he turns from cruel to . . . this.

The gloved tips of his fingers graze against your cheek. A light, careful touch that erases the trail of old tears. Reverent, almost, but you know how easily that will change on a whim.

“Are you not open-hearted enough to accept another’s pain? My dear martyr, is your heart not as bottomless as you proclaim?"

His harsh laughter again fills the room. It is imposing like him, bitter in spite of his smile.

You know that smile to be true. Whether it is for you or the ghost of another, however, is impossible to tell.

“Perhaps we should work on your tolerance."

Curadora

“It’s alright. You were so brave.”

She guides your head to rest on her shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around you as she leans her head against yours. Her hums and whispers hope to soothe, to heal. Gloved hands run smoothly up your arm and to the gentle pulse of your neck, down again until her fingers can entwine with your own.

The mask lies beside her on the ground; a humiliating prop that hinders her ability to offer the human comfort she spills onto you. Fully visible is the worried squint in her dark gaze, the tension in the kind smile of her lips, and the thick texture of her hair messed in her initial panic to reach you.

Grace and panic all in one; her fear and love toil in a quiet battle as they threaten to overwhelm her. Yet composed she remains, trying to distract from the near past and approaching future.

“Remember yourself. Remember who you are.”

She is all too familiar with invasive memories. Unwanted images, unwanted thoughts, alien and intrusive yet craved for all the same. Her former love taught her to resist their call, and it had taken all her strength to see this as anything beyond cruel.

“Let me take away your pain. Forgive me, my love."

Her hand caresses your cheek. How familiar a cold, delicate touch. It gently guides you to meet her gaze, and it is as though she is trying to drink in every detail of your visage through the slow start of tears. Of course, for she wishes to remember this moment. This forewarning to herself, her weakness, and her dwindling reserves of time.

She will remember this moment for you. Protect it, guard it, and return it once you have the strength to endure this battle you should not have yet fought.

Her lips are tender as they brush against the crown of your head.

In the blink of an eye, she steals what was not yours to take and buries it within her own heart, cursing herself as quiet tears begin to fall.

In the mere moment of a kiss, you forget.

Retriever

“Okay, it’s okay. You’ll be okay, darlin'. Breathe with me,” he assures with a voice so tender, his own sorrow threatening to crack through.

His large frame blocks the visage of all else, all others. Like a shield, he curls himself above you as he tries to coach your breaths to be deeper, slower, leaning on all his experience in times of crises.

For a moment, it's just as it used to be. The panic, the fear, the innocence challenged and breaking beneath the weight of a sudden pain without just cause—the hope, the wanting, the need for someone to reach out and save them, even if he knows he can't and they know he can't—He forces down the memories of those days as his teeth grit behind his comforting smile, the facade of confidence he wears recovering before its slip can be noticed.

“You have me,” he affirms, “Right here, for as long as we need. Let it out. Lean on me.”

The Gifted are beautiful. Blessed, wondrous. You most of all, your gift especially—one so perfect and dangerous for a heart as empathetic as yours. He worries over what you saw, even more for the one you took it from, and yet no worry can near the amount he feels for you.

In the coming days, years from this moment . . . He worries over the loss of what makes you all that you are. He fears the loss of you to this gift that demands so much.

Lempo

“Darling, my sweet, are you okay?”

Her fingers brush (your hair away from / near) your vacant gaze, tender and placating in the light graze of her nails along your scalp. She coos softly, her other hand trying to guide your head against her chest, as she continues to murmur worries through a doting pout.

The air is sickly sweet, thick and perfumed as a dense honeyed smog eases into your gasping lungs. Once she settles your weight comfortingly against her, her guiding hand shifts to caress your cheek, your chin, and then trace the outline of your lips.

It is a patient urging, but an urging nonetheless.

“Muru," she gently calls as if trying to draw you out from a dream, her voice offering comfort through the tender hum, "I am so proud of you. You, with a soul that is everything and anything, can shine even in the darkest hours of another."

Her words are genuine, so perfectly honest and true. They carry in them her faith, her love, and her admiration in you.

"In death, in pain, in madness: in anything the world deems evil, wrong, or undesired, you take from them strength and purpose. You take it, and it can do nothing but strengthen the beauty I see in you."

Bones

"Fucking hell!"

It’s bitter and harsh, breathless and scared. Not a whisper, yet it’s soft. Not a scream, but it’s desperate.

And this moment is all too real. He can’t tell himself that your cries are a forgotten regret, that your tears are a punitive illusion—that the blood staining your (trembling) lips is no more than a memory of his in some torturous and temporary nightmare that scars no one but him.

This has happened before.

The madness, the fear, the repulsion. It is different, but underneath all the senseless details it is the same.

It will happen again, so long as you drink.

So long as you crave.

"Hjärtat," he practically pleas, hisses, through anguish and rage, fear and a love reawakening to a life so full and helpless that it hurts.

His instinct is to take you home. Back then, that had been your father. Someone more capable than him in caring for you. Someone who could comfort you, protect you, and put you back together when all he could do was further tear you apart.

But what has home become to you? Not that old little house on the wood's edge. Not the arms of your father, not the company of Mr. Flecther, and not in the shadows with him. Not those aged bricks in the city of angels, nor the Gifted that dwelled in their lonely streets. Home had become somewhere he could never follow.

Those damned, traitorous HAWKS. If you did not return to their grasp, it would mean the end of everyone that loved you before.

It could mean the end of you, and that would be the end of him.

A bitter farce of a laugh pushes past his grief, the barked sound broken by the threat of cries in his throat. "We haven't changed a bit."

He holds you in his arms. Buries his head in the crook of your neck. And he is so cold to the touch. Cold enough to ground you in this moment. So cold and coiled around you to the point that it almost hurts.

"For once," he whispers against your skin, his lips pressing momentarily against the pulse of your neck in the ghost of a kiss, "for fucking once in our lives, could helping you not mean having to let you go?"

To your father, to the future, to the HAWKS. What's best for you is never what he can provide. They can help you. Comfort you. Protect you. And he, all he can do . . . all he ever does, when it comes to you, is boil in his own selfish regret.

Mishka

“Endure, my dear.”

These foreign hands of theirs, designed to your preference, struggle to capture the sense of touch as much as they wish: fail to offer them the warmth of your glistening skin, the brush of your shallow breaths as they graze their fingers across your lips. As if that practiced gesture could be enough to silence your pain.

It is strange that you would think this painful. How can this be unwanted to you, these sensations and impressions that leave their mosaic of scars upon your soul? Is this not what you were born to desire? Born to become?

And yet, you seek escape from this. You come to them with hands that curl with regret. You reach for them with pleading eyes; eyes that wish to release what has been taken by those darkened lips.

You are a marvel to them, truly. A curious wonder that's lured them into an odd state of sympathy. In their lips and brows, it is almost as if your pain were being reflected, though it is more so a pain of uncertainty that disturbs them.

“This anguish is an earthly trap; you are stronger than it could ever be. Heaven, you are everything they can never be.”

And it is true. It is the very splendor of your soul, even if you wish for nothing more than to be rid of it. But wants cannot always determine what things truly are.

This is pitiful. And this vile sentiment—love, the vessel dares to call it with a faint challenge on his tongue—makes this scene all the lower and more horrific to bear. It is disgraceful.

Beneath them.

And yet . . . their attempts to harden themself to your frightened visage cannot help but soften into a sorrowful need to end all that troubles you.

When it is certain that you cannot endure, their hand is forced to interfere. It is with solemn purpose that they relieve you of this agony—its grip, its memory—as there is nothing to be desired in senseless pain onto the one they think they may love.

It will take them time before they become comfortable speaking about this event with anyone.

#ro #gift #c: akil #c: kamiko #c: sigmund #c: imka #c: niccolo #c: elouan #c: jae #c: mutya #c: fyodor #c: curadora #c: dearil #c: retriever #c: lempo #c: bones #c: mishka

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drnishargpatel · 4 months ago

Text

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sunlessea · 2 days ago

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what a cold day in hell it must be, for him to be another's only consultant on the ins and outs of handling depression, let alone anxiety. he is hardly a model of personal progress, with a body marked up from his failures and blood staining his face. he mourns for wrongs committed to him a great many decades past, unable to grapple with his existence that plagues a society which doesn't want him, even when the highest of would-be kings had bowed down to his level to welcome him into its city with open wings. thousands of years he had walked forward, barely living, begging something to take away the responsibility of having to kill himself. at long last had he gotten his answer ... and now his should've been, would've been murderer is the one who mourns his almost loss. what a shockingly overbearing weight it is, that he had placed on mr fires' shoulders, once.

"no. there isn't. if you can't let it go, you'll carry that pain with you forever. it'll be heavy on your heart, in the back of your mind, for the rest of your life. in the interim ... all you can really do is ignore it, and cope. however that looks for you." he works his fingers through the scant fur 'pon its ears, tracing little patterns in it as he stares down. not quite at its face, but not totally zoned out, either. he looks at the way its arms wrap 'round his waist instead, body tense even as its hold tightens on him for some form of comfort, he assumes. he doesn't mind. he'd be tense, regardless. "just because things end up okay doesn't mean you aren't traumatized. and what a remarkably human thing that is, isn't it? a monster from the skies, the bane in all our blood, and yet here you are, a product of your trauma just like all the kindred who came after you. congrats."

his smile is bitter ... but he's not being cruel, despite how it may come off. he feels sorry for it, if he were to be honest. as evil as the masters of the bazaar may be to the general public, he's not sure these are human experiences he would wish on the worst of people. what did more suffering accomplish, really, beyond more suffering? empathy, maybe? but he doubted it. whatever fires learned from this wouldn't be some great beacon to sympathize with humanity. it would sympathize with him and this pain that this has brought him, he's sure. but never the public. and he had accepted that.

" ... i don't remember what happened, after i was shot. i guess i died." so put together he seems, but the truth is just that he's tired. he'd screamed and cried and thrashed and broken things and cut his body until his voice had become raw and hoarse, until it had to practically hold him down and force him to stay still 'til he calmed down enough to just breathe. his scars became internalized, always, but he supposes it has its merits, too. when all is said and done, he can keep his calm, once everything is bottled back up inside of him to reflect on. death looming over him, and in the end, there had been nothing. no gods or angels, no devils or fires.

just nothing. all his suffering and praying and begging ... for nothing.

" - but you're right. i'm here. for better or worse, this world refuses to let me leave it. in the end, those few terrible minutes weren't the ones that mattered, were they? so you can't keep replaying them in your head. when you're done grieving, we have to figure out moving forward." easier said than done, and ironic coming from someone who has never moved on from anything! he's just ... trying to comfort it, to be honest. "for now, it's probably just a good idea to stay inside and heal. you got hurt rampaging around london, didn't you?"

he looks a bit wry at it, but he can hardly scold it. he really doesn't care what fires did to be put on temporary house arrest by the other masters. this city could drown in lacre, for all he cared. fuck these people. every last one of them.

he groans and reaches to wrap his hands 'round its wrists. regrettably, he moves its hold off of him, enough to let him stand without stumbling over its added weight. he's already so woozy on his feet as it is. "yeah, i look like shit, i know. i guess i'll ready a bath, then. drowning would feel better than-" he stops himself, bringing his hands up to cup in front of his face, fingers aligned with his nose as he closes his eyes and releases a long, slow sigh. he never expected old habits could die quite this hard. he doesn't know what he's going to do, now, with this dry humor of his. "sorry. i don't mean it."

hardly any amount of reflection offers relief : there is nothing, absolutely nothing, no matter how deeply it digs into the recesses of its memory and histories past that has caused it quite so much immediate anguish. even exile, damnable as it was, had only had it lash out as any creature like it might—in rage and fury like, a flurry of claws and teeth and open wounds it had not thought to mend even when blood seeped heavy into its fur. it could not defy the gods, but that did not make it suffer. not like this.

the closest it can imagine, some semblance of a sickly thing ; how it'd stomach had tied to knots in some makeshift nursery, witness to something deeply unholy, though the plan was all its own. it did not weep for the mad, when its experiments sent them to an early grave—or worse still, to someplace in between, their mind splintered into a thousand pieces. it did not mourn those subject to them, or it, failures and traitors of a forgotten time. but it had felt something—a pang, at best, when the hybrid came. knowing the fate of it, and continuing still. the sharp ache that swelled behind its chest was new, and unfamiliar. the closest thing, yet still not the same heartache.

he is hardly warm, most days. most kindred aren't, and it would be lying to say it had familiarized itself with the idea that he had always been—but he had felt freezing, sprawled out on a poorly medical cot. it has rarely thought about death and its consequences, so far above it as it was, and so how their cities functioned, it hadn't been something it had to give much more than a passing thought to than when an employee would come in days after it, talking idly of their days spent on a slow boat somewhere it would never see. death was impermanent, or insignificant, or so it had thought. it had not thought of kindred, or those who had once been surface-side might be affected, when a much more final death came for them. he's warmer now, though, even without the aid of magic : anything was better than what he had been.

and still, it hurts.

" never—? " it can only sound so exasperated with its face pressed hard against his lap, but no matter how muffled it may be, the rest of its body still speaks well for it. like how it bristles, a soft if not somewhat distressed ripple 'cross its body as it does all but tremble, the loose hold it keeps with arms around his waist tightening ever so slightly. " is there really nothing that— to help rid of it? it's so ... insistent. " his weight feels comfortable overtop it, unlike the one that's nestled tight between its ribs and beckons it bow even further down, pulls the whole of its weight against the tops of his thighs for some sense of reprieve it still cannot find. its ears flick and flatten in equal time, just as its hands spend equal time tightening their grip 'round him as if he posed risk of slipping through its fingers and loosening to flail in desperate, restless gesture. no way it moves its hands has any meaning attached, it merely moves 'cause it can get away with it—and it's the most minimal it can get away with, how little its body seems to will. " you're right here—! i can feel you, see you! but it is still so aggravating. it is like my thoughts are no longer my own, and i can't stand it. it had started as blind fury. and then the pain started ... and they saved you, yes, but it is the thought of those few terrible minutes between that i don't know what to do with. i— "

the only thing that keeps it continuing from ranting and raving, to little surprise, is him. how gentle his hands, beckoning its voice to wistful sighs and low, subdued murmur and whine as they trail over the soft fur of its ears. " —mmh ... " it stirs, ever so slight, a softer tremble along its skin and voice brought to quiet grumble as it too starts to shift, unraveling itself to sit back on its knees. but not still without touching him, how it keeps its arms loose at the sides of his thighs. it really doesn't want to let him go, and for what it counts, it doesn't think he can blame it. " ... it is quite the mess. we both could bear to solve it ... "

his face is still streaked with blood. smeared along his cheeks, at the corners of his eyes ... it knows it hardly looks better, but it is not the only one left in struggle.

#londonfallen #` ✞ fires & adrien. ⁞ it’s blasphemous‚ but holy. i’m nervous and tripping over my words‚ you’re so pretty it hurts.#` ✞ adrien. ⁞ all my life i’ve been so lonely‚ all in the name of being holy.#self harm /#adrien losing belief in god era is hot #at least there's that kjenrmh

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juusworld5728 · 4 years ago

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Azriel’s Plot In Future Books:

Why it won’t and definitely shouldn’t be the Illyrian Conflict

This post will solely be focusing on what his role should not be.

Plot:

We will first start out with the issues that are plot-based...

Rhysand has mentioned several times that he has been dealing with Illyrian conflicts for centuries. Serious issues like wing-clipping carry difficulties to be able to completely change. Rhys banned it hundreds of years ago, and it is still being done. Rhys has also mentioned that he can’t make certain laws since it would threaten the lives of the Illyrian females. In any case, he also says that the problems (that have been going on for thousands of years), cannot be solved in a short amount of time. Things like this take hundreds of years, not a single book.

If you think it about it rationally, this isn’t just a region of the Night Court. This is a place with its own people, its own customs, and its own culture. Yes, it is a region that has some horrible and outdated customs that need fixing. However, this cannot be fixed in a single book as its own subplot (since there’s also other plots involved). I honestly think these issues might be passed on to the Inner Circle’s children with slow progress being made already.

Character:

Now, moving on to the important part of this post. Take into account everything I have mentioned above while you’re reading this...

Let me just outright say that bringing in Azriel to “fix” Illyria would be majorly harmful to him as a character and really confusing. Definitely not in a good way, where it hurts but it pays off in the end and everybody lives HEA. NO NO NO, I am talking about pain that makes no sense to bring in additionally. Do we seem to forget where his trauma came from? Trauma that he is clearly not over, which I have no doubt will be healing in the next book.

Facing your trauma does not mean that your arc has to revolve around fixing the very people that broke you. Before anyone goes straight to bash me in the comments, yes I am very aware that there are several issues in Illyria that have nothing to do with what happened to Azriel. I am also very aware that many Illyrians are victims, just like Azriel was.

I want to mention that we don’t know the extent of his abuse and I have no doubt that we will find out when we get his POV.

My question is, why do you want Azriel to mend this conflict that will continue to go on for centuries to come? Would that really be facing trauma head-on?

Why do you want Azriel to not hate Illyria? After all of what he has gone through, anyone would hate it too.

Do we not think that Azriel is aware that there are victims? Of course he does and he does not blame them. What he is blaming is the culture that surrounds the very same people that tortured him for 11 years. We can even get vague details about the abuse inflicted on his mother, which is a part of Illyria’s views on certain issues.

He does love certain aspects of his culture, especially the one thing that he was deprived of during his torture...flying

That’s very telling. Azriel craves the very things that he was deprived of in that cell, so why backtrack? The parallels are there. I have no doubt we will see him come out a bit more in the next book. I mean, all of this goes back to the first 11 years of his life, which was his childhood.

They wouldn’t let him fly--->His main struggle at camp

His scarred hands from his brothers---> the most vulnerable part of him.

Him being in the dark---> possibly needing to come into the light.

I would say that the last two issues he has yet to overcome. Why force Azriel into a (impossible) situation before he has even overcome his abuse? and in the hands of Illyrian people that were supposed to be his family?

Roles:

A huge part of this is also the roles that the Inner Circle members play in the court. Azriel is the Spymaster of the Night Court. His job is mainly, well, to spy. We have heard of him traveling to different places and creating documents to sort out and hand over to Rhys. My point is, what is a spymaster doing in Illyria? It’s not even about him never wanting to be there, but his job is not based on sticking to one place. This bat boy travels to different places and gathers information. I do not see how that would fit in. There are other fae that fit the role WAY better than Azriel. I do not think that this conflict will play a main role in the last 2 books. It could be underyling and maybe lead into future generation books...but either way...

-Cassian is the General that works with armies and the Illyrians plently (he’s also been helping out with female Illyrian training)

-Rhysand is the High Lord that creates laws and has superior power over the Night Court (he has mentioned that change comes with time but he has attempted to put a stop to wing clipping)

-Emerie is an Illyrian female who is also the first Illyrian female Carynthian. She has great potential to jumpstart more change to Illyria.

So.....why the spymaster that got tortured?

Conclusion: Azriel has to face the cell he was kept in and the demons that surfaced in those first years of his life will need to be unburdened. I have no doubt that he will share them and bare his heart for a certain someone to see.

#acotar #acotar 5 #acotar 5 theories #acosf #acosf spoilers #Azriel #azriel shadowsinger #spymaster #azriel x elain #elriel #no illyrian conflict for you azzy boy #i swear i will protect you #escape the dungeon in your mind Azriel #we are all waiting for ch. 54 Azriel edition #emerie #rhysand #cassian #Elain #hallwaysandtreebranches

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cienie-isengardu · 4 years ago

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Question about Zule Xiss in the Jabiim arc of the Star Wars: Republic comics: do you believe her when she said she hated her Master, or do you agree with the other Padawans when they thought she was lying out of hurt/trauma? I did notice in Zule's first appearance (and her Master's only), not only do they seem to have a good relationship, but she also seems to be copying his fashion choices. So this idea of her hating him seems to have been only introduced later. Curious to hear your thoughts?

I did not believe for a moment Zule when she claimed to hate her master. Being angry at Glaive for dying and leaving her alone? Perhaps, to some degree. But I think the main point of such a drastic change between “The New Face of War” and “Battle of Jabiim” is to show how the Order was badly prepared to deal with war brutality and its effect on Jedi, especially padawans.

And yeah, Zule was brash and sarcastic, maybe even a bit too arrogant to begin with, which was especially seen in her short interaction with Anakin and Alpha (x)(x), at the meeting before the mission. But once the fight started, Glaive was constantly worried about her safety and once he died, Zule kept fighting to defeat Asajj and Durge, for her master:

This is not the reaction of someone who hates their own teacher / the closest thing to a parental figure padawan could have, right? And then once the fight was over, she clinged to Alpha, who carried Glaive’s body.

Zule didn’t just lost master that day. Asajj cut her arm, Durge almost gouged out her eye, she saw destroyed settlement by biological/chemical weapon with dozens of dead Gungans - and some of those bodies get reanimated with Dark Side of the Force by Asajj to attack the Jedi and she herself get infected by dangerous gas that killed Gungans. This one fight for sure left scars on Zule’s psyche.

Then we have the grand idea of Jedi Order - collect the masterless padawans in small group(s) so they will replace the killed Knights and have a better chance to survive on frontlines, regardless if they have post traumatic stress disorder (and thus should not serve in the military at all) or not.

And so Zule ended up on Jabiim, one of the most brutal, bloodiest campaigns in the whole clone wars which definitely did not help in the healing process nor in finding peace between people who, like her, lost their masters. And though they were similar in this aspect, every member of the Padawan Pack was coping with their loss in their own ways. There was Kass and Mark who fell in love, there was Tae and Elora connected by telepathic bond (and maybe romantic feelings too), there was Anakin who seemed to be doing fine, but it was noted that without Kenobi (considered then KIA) became more reckless. And then we have Zule, who became more angry and who threatened her fellow padawan for talking too much. Who acted nonchalant about her master’s death and her own lost arm.

And though she claimed Glaive was the worst master and sometimes to think about killing him herself, from the little bits of her past, we get the idea she was considered a failure (most likely to die in cantina brawl, as she was told by the Council) that was passed from one master to another and only Glaive truly gave her a chance. And maybe he was a bad teacher but that does not mean he was a bad man (Jedi). Which is why I believe Vaabesh when he says that Zule is angry and she uses the anger to protect herself from the pain.

Which really brings us to the problem of Padawan Pack - this is a group of traumatized young people who never were given a time to heal nor a proper help to guide them through the darkest time of their life. They had only themselves to rely on, especially once all Jedi generals died in the battle and all the responsibility of command fell on them.

It may look like Zule’s hate for the dead master makes no sense but I think it was a set up for her slowly falling to the Dark Side. The change of behaviour, how aggressive or nonchalant she became even toward her own companions, all of this are little hints she was emotionally unwell and how the Jedi Order failed those in their care. Zule relied on anger and hate, because it gives her strength to keep fighting in brutal war, to protect her Padawan Pack and to kill the enemy.

#star wars #my replies #zule xiss #padawan pack #star wars republic comics series #the new face of war #battle of jabiim #battle of jabiim will haunt me to the rest of my days #jedi order #and their lack of care for traumatizes padawans #i really think zule had PTSD and so the anger issues grew stronger with passing days

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cheyohara · 1 year ago

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It had been read somewhere once that the secret to finding lasting love was to be with someone you could never grow tired of talking to. While Chey believed that to be true, because somehow Max could read the phone book and she'd be enthralled, with the artist she'd begun to understand that communication wasn't always verbal.

There were so many different variants to the ways they spoke to one another that the professor knew it would fill up a lifetime and then some.

The only thing the brunette questioned was how had life turned out this way. Her beginnings weren't just humble, they were hard years that left unfortunate permanent scars, then everything that followed was a show of not being good enough. No one wanted to stay, to choose her, and let her heal with their love and support. Chey's traumas were negatives that made people run.

Then Max walked into her life and suddenly the podcaster had felt seen. Nothing was too much or too little, with him it was a proof of showing up each day regardless of how good or bad it was.

It may have been premature to say or feel such things, but Chey knew that this was how it was supposed to be. She felt it in her bones.

Nothing in the way they had come together had followed a map, anyway.

"Stars," the brunette repeated, a faint smile ghosting her lips as lids closed over hazel. The night sky was so well imprinted on her memory that she could see the vastness of the twinkling magic on the backs of her eyelids at any given time. "Never forget who you are, little star. Shining brighter than all the stars in the sky," she muttered quietly, barely above a whisper. It could've been considered a conversation or a prayer, but it was generally followed up with: never forget where you come from, from love.

Since she was a child Chey had known she wanted to be a mother some day. Not so much because it was the expected course of life for a woman, or that it was simply something imbedded in the genetic human code, but because she'd always felt a greater purpose for it.

Maybe it was something all hopeful mothers felt. Her hands smoothed over where a bump would eventually be protruding and her eyes opened to reveal the other half of the magic. They were destined to create this life, nothing was clearer than that to her, and Chey knew this baby was to have their mark on the world.

"Are you kidding?" Easily she melted into his touch and the way his strong arms wrapped her up in warmth and care. "Every little thing he does is magic," the brunette lightly sang, lightening up what was beginning to be a heavy moment for her. "Your talent and creativity always amazes me. Nothing would be more perfect or fitting than stars."

A kiss, then a few more were returned to his lips, "good, we're holding you to that promise." Because not being together didn't feel right anymore.

"I think you need to give yourself some more credit," she said as her arms laid over his and her hands rested on his shoulders, appreciating the closeness. "You know one of my favorite things is when you read to me..." It was impossible to say if it was his voice, the way his tones carried the words, or because like most things— he put color to life.

"Well, Mr Show Kind of Guy, there's something you can show me right now..." The mood had turned, something that couldn't be contributed to hormones alone. Ever since they had bridged that gap and popped that bubble that had formed between them there was a freedom in giving into those passions.

The grin her wore was met with a flirtatious smirk of her own. Chey had always been the awkward, odd duck and usually fumbled at flirting and being sexy but he'd made her feel wanted and desirable. Max had made her bold, enough to speak on what she wanted. "I do, actually. I think they take place on the couch, though. Care to take me over there?" She moved up onto her toes and stole his mouth with her craving for him as her fingers began to push up the hem of his shirt. / @max-cortez

If the aroma from the meal he'd prepared hadn't of filled the kitchen, her question would have been answered in another room and every layer of clothing between them would have been shed along the way. A breath bobbed in his throat and a low, raspy hum of laughter rumbled from within. "Soon," he assured in a barely audible tone that carried the weight of the thinking he couldn't avoid.

Her mouth, her hands, her everything. One lifetime wasn't going to be enough, but he be damned if he missed another second of time. Slowly, and against every colorful image painted beneath his lids, he captured her sharp features as a short distance was placed between them. Far enough to see her clearly, but close enough that one lazy dip downwards would be all it took to capture her mouth once more.

The professor had taught him more in months than he'd learned his whole life. Even on the nights where the woman sat perched in her home office in one of his worn out shirts, he was learning. He'd come to love the way her brows furrowed as she scanned over papers, or the way her hazel hues seemed to glimmer with life when she read a book. In one woman, he'd found the world.

"Nothing wrong with that." He'd stumbled onto a path of thought himself, on that had led him to the point of the conversation at hand. For as long as he could remember, art had been his safe place. As a child, he'd watched his father create with the intention of making something of himself, but what the man had thought him was that creating for oneself was the most rewarding kind of art.

Over the years, he'd put his life into it. Some pieces happy, some pieces sad, and others not quite settling on any one emotion, but a range of them. Their loss, the pain of it all, had both left a void within him, all while sparking something new. Something that no one could ever take away from either of them.

Fatherhood had been a foreign concept until the parking lot of the cafe. How one hell of a night had led them to her kitchen, their kitchen, he'd never quite grasp. Luck had never been on his side and beyond the wicked twist of their story, he felt like one of the luckiest people alive.

His grip tightened at waist and his heart hammered a few beats quicker. "Stars," he hummed, emotion caught in his throat. Too many nights to count had spent under them and more than once, he'd heard the brunette refer to their child as Little Star. It wasn't much of an idea, but the concept itself had been rooted deep in his mind since the moment it had settled there. "I know it's not as magical as you were probably thinking it would be, but I think that... I know that I want to do something with the stars."

He studied the woman intently, his gaze slightly blurring. He'd never considered being a father and yet, as he dared to drop his view for no more than a few seconds, he knew that his life had meant little before this moment.

The tattoo artist leaned forward, his forehead grazing hers as eyes fluttered closed. He didn't need to see her to know that a smile hung off her mouth. It was in the pitch of her voice and too many times he'd watched as she beamed it back at him and spoke one word or another. "I promise. If I ever leave this town, you're coming with me. You both are," he assured, lips brushing against hers before another firm kiss was placed on her mouth.

With the little space between them once more, he scanned over her features and heaved a playful sigh. "If you want, i could try. You're the professor here though. I'm not sure I could do those details justice. I'm more of a show it kind of guy." He could tell an entire story with art, but words? That was the department he struggled with at times. "Want me to draw you a picture instead?"

Hands slid from her waist and fell to the dip of her back, fingers clasping together there as he dared to take a step closer. It was impossible to get close enough, but he lingered with a boyish grin hanging off his mouth. "It'll be alright. You have other plans in mind?" He nipped at his bottom lip, but as the question rolled off his tongue, he dipped lower once more and captured her mouth with his own.

@cheyohara

#08 › max cortez.#pregnancy tw #miscarriage tw

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falcor-thee-luck-dragon · 4 years ago

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Love Cuts Deep

Chapter 11- Fond Memories

Summary: It’s just a memory, but it’s a good one.

Warning: fluff, smut ur welcome

Masterlist

June 21, 2016 - Bucharest, Romania

Wandering down the crowded streets of Bucharest, your eyes casually survey the surrounding area until they land on a little news cart holding the latest universal gossip that may spark a possible interest in the random civilian, among other things.

It’s hot out on this fine summers day, so all you carry on your person is your usual travel boots, black jeans, and a tank top to show off those guns of yours that Bucky loves so much. In your right hand is a plastic grocery bag hung loosely in your fingers, filled with two oranges and a cold lemonade, Bucky’s request. Though it’s slowly losing its chill from the afternoon heat.

As of recently you’ve become the designated grocery store adventurer since it’s the middle of summer and Bucky’s usual attire is to wear pants and a long sleeved shirt with gloves because of well, his arm. And since he doesn’t want to feel too out of place, also considering he’s incredibly cautious about where he shows off his metal appendage. You handle business on the streets, which today happens to be getting some fruit and a cold beverage back home to your man.

Though you’re admittedly a bit distracted by the local newspapers seated comfortably on their propped up stand. Soon you’re at the young teens cart, eyeing up the paper with curious eyes, “Hello miss.” Greets the boy in Romanian as you give a nod in acknowledgment, “That was sure something that happened in Sokovia huh, people still talking about it even now...glad I don’t live there. But uh, I guess the Avengers saved the day, well, most of it I think.”

“No doubt they probably helped cause it.” You add bitterly, eyes scanning over the heroic faces of Ironman and Captain America as they stand with great pose and purpose on the front magazine. Heroes? What a bunch of bullshit and flashy images underlying the darker truth to these people. These so called saviors.

If they truly cared, if real heroes actually gave a shit besides attempting to clean up their own messes, Hydra would be completely eradicated from the face of the earth and trafficking rings wouldn’t exist. But here we are.

“Uh, you wanna buy a paper?” Asks the young boy, smiling a shy yet hopeful grin.

I’d rather get stabbed, you think.

“No thanks, just here to look.” You add bluntly before turning on your heel and walking away, sauntering down the street as more people pass by you on your way to the apartment complex just over the next block. In no time have you reached the building, heading up the long flight of stairs before at long last do you stop at the front door.

Your relationship with Bucky is still relatively new, so you don’t want to startle him by just bursting in, so instead do you knock a couple times to gather is attention. Hopefully he’s not snoozing again. Taking a step back, you can hear shuffling from the other side before he reaches the door. You smile, knowing he can see you through the peep hole, “I got lemonade.” You add, holding up the bag as he unlocks the door, opening it up a crack before cautiously glancing to either side of you.

Realizing the coast is most certainly clear, Bucky opens the door fully to reveal nothing more then some grey sweatpants and a loose sleeveless black t-shirt hung perfectly against his body, amplifying his beefy muscles that not only could crush a man but can most definitely get you feeling all sorts of ways when used appropriately.

“Yes, get in here Y/N.” Urges Bucky with a humored smile and a small wave as you quickly wander in past him before setting your bag on the far counter near the sink.

Taking the decently cool beverage out, you turn around to face Bucky, who’s standing semi-awkwardly out in the open. A small dust of pink covers his stubbled cheeks as you take him all in. It’s not like you haven’t seen him bare ass naked before, it’s just, he feels comfortable enough to let his guard down with you and that's somethings he’s never truly ever felt before. He gets a little shy sometimes, so what?

“They finally had it. So I snatched this beautiful bitch the second my eyes landed on her. Hope it soothes all your troubles away and sends you on a spiritual journey through the meadows of....uh, wherever this place is from.” You mutter, trying to figure out how to pronounce the name of the company as he walks over to you; giving up on that curiosity, you decide to hand Bucky the drink instead, “Yeah, whatever I hope it tastes good.”

He gratefully accepts, “Thanks Y/N, you’re the best. Seriously.” Praises Bucky as he twists the lid off and takes a drink, face appearing to rather enjoy it as he proceeds to down the whole 8oz sugary bittersweet contents right before your vary eyes.

Well, he certainly wasn’t lying.

He finally pulls the bottle from his wet lips, taking a deep breath as you raise a brow at him, “I’m gonna take that as you finding nothing wrong with it whatsoever.” Licking the sweet wetness from his pink lips, Bucky chuckles before shrugging.

“I haven’t had lemonade since the 40’s so even if it was actually kinda bitter, I don’t think I would have noticed.”

“Damn. That long?” You question as he nods, “Fuck those assholes,” You growl, taking a step closer to Bucky so that he can pull you into his arms as you raise your head to greet him, “now they can never keep you from such rare pleasures ever again.”

Bucky reveals a beautiful white toothed smile, thick arms holding you close as he presses his forehead to yours, “And what would you do if they did?”

Running your hands up and down his muscular back, you gently place a sweet kiss against his plush lips, “I’d fucking gut every single one of them until you’re safe with me, drinking all the lemonade you could ask for.” He chuckles lightly before pressing his lips against yours once again, the taste of sugary lemonade reaching your tongue as he lets you explore his mouth a bit, Bucky doing the same with you.

Hands feeling your enticing vessel up as he takes in everything about you that he could possibly get from this positioning with you wrapped up in his arms, you fully enjoy this wonderful moment with your sweet man. Somedays he gets all cold and withdrawn, nightmares seeping into his scarred mind that pull forth dark memories back out into the open.

He’ll wake up next to you in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as he quickly scans the small apartment for any signs of possible danger threatening himself or even your own life. Then for the rest of the day he’ll stay considerably more quiet then usual, agitated with himself and the general world, though he’s never short with you when he gets like this. You hate to see him when he’s like that, frustrated, distant, and in a low pit of despair from everything Hydra put him through.

But he never once has lashed out at you when he’s having a rough day, he’s well aware how Hydra has toyed with your head and pulled the strings time and time again before you broke from their inky black tentacles. He knows you understand how he feels, and he knows how your mental and physical resilience has aided in your self healing from the trauma they’ve given you.

Although for Bucky, he’s still marked from deep within, everything they’ve ever burned into his brain is still there. Just below the surface. All the memories, all the commands, all the deaths, everything they imprinted on him still clings to him like an unrelenting demon.

But the days when he’s more soft and clingy appear to claim Bucky the most, and those days are your absolute favorite. Sure his handsome face still reveals a bit of that usual Bucky darkness that gives his eyes a tinge of roughed beauty, something that admittedly draws you in even further.

He’ll choose to speak with you on his own accord, tease you if he’s in the mood, and hold a part of your body that intrigues him the most for that length of time. He gravitates in your direction when he’s having a good day, seeking out your attention in any way conceivable and making it an absolute necessary goal of his to give you as much loving as he possibly can try in a single hour.

You love days like this, you love feeling wanted and appreciated for your very existence when so many would rather see you dead. You love having those big beautiful blues studying every single curve, muscle, and blemish on your skin like a student to their books. He practically drinks you in, making it his mission to hold you close and speak sweet nothings that will be remembered for a hundred years more.

So when you have to leave for supplies or pay the rent, Bucky feels like a lonely and lost old house cat with nothing to do all day except wait as patiently as he can until you arrive home safe and sound. He obviously doesn’t slip this to you about how he feels when you must vacate the premise and venture out into the unknown for however long it takes.

But you know, if it wasn’t already evident on his face when you greet him after such travels. The way his face lights up in excitement and relief once he finally sees you, the telltale crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and the way that his lips pull into a positive grin that could make you swoon in an instant.

You could absolutely just about die happy, you’ve never been more catered to and loved on in your entire life since you’ve started living with Bucky in Romania, well, since your once fragile relationship took a turn for the best. Resulting in whatever beautiful thing you two have going on now, though neither of you have outwardly labeled your growing relationship.

It’s more so an unspoken thing that’s adherently mutual, the both of you clearly understanding this isn’t some friends with benefits type shit. Oh no, definitely far from that. So what you have with Bucky right now is something so deeply special and bound by so much more then physical love and personal feelings.

You two have lived a past like no other, survived like beasts of war for masters who threw the command and controlled the reigns. Fought together, bled together, and kept imprisoned by Hydra together. Your pasts are blooded and heavy, but it’s only worked to make your relationship stronger. And perhaps that’s the only positive of what those fuckers did to you, without them, you’d never have met the Winter Soldier.

Without them, you’d never have lived this long to find Bucky Barnes, never have been given the opportunity to see him for all that he’s worth. And to you, he’s worth more then all the stars in the sky.

Your lover kisses your lips once more as you smile into the soft embrace, causing him to laugh as you pull away, “What’s so funny?” Wonders Bucky, revealing his own beautiful smile that could light up the darkest room.

Raising your hands to gently touch the sides of his stubbled cheeks, you give him a small peck, “You taste like lemons.” You muse.

“Oh, is that good then?” He asks, brow raised as you give him another quick kiss in reply before he smiles a lovestruck grin back down at you, “I think I’ll take that as a yes.”

You smile brightly before tugging on a lock of his dark shoulder length hair, “You plan on turning into the wolfman soon? It’s touching your shoulders now.”

Bucky side eyes your fingers laced through his admittedly long hair, “I guess......maybe it needs a little cut.” He begrudgingly admits, “But only a little cut, okay. Not a lot.” Worries your sweet man as you let go of his dark mane to pull away from his muscular vessel.

Hands outward and forming the shape of a square as you size him up for a photographic image sent directly into your brain, “Yeah. I can work with this, you got the looks. The face, very nice. Body, oh dear lord is it fine. Mhmm hmm, and that hair? Absolutely glorious, a lot of volume, shiny, good bounce to it....oh yeah I can work with this...”

“Are you done?” Chuckles Bucky as you drop your hands to your thighs.

“What? I was just pretending to be your photographer, was I not convincing enough?”

“Well..”

You take a step forward, gently touching the bottom of his chin before making a cheeky face and turning to wander towards the bathroom, Bucky slowly following your lead in curiosity as you explain, “I’ll have you know Barnes, I once convinced some high end Bulgarian official that I was actually a Russian princess in hiding. He believed it too.” You mutter while rummaging through the drawers under the bathroom sink. Bucky leaning against the doorway as he watches you intently.

“Honestly, it was rather pathetic too. Old fucker was so drunk I could have told him I was a pixie from the realm of toxic waste baskets and he would have believed me.” You add, searching for wherever the fucking scissors went, “Of course his idiot companions were none the wiser and I got the intel I needed out of him. How you ask?” Grabbing the silver coated utensil from out of the drawer, you rise to your full height.

Cutting the air, you throw him a wink as you move to wander past him, “That information is top secret. But let’s just say he never made it back to his friends.” You smirk, setting the scissors on the small center table before snatching the tiny plastic trash can and taking it with you over to the table once again.

Bucky watches as you pull the two chairs to face opposite of one another, placing the trash can in the center of the two wooden seats as you bring your bum down on to the flat chair. “Now sit. This may get messy.”

Bucky snorts, moving to do just that, “I don’t wanna see any blood, Y/N. I know how you are with sharp objects.” Jokes your man with a telling smirk as you simply roll your eyes before pulling your right leg up, leaning it against your left thigh as you begin unlacing your boots. “Whatcha doing there Y/N?”

Tugging on the sides of your boots to loosen them up, you throw him a side glance, “Getting comfortable.”

Bucky nods, “Of course. This is serious business.”

You chuckle, pulling off your boot and throwing it to the side before exchanging your one leg for the other, “Gives you more time to check me out.”

Biting his bottom lip, Bucky leans his metal elbow against the table as he shamelessly watches you do your thing, “Well, no.....I wasn’t doing that, definitely not....but uh, I like your socks. Very interesting choice.” Points Bucky while you toss your other boot to the floor with a small thud. Shaking your head while Bucky makes fun of your current socks that reach above your ankles, a multitude of cartoon rainbow kittens dancing all about with a solid grey background. One tiny worn down hole showing some skin on the back of your heel that would most likely have blistered by now if not for your healing capabilities.

“Huh? Oh, these fuckers?” You snicker, sticking one foot close to his face as he leans back to avoid your teasing, “Fought them off a homeless guy in the park.”

Bucky makes a humored expression ranging between slight disgust and great amusement at your theatrical antics, reaching his flesh hand out to catch your ankle before you can smack him with your extremity. “I’m sure you kicked his ass.”

Setting your foot down, you nod, “Oh I did, you should have seen it, I’m sure you could have learned a thing or two.”

“Okay.” Mutters Bucky sarcastically whilst rolling his eyes, “At least I’m not the one in the care-bear socks.”

You raise a brow at him, legitimately impressed by this reference, “I’m surprised you even know what that is.” You tease before sticking your one foot out and pointing both hands in its general direction, “These. Are cat socks for your information....but no one ever said pretty people were smart so I won’t hold it against you.”

“Ouch.” Laughs Bucky, “Take a look in the mirror hot stuff.”

Smacking his metal arm, you pick up the scissors, “Okay smartass now I’m going to give you a weird haircut for that one.”

“I said you were hot.” Protests Bucky with a laugh as you slice the scissors in the air menacingly, “Forgive me.”

“You implied I was lacking in smarts so now you’re getting a shitty haircut you dumbfuck, come here you coward!” Bucky leans backwards towards the table as you press your freehand on his chest, your other hand held upwards by Bucky’s metal fist as you practically lean your whole body against his. Scissors snapping in the air as he attempts to restrain you.

“Y/N! I’m sorry please don’t cut my hair weird I’ll never leave the apartment again.” He pleads through amused giggles as you playfully let him keep you from doing any sort of damage to his beautiful dark locks.

“You don’t leave the apartment to begin with!”

“That’s true but still!”

“Let me go and I will be nice about it.” You reason, “I promise.” Bucky gives you a half nervous glance before letting go of your wrist, smiling down at him, you slide off his body before seating yourself back down again. “See, not so hard. Now take your shirt off and turn around.”

Bucky’s brows raise instantly while he breaks out into a suggestive grin, “Y/N, that’s kinky.”

Rolling your eyes, you bite your bottom lip to keep from giving him the satisfaction of a genuine smile, “Do it or I’ll hurt you, and not how you like it.” Bucky snorts as you break out into a smile, “Come on muscles I wanna see some skin.”

“Is this really necessary?” Wonders Bucky as he grasps the bottom of his shirt.

“Yes.” You reply, watching as he removes his tank top with ease before setting it atop the cold surface of the table, “It’s so you don’t get hair all over your shirt Barnes, and don’t say it’s not a big deal cause I know you’ll get itchy.”

“Whatever. Just don’t cut me.” Grumbles Bucky as he shifts around in his chair so that you have a clear view of the back of his head and all that glorious hair just screaming to be snipped to perfection. “Seriously be careful.”

Scooting your chair closer so that your legs are parted for a better angle, you semi-roughly tug down on his dark locks causing the super soldier to grunt in pain, “Y/N!” Grumbles Bucky through clenched teeth, “What the hell?” He whines as you chuckle mischievously from behind him.

“Oh shut it you big baby, I know what I’m doing.” Bucky’s mouth opens to protest, but before he’s able to throw something witty at you to counter your sass, you’ve made a loud snip snip sound with the scissors.

“Careful.” Worries Bucky as you hold a chunk of his hair before letting the utensil slice right through the brown follicles like a knife through some soft chocolate cake. Soon more and more tuffs of discarded hair fall into the wastebasket as you work around the back of his head. He doesn’t say a word the whole time as you skillfully cut your way to a half-descent haircut.

After a good five minutes, you lean back to examine your work, “Okay, looking good.”

“Can I see.”

“No.” You deadpan with a small chuckle before pressing the handle of the scissors to his bare back, “Turn around wolfman I need to do the front.”

Sighing, Bucky shifts, turning around to finally face you. Both your legs staggered side by side now as he looks into your eyes like a beaten down puppy, “Oh don’t look at me like that Barnes. Your torture session is almost over.” You add before kissing your fingers and pressing them against his lips for a brief second of silent affection.

Bucky cracks a handsome grin while your left hand messes up his long bangs, “Must you do that too.” Complains your grumbly lover in annoyance as you slice some areas near his face. “Yep. I’m not cutting all of it, I’m just giving your eyes some trim to see. Bucky you’ve been putting your hair up in buns for a week now.”

“Okay fine.”

“I mean, I like it. But you need a cut, I miss seeing your pretty face.” Bucky closes his eyes as you make quick work of his hair, deciding it best to just keep his thoughts to himself and let you do your masterful work, hopefully resulting in a decent job well done.

Soon he hears one last snip before you dramatically gasp causing his eyes to shoot open, “What did you do!?” Worries Bucky as you start smiling like an idiot.

“Oh my...ha, you look so good!” You affirm with an excited squeak of joy, setting the scissors down on the table before reaching your hands out to dive your fingers through his soft mane like an excited child petting a furry cat for the first time.

Bucky’s hands wrap around your forearms as he smiles, “Okay, okay, Y/N...” Starts Bucky as you take your hands and gently push his hair back to see his handsome face.

“Why, hello there Mr. Barnes.” You slyly jest as he studies your smirking face, “Don’t you just look absolutely dashing.”

“Am I free to look now?” Implores your lover with a shy smile as he rests his hands to either one of your thighs, squeezing lightly while you nod. “Go for it.”

He lets go, getting up from the chair to saunter on into the bathroom to observe your skilled work as a terribly underpaid hairdresser. In the meantime, you’ve cleaned off the few stray hairs coating the table and dumped them in the small trash can. Setting the chairs back into their normal positioning as you place the trash back in it’s usual spot by the window.

A mischievous grin coating your features as you stand causally by the fridge, awaiting Bucky who soon walks out of the bathroom. Smile on his beautiful features before his face falls into a confused yet oddly amused expression. “Y/N what are you doing? You look like Hitler.”

“What? No I don’t!” You protest, removing Bucky’s discarded lock of hair from your upper lip and tossing it in the trash, “Well you look.....uh, you look like uh.....I don’t know. You look really hot, I’m kind of distracted not gonna lie.”

Bucky smiles, cheeks dusting a light pink color as he walks closer to you. Noticeably still lacking an actual shirt which is doing wonders to your swirling thoughts that are turning a bit dirty, and those grey sweatpants? Hanging dangerously low on his beautiful body, you can see his famous V line in your peripheral vision as you strain to keep your eyes locked with his.

Oh he is challenging you big time.

Bucky, too observant for his own good, takes the hint that you’re starting to get a little hot and bothered with him looking like that all shirtless in the room and whatnot. Fresh haircut, low pants, and nothing better to do on this fine summer evening.

He raises an intrigued brow, “I know that look.” Muses Bucky with a knowing devilish grin as you shake your head at him, eyes darting to the newspaper covered window. You hate getting caught.

“Nope. What would make you think I’m thinking of...of, whatever you’re thinking. Alright listen, my mind is all pure and good up in here...so I, I have no idea whatever the fuck you’re talking about.” Bucky chuckles, chest rising in little spurts as he humors you, taking a couple more steps closer as you bite your lip in anticipation. Shit, he’s got you right where he wants you.

Ever so gently does five metal fingers reach up to caress the side of your cheek, trailing sweet icy lines down to your chin as his bare chest presses sweetly against your clothed breasts. Flesh hand holding your lower back, pressing you into him, “Y/N.” Whispers Bucky, sounding more like a genuine question as he tilts his head to the side, “What’r you thinking of?”

Pursing your lips together to keep from revealing a full grin to give him that proud satisfaction of turning you on without much effort, you raise a brow, free hand reaching downwards to gently palm him through his sweats that are indeed beginning to tent.

“Hmm. Guess I got you too, and all I did was stand here.” You proudly conclude, slipping a hand into his pants as you trail your fingers up and down his hardening length, causing Bucky to groan in arousal at your playful teasing. “Fuck me I could listen to that voice for a thousand years and never get tired of hearing you moan Buck.”

Bucky grabs your hand currently exploring his neither regions, pulling it out as he takes both your hands with his, face leaning in real close to yours, “I was not moaning.” He confirms with a sly grin, “This...is a moan.” And a second later he’s pressing his flesh digits into your clothed heat, rubbing your growing arousal with the pads of his skilled fingers as your face shifts with pleasure.

“oh.” Softly escapes from your parted lips, the sound coming out as more of a breathy gasp of air then anything really comprehensible.

Soon a large grin has found its way onto your flushed features, “You bastard.” Bucky chuckles at your less then heated curse given freely to him before removing his fingers from their pleasurable assault on your sensitive area that’s calling for some real attention, you kiss him again before muttering, “Come on Barnes....”

His lips dance in time with yours as he keeps you from speaking anything otherwise witty back at him, flesh and metal hand trailing up your body until they find the lower rim of your tank top. He pulls the material upwards, breaking the kiss for but a swift moment to let the fabric completely slide right off of your body and onto the floor below.

Lips on yours in an instant as his nimble fingers skillfully unclasp your bra, you’d have praised him for the semi-troublesome work if not for the fact that he’s now using those talented hands of his to knead your naked breasts like the most valuable and sweetest dough in all the land. Touching them with the tenderness of a skilled lover who knows just how to get his lady feeling all sorts of good.

Trailing your digits up and down his bare back, you shift your face to the side so he can keep stealing away more kisses while you try and form a sentence, “Buck...mhmm....mmmm.....Bucky, I need you, mhmm, I need you in me...right, right now.” You mutter in between moans while Bucky’s hardness rubs through his sweatpants and onto your thighs.

His hands trail up to gather the sides of your face in his palms, lips finally parting from yours as his beautiful blues gaze lovingly into your blissful expression, “I think that’s a fantastic idea Y/N. Now if you could lay on this table so I can take your pants off that’d be great.” Softly adds Bucky as you quickly steal a kiss in reply before scooting yourself upon the wooden table.

Leaning your body back as he quickly removes the clothing from your lower half, underwear sliding off next to leave you in nothing but your wit and will, and naked everything. His lust filled eyes trail hungrily down from your protruding breasts to your soaked neither regions hot and ready for his willing member.

“Enough drooling over me Barnes, I wanna see what you’ve got.” He chuckles at getting so easily caught; listening to your inquisition, he swiftly removes those annoying grey sweatpants before slipping off the tight boxers with ease.

Your eyes widen in excitement at the hardened length dripping in precum, his king jewels swollen and ready to send you into a world of wonders soon enough.

Bucky, noticing how your eyes swirl with hunger, takes a step forward, placing his hand on your knee, “This angles kinda weird so...can you turn around?” Asks the super soldier apprehensively, you two have never done it this way before. It’s pretty tame all things considered, but it’s something you’re more than willing to try.

You nod with a mischievous grin, “That’s a little kinky.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, snorting with laughter nonetheless, “Why are you..never mind.” Muses your lover while you swiftly scoot your naked bum off of the table before kissing his cheek and turning around. Laying your stomach against the warmed surface of the wood as you bend over for Bucky to begin his godly work.

Soon his hands are feeling up your beautiful bum before wandering to your sides, “This good? Are you comfortable like this, just tell me if we need the bed instead and I can..”

“Bucky just fuck me.” You quickly interrupt, pushing your ass against his member that’s quite literally poking provocatively at your naked cheeks. “Yeah, okay, right on that.” Replies your man as he holds your left hip in place, flesh hand steadying his cock as he approaches your slick folds.

You can’t see him from this angle, relying on sounds and feel alone; you’re soon pleasantly relieved of the lack of contact when his manhood finally touches the surface of your two mounds before Bucky pushes himself into you.

Spreading you wide open and bare unto him as his length slides completely into your dripping core that’s heated and buzzing with your arousal. He feels good, really good. The slight discomfort gone in an instant as you quickly adjust perfectly in tune with his fullness and girth that stretches your walls so beautifully.

Bucky lets out a pleasant sigh before gently squeezing your hips, “Y/N are you good?” Wonders your sweet man, balls deep inside you but still making it important that you’re feeling as fantastic as him. How considerate.

With one hand gripping the far edge of the table and the other one thrown back to smack affectionately against his hip, you nod while face is pressed against the flat wood, “So good Buck....so good.” You mutter happily.

Taking this as a positive sign, Bucky smiles joyously before pulling a good ways out of you and thrusting himself back in again. Replicating this wondrous action for a good thirty more seconds as he draws your vessel into a new plane of pleasure with each fantastical stroke.

You’re left with soft moans reaching Bucky’s ears while the poor table attempts to keep in its place as Bucky thrusts full force into you over and over again, the legs of wood scraping against the flooring with each pump into your core. Grunting with effort not gone unnoticed by you in the slightest.

Nothing in the small apartment is heard except for the familiar skin on skin contact associated with this or any type of lovemaking, though right now, this angle, and those beautiful groans dripping off of his tongue sets this scene as more of a good fucking between the two of you if you’re being completely honest here.

Bucky’s cock pulses and twitches in excitement as he pulls in and out of you, hands tightly gripping the sides of your hips enough to bruise when all is said and done, luckily for you, quick healing is one of your attributes. Paying no mind the dull ache of his fingers against your flesh, you grip the edge of the table as the titular coil of growing pleasure begins its usual act upon your womanhood.

Bucky’s relentless, pushing himself into you just right with that delicious cock of his, sliding in and out of your slick walls as he works his magic. “oh God Buck...” You moan in absolute bliss, brows raising upwards at the growing sensation building up into your persistent climax.

He smiles to himself, proud of his fruitful efforts to turn you into a moaning mess underneath him, soon he’s picking up the pace with vigor and palpable stamina that you’re all to willing to match. “Buck....oh fu...fuck, I’m so-I’m so close....mhmm..” He slams into you harder now, causing the table to slide across the floor as he continues his pleasurable assault on your core that’s bringing you quickly to the edge of paradise.

“Ah shit.” Mumbles Bucky, realizing this current positioning is messing up his groove since this damn table keeps annoyingly moving in time with his thrusts. A second later his metal arm his lifting your stomach upwards, body to much of a mess to protest, you’re soon pleasantly surprised when your naked back falls flush against his sweaty toned torso as he holds you close.

His metallic hand slides up to hold you in between your breasts as his flesh hand trails down your body until it finds your sensitive bud, Bucky’s skilled fingers rub deliciously against the swollen flesh as he thrusts up into you vigorously. You suppress a whiny moan as your one hand grips tightly onto his forearm holding you to his body. While your other hand reaches up to take a fistful of hair as his head drapes over the side of your shoulder, plush lips planting wet kisses all along your heated skin.

“Mhmm you taste so good.” Praises Bucky as he licks your naked flesh before gently biting down playfully, leaving more love marks as he continues to play with your clit as the coil inside you threatens to unwind.

“Buck, I-I can’t...I’m gonna...” Bucky listens as you begin mumbling incoherent Russian when your orgasm finally hits you full force now, your warm walls tightening around his cock as you emit a plethora of loud moans. Tugging on his hair as he smiles against your skin for the work he’s done.

Your fingers quickly slip from his thick dark locks as you fight to keep your legs from giving out at the intense rush of pleasure flowing through your vessel as Bucky’s fingers spell circles on your sensitive bud. You’re soon getting overstimulated when suddenly he pulls his hand to wrap around your stomach as he finally cums inside you.

The beautiful sounds of Bucky’s low groans and moans filling your ears as he spills himself up into you, cock twitching as he releases it all. The feeling of his cum rushing into your hot center never fails to turn you weak, especially when his body shakes with pleasure as he subconsciously holds you closer while riding out his orgasm.

He thrusts into you a couple more times just to feel it through as he unknowingly sparks more electricity into your already fucked out core that’s now dripping with not only your natural arousal but his hot liquid. Bucky’s head falls into the crook of your neck as he stops pumping into you, plush lips kissing your heated skin as he just embraces the moment of standing butt-ass naked in the kitchen balls deep in you, his loving and beautifully fuckable girlfriend.

He stands like this for about forty whole seconds until you reach a hand up to tug playfully on his hair, “I think we need a shower now.”

Bucky’s lips smile against your skin as he picks his head up, kissing your neck while he pulls himself out of you. His cum slowly trailing down your inner thighs as he turns you around to face him, “I think you’re right. Let’s go before that gets on the floor.” Chuckles Bucky as he takes your hand and walks you into the bathroom.

You stand by the sink as he turns on the shower, fumbling with the settings while you snatch a tissue and begin cleaning yourself up a bit until he turns around, “Wait Y/N, let me do that.” States Bucky as he takes the tissue out of your hand, kneeling down to get a better angle, “It’s kinda my fault anyways and you’ve done enough...”

“I could handle it Buck, but I mean yeah, go for it.” You muse as he whips off the milky liquid trailing lines down your inner thighs, “I don’t doubt you know how to clean a crime scene.”

“This isn’t a crime scene.” Asserts Bucky as he whips away the last of it while you chuckle at his confused facial expression.

He stands as you saunter past him, taking a step into the shower before looking over your shoulder, “Well, guess you’re just gonna have to murder this pussy again and we’ll find out how well your clean up really is.” You tease with a knowing wink before disappearing into the plastic curtains.

Bucky’s brows raise in surprised excitement as he quickly follows you in, soon his hands are feeling you up in all sorts of places. Drawing soft moans of the sweetest sounds into the sexually charged atmosphere, no doubt riling you up for round two. God you love him so fucking much.

Waking with a start, you’re surprised to find your heartbeat racing a mile a minute. Then the wonderful memories of last nights dream hits you like a truck, that wasn’t just a dream, that was a real memory with Bucky. One of the many fantastic ones between the two of you before Zemo happened, before Tony tried to kill him, before Wakanda, and before Thanos ruined it all with a simple snap of his goddamn fingers.

Just a fucking dream. Another good memory. That’s it.

Tagged: @diegos-butt @minigranger @bibliophilewednesday @holyhumorliteraturelight @lilacs-lavender @a-girl-who-loves-disney @starkssnarks @vikingqueen28 @bizarrebibitch @atomicpersonacheesecake @jmstz @staygoldsquatchling02 @marvelbros-oneshots @shawnartmendes @mischiefmanaged71 @jckie94 @iamasimpingh0e @mjaudrey @thescarlettvvitch

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x y/n #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier x you #marvel #marvel x y/n #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #bucky fic #bucky smut #james buchanan barnes

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glimmerglanger · 4 years ago

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Whumptober2020 - Day 11

We continue onward with the oof!au (part 11). They’ve got a long road back to being alright, but they’re taking some of the first steps.

General Info: Post Order 66 Vader-Captures-Obi-Wan AU. Eventual happy(ish) ending. Past/eventual Codywan. Previous one-sided Vaderwan.

WARNINGS: Consideration of past injuries, past non-con, and past torture. Processing the loss of a limb. Fall-out from mind control. Emotional trauma.

No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED

Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

Obi-Wan’s head hurt. Everything else, he noted, as he swam up through the dark of unconsciousness, hurt as well. He was long ago grown used to that; it barely registered, really, and he wished he’d stayed unconscious.

But something had woken him. Something besides the pain. He blinked his eyes open, expecting the gray walls of his cell, or, perhaps, if he were very unlucky, the inside of Anakin’s private chambers, a shudder moving through him as he took stock of his surroundings.

He blinked across at a gray wall, vaguely aware of voices and, impossibly, the hum of hyperdrive engines. For a long moment the world made no sense. He reflexively stretched out his senses with the Force, half-remembering that it wouldn’t do any good, that he was collared and--

Sensation slammed into his head, flowing through him, as though the Force had just been waiting for him to open a pathway. He felt -- so much -- too much -- all at once. Emotions swam up into him; anger and guilt and regret and hurt and --

Obi-Wan gulped for breath, letting the emotions flow through him, accepting them and letting them go, burning his nerves and leaving him shaking. He could have attempted to block them, to shield away from the feelings, but the touch of the Force was such a relief.

He’d thought, honestly, that Anakin would kill him before he ever felt the embrace of the Force, ever again. He could not bring himself to shy away from it, even though it hurt, shaded and full of agony, radiating from all around him. He remembered, distantly, throwing himself into it, in Anakin’s throne room, desperate to stop Anakin from hurting his men. Beyond that, things were blurry. Cody had - impossibly - been himself again, somehow.

Obi-Wan had thrown himself into a healing trance, feeling all the damage inside his body, trusting that Cody would get him out, and then he’d….gone away, for awhile. Pain brought him back.

He knew how to handle pain. He knew how to breathe through it, until the emotions became a sort of background hum, filling him but not disallowing other thought. He sipped at the air, blinking at a gray ceiling, focusing on untangling the snarl of the Force around him.

He was...surrounded by troopers. He knew their minds so well. The way their thoughts moved was familiar and comforting, even if they all felt unwell, as though they’d been broken and left in shattered pieces. His men were hurt, and the thought dug down into him, past the confusion and disorientation. His men were hurt; he had to help them.

He lurched to sitting, reaching up to grip at the side of his head, hissing as the movement pulled at the wounds scattered across his body. Something tugged at his arm and he looked down at the little I.V. tucked in at the curve of his right elbow. The only elbow he had left, he remembered, with a shivery, unpleasant feeling.

Obi-Wan glanced to his left arm, gut clenching as memory clawed into his head. Anakin had circled him, made him stand, staring into the faces of his men, made his stretch out his arm, purred, “This is only fair, isn’t it? Say it, Obi-Wan.”

And he had, because the alternative was worse.

Obi-Wan made himself look, really look, at all that remained of his left arm, and swallowed convulsively. The lightsaber had, at least, kept him from bleeding out. The scars around the abbreviated limb were thick and dark. He jerked his gaze away, taking stock of the pieces of him that remained, the I.V. coming out of his other arm.

The line led to a hanging bag of fluid. It was swaying, gently, from his movement. He was… sitting on a little medical bed. There was a medical droid, puttering around close to him, changing course to approach.

The walls were not terribly familiar, nothing he’d seen exactly before, but they reminded him of the set-up on the Negotiator, his fine ship, destroyed like so much else and-- He shook those thoughts aside.

He was… on a ship. He considered, with a shiver, that perhaps he had not hallucinated Cody crouching in front of him, promising that Anakin was dead, that they were getting out, all of them….

He rubbed at his head, hissing again as his fingers brushed bandages and the edge of stitches. He’d… been hurt, hit on the head. He recalled that, when he tried to focus. He’d been… fighting Anakin. Anakin, who had been so sure of the utter success of his plans, so sure that he’d found a way to keep Obi-Wan pinned right where he wanted....

Anakin had always been sloppy. Over-confident when he caught the briefest edge of success. Obi-Wan had tried to help him move past that, tried to offer him training and advice. He was grateful, all at once, that Anakin had never learned those lessons.

Obi-Wan scrubbed at his face and asked, as the droid rolled to a stop before him, his voice still a rasp - he wondered, absently, if he’d ever recover, “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I am?”

Cody had, obviously, carried him to the ship. Or perhaps he’d walked under his own power. His memories were a jumbled mess, confused by the head injury he’d taken. The droid chirped at him, irritably, something about his injuries and staying still.

Obi-Wan ignored it. Someone had tended to his wounds. He was bandaged across his chest and side, the smell of bacta heavy in his nose. The smell made his stomach twist, nauseatingly, associated with injuries, with laying in a cell, with wondering what Anakin would do to him next, and--

Obi-Wan swallowed bile, shaking his head.

He wanted to know what had happened. He had jumbled memories of talking to Cody, really Cody, not the other person who he’d been turned into. Cody had lifted him, hadn’t he? Held him with shaking hands? Hadn’t he?

Obi-Wan stretched out his thoughts again, working to maintain some level of control. He searched for Cody’s mind and got--a blur back. A presence, but dim and hurt. Unconscious. His heart tripped over, jerking unpleasantly in his chest, and he stood, ordering the droid, “Take this out,” and stretching out his arm.

The droid told him to get back on the bed and he scowled at it. He could probably figure out how to remove the I.V. with one hand, but it would take time, and he, abruptly, didn’t feel very patient. He grabbed the bag, instead.

He’d been wrapped in a blanket, which he appreciated. Someone had cleaned him up before patching him back together. He pulled the soft fabric up and around his shoulders as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, letting his legs dangle for a moment as dizziness and nausea moved through him.

He’d been to the healers often enough to know the vertigo was a sign he ought not try to stand. But… Well. He’d never been very good at doing what the healers wanted. He stood, with no free hands to brace on anything, and after a moment the room stopped spinning a bit.

The stilling of the room allowed him to notice that he’d stepped in something sticky. He blinked down, vision blurring for a moment. There was a… reddish smear on the ground. Dark. Tacky. He’d seen blood enough to recognize it out of hand, and followed the smear of it. It led towards one of the private med rooms, disappearing beyond it.

“Hello?” he repeated, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. He shuffled, carefully, over to the door. “Anyone?” Someone had bandaged his injuries, treated them as well as possible without a bacta tank. The troopers, he assumed. He could feel their minds, all around. Most of them seemed to be sleeping, a few very busy.

One such mind was close by, but not through the door with the smear of blood.

The mind behind that door was unconscious, not just asleep. Those two states felt different through the Force. Obi-Wan shivered, because, even unconscious he recognized the mind, the bright soul. Cody.

Obi-Wan ignored the busy minds, the sleeping minds, and the droid. He didn’t call out again. It hurt his throat to talk, and he didn’t want to disturb any of the sleepers around him. He pushed the door open with the Force and hesitated another moment, in the doorway

There were three little beds in the room. Only one was occupied. The trail of blood led right to it. Cody lay under the blankets, hooked up to wires and tubes, his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness, a little bandage on his brow. The shape of the blankets made it clear that there were more bandages beneath them, bulky and misshapen.

The cold of the hall seeped up through the soles of Obi-Wan’s feet, into his legs, leaving him shivering.

Obi-Wan rasped, “Force,” ignoring the pain in his throat, limping across the room to stop by the other side of Cody’s bed. He hooked the bag still attached to him to the hooks over Cody’s bed and reached out to press his fingers against Cody’s throat, fear crawling up his spine because Cody was so still, color bad, gone grayish, and even with the reassurance of the Force--

He had a pulse. Steady. Obi-Wan sagged, shifting, pulling fussily at the blanket over Cody’s chest, blinking his blurry eyes as a familiar voice from the doorway said, “He’s going to be fine.”

Obi-Wan blinked over at Bones and it was disorienting, seeing him standing there, with emotion on his face. Obi-Wan didn’t understand what happened. He kept waiting to wake up from this sweet, impossible dream. He asked, voice a whisper, “Are you sure?”

Bones’ mouth quirked up. He said, “I’m sure. He was gut shot. Liver damage. Lost a lot of blood. But he’ll recover. We’re built sturdy.” Bones took a step forward and said, “You’re not supposed to be out of bed, yet, General.” But he made no move to shoo Obi-Wan away.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I feel much better.” Which was not the same as saying he felt well. “I suppose I have all of you to thank for that?” He tried to make his tone light, to get his voice closer to the way it used to sound, once upon a time.

He, apparently, didn’t succeed. Bones flinched, looking to the side, his hands bailing into fists as he said, “No, sir. You don’t need to thank us for anything.”

Obi-Wan blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden cut and snarl of Bones’ emotions. He swayed, bracing his hand on Cody’s bed, taking the wave of emotion like a blow, and-- and he released it, all of it, managing to say, “I don’t believe that. But I also...don’t know what happened.” He looked up, met Bones’ dark gaze.

Bones sighed and said, “Sir, you’re not much better off than him, you need to lay down and--”

“I can rest in here,” Obi-Wan insisted, tugging the blankets straight once more and carefully making his way around the bed. He sat, stubborn, in a chair by Cody’s, and looked up into Bones’ expression.

Bones grimaced. “Sir, I--”

“You’ll have to drag me away,” Obi-Wan said, calm, intending only to make his position clear, and flinched as Bones’ emotions contracted all at once, into horror and guilt and--

And by the time Obi-Wan swallowed down the nausea that had risen in his throat, wrestling with his own mind for control and achieving it after a moment, Bones had turned away to start gathering supplies.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, carefully, unsure why, exactly, his words had such an effect. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. Bones shook his head, once, a muscle in his jaw jumping, over and over.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Obi-Wan asked, gently, because he needed to know and because he wanted to distract Bones from the agony inside his own head, bleeding out of him with each instant. Bones hesitated. “How we got away, I mean? How you - you all got free?”

He’d known they were in there, his men. He’d been trying desperately to figure out how to free them. And, apparently, they’d gone ahead and done it themselves. Bones wouldn’t meet his eyes, as he said, “I’ll explain if you let me check you over without a fuss.”

And Obi-Wan could agree to that, resisting the urge to flinch away when Bones tugged the blanket open. He forced himself to relax, feet flat on the ground, and Bones looked over his skin, clearing his throat before he spoke, “There were...chips, in our heads, sir. Controlling what we did. I know that it took too long, but a few of us - the Commander, me. Crys. We managed to break them. We’ve been freeing the others.”

Pride and warmth spread through Obi-Wan’s chest as he leaned back against the chair. They were so brave, the troopers. So strong. He couldn’t imagine the difficulty of - of breaking the control of something in their own heads.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling Bones jerk to a stop again, “for freeing me, too.”

Bones said nothing, only breathed raggedly for a moment, horror and guilt radiating out of him again, and Obi-Wan did not understand what he’d said. He shifted a little, asking, “Bones, is--”

“This is going to hurt a little,” Bones said, cutting him off, voice thick and half-strangled as he lifted a bandage on Obi-Wan’s ribs. The pain was, comparatively, so minor that Obi-Wan barely noticed it. Bones had always had a soft touch, anyway.

“I’ve upset you,” Obi-Wan said, persisting, because he couldn’t - wouldn’t - ignore the pain of his men. “I’m sorry--”

“Don’t,” Bones gritted out, turning his shoulders away, curling his head down, sounding gutted. “Please, sir, don’t--don’t do that.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, watching his shoulders shake, even as his hands stayed steady. Obi-Wan sat there, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, as Bones gathered himself and busied his hands with the tangle of tubes around Cody, stepping back after a moment, his face still turned away, voice hoarse when he said, “You can stay in here, as long as you rest.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, automatically, and Bones nodded, stiffly, before turning and walking from the room.

Obi-Wan watched him go, feeling tired and battered, beaten inside his head. They all hurt, so much. He needed to help them, but--but it would have to wait, just a little while. He leaned back in the chair, wincing as it pulled on all the newly treated wounds across his body and some of the older hurts.

The burns on his back had healed, technically. They pulled, every time he tried to move, a constant reminder of what Anakin had done. He set the discomfort aside, and, after a long moment, leaned his head back, blinking at the ceiling, comforted by the awakened mind around him, but Cody, breathing steadily beside him.

He needed more answers about what had happened. And he needed to help his men. But that could all… wait. Just a little while. He lifted his hand, hesitantly, started to reach towards Cody’s bed and froze, because sitting still, with no one else to distract him, allowed memories to crawl up into his head.

And Obi-Wan had so many memories he didn’t want, of Cody gripping his legs, his hips, fingers digging in cruelly, mechanical and unfeeling. Before, years ago, he’d imagined what it might be like, to have Cody’s hands on his skin. To allow himself to be pulled close and held, and then--

He swallowed convulsively, and made himself stay where he was, made himself resist the urge to jerk away.

It hadn’t been Cody.

It hadn’t.

Just Anakin, finding another way to hurt him.

Obi-Wan dragged his mind away from the memories. Looking for balance in the Force and reaching the rest of the way out. It took only the work of a moment to find Cody’s hand on the bed. Obi-Wan curled fingers around his unnaturally cool skin - the troopers usually ran so hot - and closed his eyes.

He didn’t mean to pass out, but he must have. He woke to a surge of emotion through the Force, splintering down through his head, something bitter and sharp and all-consuming. He jerked to wakefulness, expecting alarms and the sounds of battle.

None of that seemed to be happening. Many of the minds around him were still resting. There was just Cody, who was--

Breathing raggedly, obviously awake. Obi-Wan blinked over at him, and found Cody staring down at the bed, at where Obi-Wan’s fingers were still curled around his palm. “You’re awake,” Obi-Wan said, barely above a whisper, relief coursing through him.

“What are you doing?” Cody asked, voice thick, almost choked. He felt--like too many different things, before he exerted some kind of terrible control on his emotions, dragging them back, holding them tight.

It was a stunning amount of control from someone without the Force, someone so badly injured. Cody’s emotions all but disappeared, leaving Obi-Wan reeling at the sudden loss, and unsure how he’d managed it.

He swallowed, blinking to try to steady himself, and shaking his arm, just a little. “You were hurt,” he said. “While saving me, I--Cody?”

Cody had flinched. Obi-Wan felt it, a roil of something deep and terrible moving through his emotions. He turned his face away, breathing hard, hand stiff under Obi-Wan’s touch, and… Oh. Oh, perhaps Obi-Wan should not have come into this room, should not have bothered him.

Perhaps, Obi-Wan considered, his men were - were not exactly happy to be reminded of his weakness. His inability to rescue them in a timely fashion, the amount of time it had taken him to - to realize they were even trapped in their minds. All his failures rose up in his head and he jerked his hand away, swallowing hard and blinking away the burning sting in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, quietly, “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll--”

“What?” Cody demanded, his voice low and ragged, he turned, and at least Obi-Wan could see his expression, could see it breaking behind the tight lines of control. “What the kriff are you sorry about?”

“I…” Obi-Wan blinked. He wondered what the right answer was and set the thought aside. Cody wasn’t Anakin. “I failed you, I know, I’ll just--Bones is--” He stood, because he knew he needed to make apologies, but he hurt, so much, inside.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” Cody ground out, and groaned, terribly, when he sat up and reached out, stopping an inch away from grabbing Obi-Wan’s arm, fingers stretched out, almost brushing skin. “You--what are you even talking about?”

Obi-Wan looked at Cody’s extended hand, memories sleeting through his head, lightning fast, there and gone. He swallowed and marshalled himself. “I did. I failed you all for years. I failed Trip and--”

“No,” Cody interrupted, swinging his legs off the bed, alarms chiming to life around them, reporting his movement to whatever medics might be around to hear. Obi-Wan could feel Bones’ tired thoughts, spiking with irritation at his frustrating patients. “You--”

And before he could say anything else the ship shuddered all over. Obi-Wan knew well enough what a ship coming out of hyperspace wrong felt like, and he held his breath, focusing on the distant hum of the engines, coming up through the deck. It continued, for just a moment, and then it stopped, completely.

A moment later the primary lighting in the infirmary failed. The ship lurched, throwing him forward against the bed - he reached out to steady himself with a left hand he didn’t have - and Cody swore, hand suddenly on his arm, holding tight and steady as the ship came to a jerking stop.

“Are you alright?” Cody asked there in the dark, as the emergency lighting came on, tinging everything with red. His emotions had lashed free, briefly, as the ship shook around them, concern and worry and guilt and--

“I’m fine,” Obi-Wan said, swallowing, resisting the urge to just lean into the touch. It had been...so long since anyone touched him with care, intentional kindness and concern. A selfish, needy part of him wanted to bask in it, but Cody hadn’t wanted to touch him, had been upset, and Obi-Wan wouldn’t take what he didn’t want to give.

The thought left the taste of vomit in his mouth. He shook his head. “I’ll go find out what’s happening, you stay--”

“Like kriffing hell,” Cody interrupted, and Obi-Wan would have protested further, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He stood, shivering a little - shocky, still, he knew - while Cody leveraged himself off of the mattress.

And, together, limping, they went to find out what had happened.

#whumptober2020 #no.10 #blood loss #trail of blood #clone wars #fic #past torture #past non-con #oof!au #my writing #codywan #please mind the warnings #everyone is hurt and everyone feels guilty

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stormikujo · 5 years ago

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Hi. I know this request might sound a bit odd but.. could you please write a fem!reader x jotaro where she has a really bad relationship with her father therefore barely trusts men in general and is kind of a mess when it comes to relationships/emotions (mainly cause she's afraid they'll be just like her dad?) sorry if this is a bit too much, feel free to ignore it. it just is really relatable to me and i feel like i need soft joot comforting me. thank you in advance, ily!! 💘

please, never apologize for your requests! i love all of your ideas 💞. this one really hits home for me, i’ve never had a relationship with my dad and had very abusive male figures in my life. i hope i can write this to your liking babes. if you ever need someone to talk to, i’m here and i care.

this is very angsty and contains sensitive topics, proceed with caution 🤍.

heart of glass;jotaro kujo

Trust.

it’s what relationships are built upon. Whether those relationships are platonic or romantic, you cannot have a bond with someone without that tiny word playing a huge factor. Trust is something that is learned throughout your childhood. You’re supposed to trust your parents, your family, your friends. But what happens when you lack trust in everyone? What happens when you’ve been neglected to the point of emotional numbness? What happens when you’ve lacked what every young girl needs, love from her father? It creates a woman unwilling to trust, too scared to try. So what happens when you meet Jotaro Kujo?

Fear. Not that you’re scared of the man himself, it’s an irrational fear of men. The distrust in them that stems from childhood. Who could blame you? Jotaro, being the observant man he is, noticed this long ago. Although he’s a rather ‘rough around the edges’ man, he knew you required to be handled with delicacy.

What happens when you begin to let your guard down, and you’re willing to trust him- even if it’s a little? Hope.

You feel hopeful. Hopeful that he’s different, hopeful that he won’t hurt you, hopeful that he can fill the hole in your heart. You’re very aware that Jotaros not the most affectionate man there is, but you can’t help but fall.

What happens when you fall for Jotaro, you let your guard down and let him invade the emptiness that is your heart? Love. Something so foreign to you, that it’s scary. What is this? It feels strange, it takes lots of time to get used to. But you’re willing, youre hopeful, you know there can be light in this dark world. With time, healing, lots of love and reassurance, Jotaro has managed to find himself a special place in your heart. And what happens when the very source of your trauma comes back to reopen old scars? Pain.

Jotaro’s back was rested against the wall in the living room, you were laid on his chest. The intense atmosphere was set by an unexpected phone call from your father, full of venom laced words that tore you apart. Jotaro kissed your forehead and intertwined his fingers with yours, resting his chin on top of your head. “I’m sorry,” you whispered into his chest, squeezing his hand a little. He didn’t reply, only allowing you to cry it out on his chest. “I... I can’t help it.” you bit your lip to keep the dam from breaking. The built up well of tears, the overwhelming lump in your throat from years of trauma. But you couldn’t hold back, you couldn’t ignore your emotions anymore.

“You know i’d never hurt you, Y/n. I’m not like that piece of shit. You mean.. a lot to me..” he whispered, doing his best to comfort you in his Jotaro way. He stroked your hair lightly, curling some of the strands around his fingers. His other hand rubbed soothing circles over your arms, an attempt to calm you down. His heart broke at the sight, at how vulnerable you were being, all because of one shitty man. It filled him with anger, with sadness. His love, the woman he’s worked so hard to reassure, has once again been broken by old wounds. Wounds that he helped heal, wounds that he’s kissed. He helped you pick up the pieces, and he’s willing to help you pick up as many pieces as you need. There’s nothing that could stop him from loving you. Even if the world considered you “damaged goods” you were gold in his eyes. You gave him a purpose to keep going, and he’d never leave you behind to fend for yourself, no matter how long it took.

Jotaro pat your head to get your attention, “Come on.” he raised up, with you still in his arms. Your arms wrapped around his neck desperately, not wanting him to leave you alone. He let you glue yourself to his body while he carried you into your shared bedroom, being sure to grab your favorite snacks on the way. He never once complained about how tightly you clung to him, nor did he complain about his now damp and wrinkled shirt. He didn’t care, you were his first priority right now.

Jotaro gently removed your arms from around his neck and placed you on the bed, tucking you under the fluffy covers. He’d be lying if he said the sight of your curious eyes barely peeking out from under the mountain of blankets wasn’t adorable. He crawled into the other side of the bed after grabbing the tv remote from the nightstand. He let you cuddle up to his side while he searched for your favorite movie. When he found it, he clicked play and placed the remote back on the side table. Jotaro turned over so that he was face to face with you. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and gave you a tiny smile.

“I love you, no matter what. This lifetime and the next.” he kissed the tip of your nose, hoping to hear the giggle that melted his heart every time he did it. Jotaro was slightly embarrassed at his words, he’s not one for verbal reassurance. But your feelings are more important than his pride. You only smiled at him with teary eyes and snuggled your face into his chest, your own chest fluttering at his words. This ‘love’ feeling wasn’t so scary anymore. If love is what Jotaro made you feel every day, you wouldn’t trade the feeling for anything else in the world.

Jotaro was your missing puzzle piece all along.

#jotaro kujo #jotaro x reader #angst #some fluff #jotaro imagine

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symboliic · 4 years ago

Photo

nomu!might time 😔✊ (click for better quality)

my friend aj drew this beautiful horror for me (they’re @nonbinarysaru on twitter, definitely check them out for comms!) and it’s time to share him with the world.

a little about what you’re seeing here / below the cut !

the wings are just one of the quirks he was given. they’re... stupidly big. they’re folded in on themselves here which hurts like hell but fully outstretched... well, they HAVE to be big to carry someone his size.

the other quirks are generally a mishmash of power-type quirks to enhance strength, speed, etc. the general goal was to get him back to the power level he had with one for all, plus some.

the increased buffness closer resembling his muscle form is mainly from experimentation, steroids, etc. skinny all might as a nomu just wasn’t gonna cut it.

the discolored skin is a result of all the experimenting the doctor did on him, injections, etc.

all might was wearing his silver age costume when he was captured by afo. it’s taken a real beating but afo thought it was fitting to leave the tattered remains.

by design, he’s not entirely indistinguishable from who he used to be. though the smile is stretched and pained, its unmistakably his. and those eyes -- instantly recognizable. and the hair was just kinda a slap in the face, leaving some of it intact.

the scars on his arms are from various encounters with enemies and also abuse at the hands of all for one ; the ones on his wrists and ankles are from heavy restraints during the torture he was subjected to.

yes u can see the injury. afo definitely enjoys keeping that on full display.

don’t even talk to me about the exposed brain i just hate it i hate it so much thanks !!

for sort of happier stuff, let’s talk about his recovery when he’s rescued:

he’s kept in a secure facility that ua constructs. restrained and locked up but only until they figure out how to break his programming and ensure he isn’t a danger to himself or anyone else. meanwhile, he has recovery girl and a handful of other trustworthy doctors working on him.

his head is bandaged up. there’s hope to try and basically repair his skull but until they can safely take him into surgery that’s not going to happen. he’s... stable, for now, but there’s serious head trauma.

the wings... it’s a WHILE before they know what to do with those. the hope is to remove them completely, but it’s determined that doing so will either damage his spine to the point of paralysis or cause internal bleeding and possibly death. so instead, the wings get cut off, almost down to the skin, leaving two long nubs. lots of scarring. hurts like hell to remove and still leaves phantom pains.

he doesn’t lose the quirks he was given, but the buffness does fade over time because it’s no longer sustained with a million drugs being pumped into him. he goes back to looking..... pretty much as unhealthy as he did before.

he’s with all for one for a little over a year in total. once he’s captured, it takes about a year for him to regain true control over his mind again. the healing process is still ongoing.

#HELLO DASHBOARD 👀#✧ ✦ ✧ saves people with a smile ( vis )#✧ ✦ ✧ one for all is a trans metaphor in this essay i will ( ooc )#✧ ✦ ✧ fanboy speculation ( hc + meta )#✧ ✦ ✧ look into the monster’s eyes; what do you see? ( v5 ; nomu )

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overheardatthecontinental · 4 years ago

Text

Talk Chapter 11

AO3 Link

Marcus had faced armies. Had gone head-to-head with mob bosses and mafiaso assholes. He’d been shot, stabbed, tortured and looked death straight in the eyes on more than one occasion. Every encounter had only made him wiser. Each scar had only made him stronger.

And despite all his prowess, his strength, his wisdom, Marcus was fairly certain he wasn’t going to survive Helen Kingston.

John had warned him.

Hell, Helen had warned him.

He’d taken it as a joke. Just because John had fallen victim to sharing his feelings certainly didn’t mean that Marcus would.

After John had left, they made small talk. They watched a movie, and then another. Helen would read until her eyes hurt and then they’d watch another movie.

It started with a simple question, asked over chopping vegetables to have with dinner.

“How’d you get involved in the Underworld?”

“I saved a man’s life in Vietnam. The son of a prominent member of the mob. When we came back to the States, he recruited me."

And Helen had seemed genuinely interested. She asked questions so casually, he hadn’t even realized that they were delving into his past. Not until their plates were in the sink and Helen was curled up on the couch, facing him in his chair and nodding along to a story from his early days as a New York City mobster.

Before he knew it, he was lost in his own past, searching to understand things he thought he had left behind.

“It just seemed like the right course to take. My father did it, his father did it. I think a part of me thought if I followed in their footsteps and joined the army, things would start to make sense. Like I would understand how my father viewed the world.”

“How he viewed the world or how he viewed you?”

The question stabs at him and Marcus looks away, “My mother used to defend him all the time. He never loved us the way he was supposed to. She said that the war had damaged him—that when they were younger, he was caring and loving. But when he came back, he had a hard time adjusting.

“I wanted to understand why he couldn’t get over it. Why he couldn’t leave the war behind. Why—” He stops himself.

“Why you couldn’t be enough.” Her voice is soft, almost hypnotic, lulling him in further.

He nods, despite himself. “He had a great job, a good house, a family… and it was never enough.”

Helen nods along, “You know, every generation has its experiences, it’s rights of passages, it’s issues, it’s stories. Your generation was built in that post-war haze that focused on going back to what had been normal before the war. Except there is no going back from that sort of cultural upheaval. Time changes, and values with it.

“And in that day and age, we didn’t really understand the consequences of war on individuals. So, your father came back, as your grandfather had a generation before, and tried to make sense of peace after having lived in a warzone.”

Marcus nods, “And I get that it must have been tough for him. I do. But then why get married? Why bring another person into your fucked-up life? Why bring children into the picture?”

“I can’t answer to your father’s motives.” Helen says softly, “At best, I can guess that he probably felt like it was his duty to rebuild America. To have a family and try to put the past behind him. But the past always has a way of catch up with us. And it wasn’t fair to the rest of your family and your father’s trauma is not an excuse for the pain that he put you through.

“In therapy, we use a term called ‘intergenerational trauma’ to explain this. It’s the idea that severe trauma, severe distress can follow each generation. Your grandfather probably brought his experiences from the Great War into your father’s life. And your father brought those experiences, combined with his own from the second World War into yours.”

“Didn’t know there was a term for it. But it’s why I don’t ever want children.” Marcus admits, jarring himself with the fact that he admitted out loud how much his father had affected him. “I couldn’t bare to pass that down again.”

“Which is entirely within your right.” Helen’s calming voice eases his anxiety. “A lot of people, particularly from the baby boomer generation and before, believe that we have some sort of duty to procreate. The remnants of generations’ past, I suppose. But the reality of the matter is we don’t owe anybody.”

He shivers at her words and wonders if she notices.

He’d laughed at John for being tricked into revealing his life to a pretty face, but it was so good to say the things out loud that haunted him at two in the morning when he was unable to sleep.

“I always thought I had moved on from all this.” Marcus shakes his head, “That I left my father back in Idaho. Thoughts creep in every now and then but when I work, I can forget about it.”

Helen nods, “We forget how broken we are when we start to fixate on something else. But, eventually, we’re forced to look back at ourselves and face the truth: distracted is not the same as healed.”

And that cuts deep, but not as deep as the thoughts simmering beneath the surface. The knowledge that he had spent decades hiding behind jobs and contracts to ignore the rejection and isolation that seemed to follow him.

“So, there is no moving on, no healing.”

Helen offers him a small, empathetic smile, “I had this conversation with John just yesterday. We tend to think of healing as linear. Something happens to us, we give it time, and it heals. But that’s not always the case. You should know as well as anybody—not every scar heals. Sometimes a bone doesn’t set right.”

She lets out a soft sigh as she tries to find a way to explain, “Try to think of it in terms of a broken leg. If your broken bone is tended to right away, if it’s splinted properly, if you’re cared for during your recovery, it will heal. Sometimes even stronger than it was before.

“On the other hand, maybe you’re alone. You splint your own bone the best you can, but there is no one with you to share the burden. No one to help you heal. The bone may mend but, oftentimes, it won’t heal correctly. Maybe you walk with a limp. Or maybe you walk fine, except on days when it rains. The trauma comes back, haunting you.

“Then, of course, your bone breaks and you ignore it. You try to stand but your leg can’t support you anymore. You pretend that nothing has happened, but all you do is injure yourself the more. So, what happens, then?”

“If you can’t heal, you’re dead.”

“In the animal kingdom, you would be.” Helen says, “But we are human. We are resilient and we can adapt and, even when we feel like we are, we are not alone. So, what happens if your bone doesn’t heal correctly?”

Marcus feels a shiver travel through his body, “We re-break the bone.”

“Very good.” Helen rewards him with a real smile this time, “We re-break the bone and we try again. And, most of the time, trauma isn’t quite so severe. Most of the time, we’re stuck somewhere in the middle. Our wounds heal, but they still come back, aching on days when it rains.”

He sighs, “But what does that mean? That even if I make peace with my father’s memory, I’ll still feel him haunting me now and again?”

“There are no guarantees, but it’s likely. We all experience trauma differently but it seldom disappears all together.”

Idly, Marcus hears the sound of a car on gravel but he shakes his head, still lost in his own thoughts, “And what, there’s no way to make it disappear?”

“Not permanently. There are skills you can learn to help cope with the memories or to restructure your experiences. But trauma engrains itself within us.”

“It’s stupid.” Marcus spits out, “I came out of ‘Nam without feeling a thing. I’ve killed more people than I can count, and I don’t think about it. But the thought of my father’s voice makes me want to scream.”

“The events that happen in our formative years leave far deeper scars than what comes later. You spent your childhood seeking the approval of a man who probably lost sight of who he was long before you were born.”

The door opens and Marcus catches sight of John, carrying a couple grocery bags and a suitcase.

“And you can’t hold yourself responsible for that.” Helen adds softly, checking over her shoulder. Her eyes scan John, assessing for injury before she asks, “Is that your blood?”

“No.”

Marcus swallows, forcing the heaviness weight on him back down his throat and motioning to the bags John is carrying. Still, his voice is gruff as he asks, “You go shopping?”

“Just picked up a few things. Soap, a toothbrush. Better coffee.” John reaches in the bag and pulls out a pint of ice cream, reveling in the way her eyes light up as he hands it to her.

“Oh, fuck yes.” She takes it and undoes the plastic wrap locking the lid on, looking at Marcus as she does, “Do you need some. too?”

“Marcus won’t eat that much sugar.”

“What I need is Cognac.” Marcus mutters.

Helen hums, “Was Cognac also your father’s drink?”

Marcus looks up sharply, “Pass me the damn ice cream.”

Helen tosses the pint to him and John sighs, “Hels, I thought I said not to break him.”

“I didn’t! We were just having a discussion.”

“Uh huh.” John watches as Marcus slips into the kitchen for a spoon, “I’ve never seen Marcus eat refined sugars. Ever.”

“Physical health is only one facet of being. Ice cream tends to the mind and the soul.” She says knowingly.

Marcus plops down on the couch next to Helen and hands her a spoon.

John raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Fuck off.” Marcus says, digging the spoon into the ice cream, “I have unprocessed trauma.”

He looks from Marcus to Helen, the latter of whom just shrugs.

“Couldn’t last one day without breaking somebody’s psyche?” John teases.

Helen swallows a mouthful of ice cream, “I can’t turn it off any more than you can stop counting exits, looking for weapons.”

Marcus nods, “I say next time we have a tough case, we just send her in.”

Not a chance in hell, John thinks even knowing that Marcus is largely joking. Still, he couldn’t deny that it would be hilarious to drop Helen in the middle of the Continental and just watch.

She leans to the side on the couch, looking up at him with her warm brown eyes. “Did you have dinner?” He shakes his head and Helen sighs, “We saved you a plate, just in case. Go shower, I’ll heat it up.”

“It’s okay—”

“Go shower.” She says again, leaving no room for argument as she stands, “And change in the bathroom! I don’t want you getting blood on our bed.”

Our bed. He tries not to read to much into that but holy fuck the way that sounded… The casual way that she said it felt so fucking right even if he knew he was reading far too much into the innocent statement. He pushes it out of his head as he acquiesces with a soft, “Yes, ma’am.”

She swats at his side the best she can from her seat on the couch to prompt him forward. John sets the grocery bags with actual food on the counter and heads to the back. He tosses the suitcase on the bed and finds his own sleepwear from the night before.

Grabbing the bag with the hygiene products, he disappears into the bathroom.

He showers quickly, watching the tub stain red then wash clear as he cleans the blood from his body. It had been a long day, as he had known it would be. And while John had hoped that DeLuca would change his demands, he had been correct in assuming that he wouldn’t.

Already, a clock was moving against him.

Three days until Senor D’Antonio and Gianna returned to Rome. Three days in which to kill him and his heirs.

Marcus had said they would find a way out of it, but John wasn’t so sure.

He’s run every scenario he can think of in his head on the drive home. For four hours, he contemplated possible courses of actions that he could take. They all resulted in either Helen’s death, which was unacceptable, or his own, which was unfortunate.

He cut the shower short, anxious to see Helen after spending a day dealing with people who wanted to do her harm. See for himself that she was safe and uninjured. Let himself feel a glimmer of joy at the sound of her voice, the energy of her presence.

Cloak himself in her scent and sound and sight. Memorize it all just in case he was unable to make it through this week with his life.

He changes into his sleepwear and quickly towels his hair.

There’s food sitting in front of the armchair when he returns to the living room. A plate with vegetables, potatoes, and chicken. Helen and Marcus share the couch and are passing the ice cream back and forth to one another.

John idly wishes he could use his phone to snap a quick picture for Sofia. Marcus with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in his hand, a spoonful of chocolate ice cream aimed for his mouth…

Sof would have a field day with that.

Helen’s eyes meet his and he wonders, for the millionth time, what it would be like to kiss her.

He’s probably going to die anyway, already set for Hell. Would it be so wrong to steal a kiss before going to his death?

“Did you meet with DeLuca?” Marcus asks, snapping John out of his thoughts as he sits down with them.

He nods once, his eyes flitting to Helen. Not wanting to discuss it in front of her, John adds, “We’ll chat later.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say he realizes as her eyes flash.

“Oh, no. We’re not doing this.” She bemoans, “You don’t get to shut me out of this.”

John shakes his head, “Helen...”

“I have every right to know what’s going on.”

“You don’t need to be worrying about this!” He insists and watches as her entire body tenses.

“Marcus,” She says, and her voice is just a little too sweet for John, “Would you mind stepping out for a moment?”

Marcus, ice cream in hand, looks between them, “I mean, I’d rather stay and watch you demolish him but—”

“Marcus!” Helen and John say together and the older assassin laughs, sliding to his feet.

“Guess I’ll just go downstairs and see if anything new has magically appeared since yesterday.” He pats John on the shoulder on the way to the basement, “Good luck.”

Helen waits for the door to close before she speaks, “We are not doing this, John.”

“Doing what?” He asks, resigned.

“You’re not leaving me out of the loop! I know that you think you’re protecting me by keeping me in the dark from what is happening, but I can handle this.”

Again, he shakes his head, “It’s not about what you can handle, I know you can handle this, but you don’t have to. I don’t want you to be worrying—”

“You don’t get to decide what I’m allowed to worry about.” She snaps, not unkindly. Helen pauses, sighing to herself. She moves down the couch so that she’s closer to where he sits and, gently, tries again, “John, I am doing what you ask. I’ve cut off contact from the world, I’m staying hidden. Meet me halfway here.”

His leg is shaking, she notes. His face is tense.

She reaches out across the space to where his hand sits on the armrest and lays her own atop. “I know things are going to get worse before they get better. But you trying to deal with this all on your own, without support, isn’t helping.”

He hesitates again, gathering his thoughts together before he admits, “I don’t want to let you know how bad it’s gotten. And not because I don’t think you can handle it,” He adds before she can say anything, “But because I don’t want to expose you to that. You might not like some of the things I might have to do.”

“We got to this point together.” Helen argues, “Hell, I’m more accountable than you are for this fiasco.”

John snorts, “No, you’re not.”

“I’m a licensed professional. I was the one in the position of power. I had a moral obligation to ensure the boundaries between us stayed clear. I knowingly violated that, okay? I got us to this point, too. So, please, let me help fix it.”

John lets out a breath, his shoulders settling. “I don’t like it. I don’t like involving you in this world more than you already are.”

“You don’t have to like it.” She reminds him, “But you’re going to deal with it, because I’m not going to let you carry the weight by yourself.”

There’s such force behind her words. And Christ, she would be pissed if he laid it all out. She would demand that he ignore DeLuca, even at the cost of her own life. And they would argue and fight about it, but ultimately, he would do whatever it takes.

But she’s not backing down and, while John has never been good at compromising, he is more than capable of recognizing when an opponent is going to fight until their last breath. She has that same look in her eye now.

“Okay.” He agrees. “Okay. But tomorrow? I… I don’t think I can handle that tonight.”

She nods and her hand tightens on his, squeezing momentarily, “Thank you.”

For a moment, she stays in place, looking at him. A small smile of thanks graces her face. He forces himself to look away from her lips.

“Marcus!” She calls, letting go of his hand and sitting back in her corner of the couch, “You can come back in.”

Marcus comes back up and makes a show of checking his watch, “Not even five minutes? Come on, John. That’s just sad.”

John smirks at his friend, “You think you can win an argument against her? Be my guest.”

Marcus winks at Helen and holds up the ice cream, “You want more?”

“Not now, thanks.” She replies and he puts the ice cream back into the freezer.

John takes a bite of his leftover, noting that this might be the first time anybody had ever thought to save dinner for him. It’s a little bit better knowing that Helen had thought of him when putting it away, certain it was not Marcus’s doing. Not that Marcus didn’t care, but he was more from the school of everybody fend for themselves.

Marcus settles on the couch and looks to Helen, “What did I miss?”

John finds himself smirking despite himself, “What, is she in charge now?”

“Have been since the beginning, but glad you’re catching on.” She says with a heart-stopping smile before looking back at Marcus, “Discussion is tabled until tomorrow.”

Marcus nods, “Fine by me. My head still fucking hurts.”

John smirks as he raises his fork, “Welcome to the club.”

Marcus shakes his head, “And you do this with her every week? Willingly?”

“It gets easier once you know what to expect.”

The older assassin looks to Helen, “We’re not making a habit of those discussions.”

“We don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

John recognizes the look in her eyes. She’s an expert at subtle manipulation—letting you think you’re in control right up until the moment she snatches the rug out from under you. And by then, you’re too addicted to her kind words and soft stares to leave.

She’s magnificent.

Marcus sighs and glances at John, “How screwed am I?”

“Very.” Helen shoots him an amused glance and he feels his own gaze soften as he looks at her, “You know I wouldn’t change a thing.”

At least, about her.

Their circumstances on the other hand…

Her lips twitch slightly and yeah, John thinks, he’s going to do it. Not now. But before he goes off to face death, he’s going to kiss those soft, pink lips. He’s going to carry the taste of her with him to the next world.

Let that be how she remembers him—not as a broken man or as a murderer. But as someone who loved her completely.

That wouldn’t be so bad.

“Me, either.” She says and it takes everything inside of him not to fly across the room to her now.

“Yup!” Marcus says, very loudly, interrupting the moment that passes between them, “Therapy is not for me.”

Helen looks away, her cheeks tinged with pink. He watches her swallow before looking up at Marcus, “It’s not for everyone.” She admits, then teases, “Some people just can’t handle the weight and strength needed to address their inner battles.”

“Listen, Kingston…” Marcus says but there is humor in his voice, “If assassins actually started addressing the issues we all have with our parents, we wouldn't have the time kill anybody.”

She laughs at that, “God forbid.”

Marcus looks over her head, “Don’t you just want to set her on Winston? I want to know what’s going on in his head.”

“That’s the guy who operates New York, right?” Helen asks and John nods.

“That’s him. And, frankly, Marcus. I’d rather not know what’s going on in Winston’s head. Or anybody’s.” Looking back to Helen he adds, “I don’t know how you deal with knowing so many people’s thoughts.”

She shrugs a shoulder, “We all have our stories, but the same themes come up again and again.”

“Jung?” John asks.

“Very good.” Helen says, “Did you ever end up reading The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious?”

John nods, “I did.”

“Nerd alert!” Marcus coughs into his hand.

Helen and John both glare at him before she looks back to John, “I mean, you know my feelings on listening to anyone labeled an ‘expert’ but, at the very least, I agree that if you look close enough at peoples stories, you’ll find the same themes prevailing over nearly all of it.”

“And what are your thoughts on listening to experts?” Marcus asks.

John smirks, already knowing the answer, “Helen believes very strongly in subjective truth. Nothing can be taken at face value.”

Helen nods, “And people in the psych community tend to stick to their niches. The psychoanalytics stick to Freud, the REBT people stick to Ellis, Cognitive Behavioralists stick to Skinner. The reality is, they all work in their own ways. But to put all your stock in one school of thought, you’re going to miss out on a lot of relevant shit.”

Marcus smirks, “You talk with that mouth in your office?”

Helen inclines her head, “Only with John. But he’s got a thick skull. Sometimes you need to do things to catch his attention.”

“That thick skull is necessary to protect the small brain inside.”

John flips him off.

“He’s had a lot of undiagnosed concussions.” Marcus adds, ignoring the gesture.

“I’d smack you,” John comments, humor in his voice, “But I wouldn’t want to damage your hearing aids.”

Marcus smirks in response, glancing to Helen, “You don’t get to be my age in the Underworld without some wear and tear. You spend enough time around munitions and guns, your hearing is the first thing to go.” He looks over at John, “This one laughs now, but he’ll be exactly where I am in fifteen years. If he lives that long.”

Helen rolls her eyes, “Well, on that note, I’m going to get ready for bed.” Helen stands up, her hand brushing along John’s arm as she walks by. “Come to bed soon, okay?”

He nods, forcing himself to remember to breathe when she talks to him like that, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Good. Night, Marcus.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

She disappears down the hall, watching her long after she disappears. There’s the sound of a door closing and a sink running. He can still feel where her fingers grazed his arm.

“Henry.”

John looks up at Marcus, blinking in confusion.

“Henry.” Marcus repeats, “It’s my middle name. Good strong name, you know, if you’re starting think of what you’ll name your children.”

“Fuck off.”

Marcus laughs, “Jesus, John, you’re fucking gone.”

John glares slightly, “Really? Calling her sweetheart?”

The older assassin rolls his eyes, “Calm down, Romeo. I prefer my women not have the ability to psychoanalyze me. I meant exactly what I said—she’s a sweetheart.”

He nods, relaxing slightly. He’s well aware of Helen’s allure, even platonically he understands the way she manages to pull people in. A kind word from her is enough to hook anyone and, before you can remember to think, you’ve bared your soul. A search for absolution that can only be found in the quiet of her eyes.

“She is.” John agrees.

Marcus nods, “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about the marker.”

John raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t need it. Not for doing this.”

“You’re doing me the favor of a lifetime.” John states the obvious. This was no small thing that Marcus was doing for him.

Marcus nods, “I was. But, truth is, I’m happy just to do this for her.”

John huffs a small laugh, “I get it. She pulls you in, doesn’t she? So fast you don’t even know you’re sinking.”

“She does that.” Marcus pauses, thoughtfully. He looks to John and asks, “How long the two of you going to keep playing this game?”

He looks away, “Marcus…”

“You are both way too smart to be playing stupid to the looks, the touches. If I didn’t know the two of you and we just met, I’d assume you were married with the way you act around each other.”

Shaking his head, John looks to his friend, “Let it go.”

“John—”

“Let it go.” John says again, “I promised her we wouldn’t talk about it without her but… things aren’t looking good. And, if by some miracle, I’m still alive at the end of all this, what can I offer her?”

“She knows exactly what you are and she doesn’t care. She still adores you.”

John can’t even begin to address that so he ignores it, “She’ll never be safe so long as her name is associated with mine.”

Marcus stares at him incredulously, “I think that particular ship already sailed.”

John pushes his hair back, frustrated, because Marcus is right on that note. Everything was already fucked. But there was still something looming over John that forced him to add, “She deserves better.”

“Definitely. But she still wants you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“My ears may be shot to hell, but I’m not blind.”

John takes his plate, shaking his head as he stands up, “Goodnight, Marcus.”

“Night, dumbass.”

12 notes · View notes

punksarahreese · 4 years ago

Text

Trees | Bloodletting

Nosdecember day 10 | @neworleansspecial

Occult!au; April and Sarah go on a walk and meet two individuals Sarah was not expecting

***

"April," Sarah’s voice carried a little whine as she skipped a little to catch up with the Faerie, "Where are we going?"

"An adventure," that’s all April had been telling her since she showed up at the cottage that morning. Sarah had tried to protest, citing the fact that she had a painting to finish, but she couldn’t argue for very long. April looked so excited, for whatever reason, and Sarah didn’t have the heart to tell her no. It didn’t help that an invisible hand had quickly found the small of her back, gently nudging her towards the door until Sarah took the hint.

Life was weird with a ghost roommate who always tried to mother her. Not that she would complain too much because Natalie was quite literally her lifesaver. Still, she did tend to get pushy when she thought Sarah was spending a little too much time inside. She didn’t want her to wallow in her depression, which she understood, but the fact that the ghost couldn’t leave the general riverbank area or stay corporeal all the time meant she couldn’t drag Sarah outside too often.

That’s where April came in. The Faerie had immediately taken Sarah under her wing and made it a goal to keep her safe. It was in her blood to heal people, after all, so of course she was going to do her best to make sure Sarah was happy. Even if she couldn’t mend her trauma, her and Natalie could do their best to help the human make some happier memories.

"I really need to-" Sarah stopped when she saw what was in front of them. She had never been this far into the forest, she couldn’t have, because this was a whole new feat she had never come across. Nestled near the hillside was a large old house, exterior looking a little worse for wear but the grounds blooming with a rather impressive garden. Ivy and grapevines snaked up the brickwork, evidence of nature passively trying to take back its land.

"Woah."

"Impressed?" April grinned, "Not mine, but I help keep the garden and its spirits happy."

"It’s gorgeous," Sarah told her sincerely, admiring a monarch butterfly as it fluttered past her to land on a nearby lilac tree. The whole yard was full of lilacs, clearly not from the area originally; whoever lived there must really love the sweet flowers.

"April?"

A soft, accented voice tore their attention from the flora in front of them. April turned, braids bouncing against her shoulder as she searched for the owner of the voice. A tiny, musical giggle was heard at their confusion. That was something Sarah missed; the ability to find humour in tiny things.

"Up!"

April’s gaze drifted in the direction she was told, quickly landing on a small figure perched in a nearby oak tree. The sun obstructed Sarah’s vision but she figured her companion could see just fine. She must have been able to, because her smile was almost audible in her reply.

"Tia," she relaxed when she realized who the person was, "What are you doing up there?"

"Watching. You appear to have a shadow, you know."

"Who? Sarah?"

A sound of disagreement and the rustle of leaves preceded her words, "Nuh-uh. Not the human, she’s fine."

The human. So whoever was up there must be some type of other creature, Sarah noted. She wasn’t even fazed at that point, having completely adjusted to the amount of supernatural activity within the forest. It was quite the shock in the beginning but Sarah wasn’t one to judge; besides, she was a guest in their territory anyway.

"Tia, are you going to tell me?"

"You know who he is," the answer was dismissive, "May I come meet her?"

"What would your mother say?" April’s tone was teasing, making the girl in the tree scoff. She was obviously a child, though very well spoken and somehow sounding authoritative. The way April spoke with her was familiar, but she didn’t think this girl was a Seelie child, since April had introduced her to most of the court who wanted to meet her ages ago.

"Mama doesn’t mind. Besides, you’re here."

April rolled her eyes, "I’m pretty sure that’s the one thing she would mind, given the history. That being said, it’s your funeral."

"Hm," the leaves rustled loudly again and there was a flash of wind in front of them, "Never had one of those, sounds like an experience."

Somehow whoever Sarah had been expecting to be the owner of the voice was not this child. She looked no older than ten, with long blonde ringlets spilling over her shoulders and a smug look on her face. She held herself with a confidence that was rare for someone so young and that alone told Sarah she was probably older than she appeared. It was the eyes that shocked Sarah the most though, blood red hue glinting in the sunlight.

"My name is Estia," the child gave a small half-bow in greeting, "You’re pretty."

Sarah was taken aback but forced a smile in reply, she seemed sweet even if her eyes were unnerving. She glanced at April in silent question but then turned back to the girl, "Sarah. Um... thank you."

"She knows?" The question was directed at the faerie, who had zoned out slightly as she was gazing past them both. Sarah was also a bit distracted, still absorbing this new person’s presence but also fixated on Estia’s previous words.

A shadow? Who was he? How did April know him?

"About you? No. Before you ask, yes she knows about the Fair folk. Ghosts and werewolves too."

"Covering all the bases but me and mama? Rude."

April scoffed, "Please, I just haven’t had time to ask your mother about it. I know how she feels about outsiders and, unlike some people, I can’t get away with being disrespectful."

"This one is pretty, mama will like her," Estia nodded surely at Sarah, "Any guesses on what I am?"

Sarah was a little confused, wondering who this child’s mother was for April to appear vaguely scared of her. Besides, Estia’s last comment stuck in her head. Something told her it was in her best interest for this woman to like her, whoever she was.

"Uh," she studied the girl’s features for a second but her first guess was ringing in her mind, "Vampire?"

"Oh she’s smart," the child grinned and showed off her tiny but razor sharp fangs, "I like you, Sarah."

"Oh, um... good?"

April clearly found the human’s confusion amusing and she gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Before anyone could continue the conversation, the creaking of a heavy door made them all turn to the big house.

"Estia, what are you doing?"

Sarah couldn’t help but stare when she saw the owner of the stern yet beautiful voice. She had a similar accent to the child’s, her low tone somehow soothing despite the vaguely hostile look in her eyes. Which were, just as Sarah expected, as red as fresh blood. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a half twist, some loose curls tumbling over her bare shoulders. That was where Sarah got shamefully distracted, her gaze lingering on the pale, scarred skin of the woman’s collarbones. Really it was at the fault of her dress, a rather dramatic red number that fell off her shoulders deliberately. Whoever this woman was, she was undoubtedly a vampire like Estia; one of status, if Sarah had to guess.

"Mama!" Estia was across the yard and at the front door in seconds. Her own gown was casual in comparison to her mother’s, a flowing royal blue fabric that had a high neckline, which was clearly to hide the bite marks on the child’s jugular.

"April brought a new friend," she explained proudly and Sarah realized she immediately sounded much more like the child she appeared to be. However old the young vampire was, she reverted to a more vulnerable state around her mum. It made Sarah’s heart ache a bit, especially upon watching as the woman smoothed down her daughter’s curls and helped her untangle a leaf from her sleeve. She missed her mother, that familiar comfort was something she didn’t appreciate until it was gone.

"Did she?"

"Ava," April met the vampire’s sharp gaze with her own cat-like stare, "She’s not a threat. She lives with Nat and she means no harm in our forest."

"Oh, your little ghost got a roommate?" The woman, Ava, chuckled as if the thought amused her. She seemed a bit rude but first impressions weren’t everything, so Sarah tried to be optimistic. She did still flinch a little when those bright eyes fell on her again, though.

In a split second she was in front of Sarah, moving with the inhuman speed that her daughter also possessed. Estia had remained on the front step, watching stoically as her mother gave the human a once over. Sarah tried to pretend that she wasn’t holding her breath, which was hard because she knew her companions had excellent hearing.

"Ava Bekker," she was a bit surprised when a hand was held out to her, followed by a laugh at Sarah’s hesitation, “I won’t bite you.”

“Oh, um…” Sarah took her hand and tried not to flinch again at how cold her touch was, “Sarah Reese. Nice to meet you.”

The way Ava observed her, with an unreadable expression and a tiny smirk made Sarah a bit concerned. She wasn’t uncomfortable per se, she knew April wouldn’t put her in any danger, but the whole situation was odd. The vampire’s original hostility had slowly melted away and she no longer stared at Sarah as if she was a threat to her or her daughter.

“She’s cute,” Ava mused to the Faerie beside them, “Where’d you find this one?”

“I told you, she lives with Natalie. Got thrown into our world unexpectedly but we’ve grown quite fond of her.”

“Oh,” the blonde shot Sarah a look of playful pity, “You poor thing, stuck with two of the most chatty creatures in this forest.”

“Hey,” Sarah was surprised when April had no qualms with playfully shoving the vampire’s shoulder, “She likes us.”

“I do,” Sarah promised softly, a bit distracted as she once again caught herself staring at the mass amount of scarring along Ava’s porcelain skin. Her neck and upper chest had the worst of it, bite marks and what looked like jagged knife wounds healed into white marks. The biggest scar was a big gash right across where her carotid would be, which must have been fatal by the looks of it. Her wrists were covered by the sheer material of her sleeves but Sarah caught a glimpse of quite a few more marks lining both sides of her forearm. Whatever she had experienced must have happened before her death, since as far as Sarah knew vampires couldn’t scar. Nevertheless, whatever Ava had gone through it looked like a lot.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when an ice cold hand found her face, fingers curling under her chin to lift her gaze. Sarah was too scared to shy away but the touch, while gentle, burned like dry ice. The other woman didn’t look angry, only amusement sparkling in her eyes as she hummed.

“Curious one, aren’t you?”

“I- sorry.”

Ava chuckled, her thumb trailing gently along Sarah’s jawline before she let go of her face, “You’re fine.”

“Mama,” Estia’s voice once again brought everyone’s attention away from the current encounter, “Wolves are on their way.”

Ava sighed, “Child has better hearing than even me. The pups are bringing us some food, so we mustn’t stay out any longer. Besides, someone is supposed to be practicing.”

“Ma!” the child whined, “I am literally dead, I have all the time in the world to learn whatever language you want.”

“Yes, but Latin is just as dead and still waits for no one. Off you go.”

Estia huffed and looked at Sarah, “Can you visit another time? I wanna know what human life is like now!”

Sarah looked at the other vampire for an answer, since she didn’t want to intrude or anything. Ava smiled at her with surprising warmth, her fangs showing proudly, “If Sarah wishes to pay us a visit then she is welcome. Might give her some peace and quiet away from all the faerie antics.”

“I heard that.”

“Well, it was also directed at your shadow,” Ava replied to April, “Who needs to work on his sneaking skills.”

Following her gaze, Sarah spotted a black cat watching them angrily from a tree. The same black cat who sat on her windowsill every night, watching and never moving until dawn. She had been unnerved but had assumed it was a stray at first. She even left a bowl of Autumn’s food out for the cat, but had only been met by hostile green eyes and a hiss. Judging by Ava’s words, he was not actually a cat. Which was even more unsettling; April and Natalie would have some explaining to do.

“We really must go,” Ava continued, before glancing at Sarah for a moment. She went over to one of her lilac trees, skirt flowing dramatically in the wind her speed created. A deft hand broke off a bunch of flowers at the stem, returning to Sarah in seconds. The human looked at her questioningly, instinctively holding her breath when Ava got closer.

The vampire leaned towards her, cold fingers brushing over her cheek as she tucked the stem of lilacs behind Sarah’s ear. The light purple flowers blended into her curls, filling her senses with their strong scent.

“I promise I won’t hurt you,” was murmured in her ear and Sarah had to pretend she wasn’t blushing like mad when the woman pulled back.

“Mama?” Estia was bouncing on her heels, obviously waiting for Ava to follow before she went into the big house. Ava nodded at her, bidding Sarah goodbye and saying the same to April. In moments both vampires had disappeared back into the house, which somehow looked completely uninhabited. That probably had something to do with the fact that its owners were undead, but Sarah tried not to think about that too hard.

“Enchanting isn’t she?” April teased, having noticed Sarah’s panicked and shy reactions to the other woman, “Home time?”

Sarah recovered enough to nod, hand brushing through her hair to feel if the lilacs were still there. She followed April absentmindedly, thoughts still pinned on the gorgeous but intimidating vampire and how her low voice in Sarah’s ear had shamefully made her stomach flutter.

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casually-inlove · 5 years ago

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Hello. In one of your responses, you wrote: "I also have things that I don't necessarily agree with." Can you tell us about it? I am very interested in your representation of this manhua. What do you think is written well in the story, and what is not? What would you add or remove? What is missing and what is too much in history? I would very much like to know your TianShan headcanon. I have too many "wants". I'm sorry if I was rude.

Dear anon, this was not rude at all. Indeed, you have many questions, so much as I try to be concise in my posts, this one is going to be very lengthy. Let me start with a little disclaimer. Everything below is entirely subjective. It is in no way meant to undermine anyone's enjoyment of the series, nor is it supposed to be an attack against the author. I value the comic's episodic nature and light-heartedness myself, otherwise, I would not have stuck around. It is also true that for the past half a year my interest in it waxes and wanes. Besides, I am well aware that certain groups of fans grow dissatisfied with the manhua direction. That said, I must state once again, OX has every right to write the story as they please, while the fans, no matter how displeased they may be, do not have the room to make demands of the author. So then, without further ado, some of my quibblings follow below. Beware of the wall-of-text.

1) The plot and characters get stagnant at times — these two go hand in hand. I suppose it is a prevalent gripe with 19 Days, and I am sure everyone has experienced it at least once. Some of it stems from the very way the story is told: the manhua timeline moves slowly in comparison with the readers' timeline. It works for depicting slow-burn relationships and subtle changes in the characters' outlooks. The problem is, more often than not, the latest chapters are inconsequential to either plot or character growth. They do not have the substance or the conflict to them. When OX had introduced the characters, while undoubtedly charming and loveable, they were practically walking tropes. Jian Yi, the bubbly airhead. ZZX, the stoic childhood friend. HT, Mr Popular. As time passed, OX did the clever (and the right) thing — they have subverted these stereotypes, by showing us that the characters are not who they appear to be. Thus, we learned that Jian Yi is a lonesome, affection deprived kid who on occasion dreads going back home because it's empty; his bright grin is there to hide his sadness. We also learned that HT had a dysfunctional family and had been exposed to violence since a tender age; we also learned that he used to lead an empty life devoid of close interpersonal connections and passions, etc. I am not going to write about Mo because it is obvious and self-explanatory.

That sudden change in the perspective is what made those characters fascinating. A few of these developments co-occur with the addition of the “darker” mafia/gangster subplot. Indeed, the introduction of the criminal legacy theme (which is true for Jian Yi, He Tian, and Mo to an extent) allowed to show the wounds and troubles these characters had to face. It also dangled the prospect of an intriguing plot direction — a mafia-related story that is disguised as a school-themed slice-of-life. It was the underlying gangster plot-line that hooked me up; I kept asking myself: Are they connected (the Jian family, the He family)? Were they responsible for what happened with the Mo family restaurant? Will their backgrounds converge at some point? How does Jia Yi's kidnapping fit into all this? That sort of stuff. Alas, right now that subplot seems to be put on a backburner, which is a shame because this is the plot-line that leads to future events, such as Jian Yi's disappearance. The kidnapping is still going to happen and the threat looming over Jian Yi is still real, yet OX does very little to explain anything about it. Naturally, revealing everything at once is out of the question, but if it were me, I would have opted for unveiling bits and pieces now and then. To start with, it would have propelled the plot forward. Apart from that, it would have given the readers some food for thought and kept the intrigue fresh — they would have been cracking their heads to piece the puzzle. Finally, the characters' darker backgrounds provide the opportunity to give them development. For instance, how would Mo's view of He Tian change, if he learned that the latter had to face his warped father to save Mo (ch. 245 and further on)? Or how would Mo react, if he learned that He Tian lost his mother (presumably) due to his family shady dealings? Would it make him understand the other boy, relate to him on some level? Etc.

The comedy and fun, light moments are precious, but I miss those moments when the manhua challenged my impression of the characters. Right now, the plot stagnates in the sense that we know that someone is threatening Jian Yi, but we aren't being given any clues or updates on the matter, as if the whole thing wasn't important. So, in response to your question “what would I have removed”, I would say that I would probably drop quite a few school-centric chapters in favour of “criminal” subplot. Just a bit: maybe show Mr Jian's messages, or Jian Yi's mother discussing the situation with him, or He Cheng receiving some reports on the situation.

The character recent portrayal also disappoints me on occasion. They started as stereotypical manga characters, then they were given some depth, and now they are close to becoming yet another set of stereotypes. Yeah, I get that Mo is a tsundere and enamoured He Tian is an idiot in love — OX has been depicting them as such for the past year. It would be cool to take a look at other facets of their personalities now and then too. While it’s understandable that only a few weeks have passed since the beginning of the story, OX should remember that years have passed for the readers; keeping the audience engaged should be among their priorities.

I suppose I do have a bias here because as an adult I have little interest in all things school-related, and in general, I am not too fond of slice-of-life (I typically avoid reading it).19 Days attracted me because it had some universal themes, like dealing with past and legacy, finding your path, healing from the old scars, learning to handle difficult relationships within a family, and of course its low-key “mafia” subplot. It could be that OX truly doesn't have a meticulously chapter-to-chapter thought-out plot, hence why the manhua meanders at times, or it could have something to do with Mosspaca's internal agenda. Perhaps, it is the latter and the company somehow insists its artists stick with simplistic plots for the sake of keeping their target audience. Even so, there's a catch here, which was brought to the attention by @agapaic: the original reader audience has aged up already so to keep them hooked it would be wise of OX to “mature up” the comic as well. Not in the sense of 18+ content, but in the sense of introducing more mature subjects alongside the comedy and slice of life. Perhaps, they are not looking to keep the fans but to attract the new, younger ones. Who knows.

2) Drama and comedy imbalance. It is a pet peeve of mine which I consider to be one of the prominent manhua flaws: there is lots of slapstick comedy which ends up being out of place on occasion. I do realize the comic is humorous, however, there is no denying that OX introduced themes and topics that are no laughing matters. Jian Yi's and He Tian's loneliness, bullying and ostracizing, extortion racket, absentee parents, youth gangs and violence — just to name a few. There is a lot more, but you get the picture.

It is also obvious that three out of four main characters carry the remnants of childhood trauma with them, which directly affects their present selves. All the same, these topics practically fizzle out as soon as they get introduced, or get swept under the rug with comedy. Considering the humorous nature of the comic, it is given that dispersing some grimmer topics with playfulness will be used now and then. To my mind, however, OX relies on that abrupt drama-to-comedy switch too heavily, which makes the transition steep and often out of place. At times, it creates an impression that the author does not take these issues seriously. There have been numerous episodes when emotional moments were subverted and then dropped, without gaining climax and closure. For instance, the moment that sticks out to me the most is when He Tian attempted to tell Mo why he liked him. The visuals made it clear that it wasn't easy for He Tian to say out loud, yet OX never gave the intense moment the needed closure.

Mo brushed He Tian off and the latter just rolled with it, as if it never took him any courage to say those words, and then everything was swiftly engulfed by slapstick humour (the ball-slapping scene). A panel showing a glimpse of He Tian's face sinking to indicate he was somewhat let down by Mo's nonchalant response would have been appropriate — in fact, it would be natural for someone to get hurt when their confession is taken lightly. Likewise, I half-expected OX to show a bit more of He Tian's reaction towards Mo's story about his meeting with She Li. We got to see his expression darkening when he learned that She Li gave Mo the ear piercings, yet this time — mind you, when Mo suggested that She Li might have murdered someone — we never see He Tian react much. For the record, it was He Tian who asked She Li a rhetorical question about being able to take responsibility for taking a life.

Furthermore, I believe that someone romantically invested in another human being would have naturally shown more inquisitiveness upon hearing a story like that. Sure enough, some would say that Mo would not have liked talking about a traumatizing event, and that is fine as well — just show it. A single panel of He Tian being concerned and trying to inquire further and Mo refusing to talk would have been a very neat detail that could have potentially smoothed the transition into humour, while keeping our heroes in character.

3) Sometimes there is too much focus on the couples. The manhua has introduced several reoccurring supporting characters which are directly linked to our main quartet. For example, Mo had bonds before meeting our boys: his henchmen, the Buzzcut. Likewise, He Cheng was the one to raise He Tian; he shaped the boy's outlook on life. These characters all played important roles in making our boys the people they are today, and yet we know so little of their bonds. Maybe the Buzzcut is unimportant in the larger scheme of things, He Cheng, however, is not only linked to He Tian, but he also plays a part in the underlying mafia/gangster subplot. It would have made sense if he was the one to shed some light on the situation with Jian Yi and He Tian's traumatic past. I would have loved to see our boys interact with other people as well — it would have served to show the variety of relationships out there: friendships, familial bonds, mutual respect between the leader and underlings, etc.

Anyway, I am going to stop now. I could name a few more, but this text is already more than 2000 words long. I have made some posts with my nitpicking before, so if you wish you can read them here.

link & link

Once again, this is all entirely subjective and it is not meant to be perceived as me saying that the manhua is poorly written and no one should enjoy it. Writing and creating compelling plots is a tough job, especially when it comes to long pieces. It also goes without saying that the author should keep their target audience and marketing goals in mind. 19 Days appeals to a great number of people of all ages and that means that OX succeeded in creating something compelling. Their writing is indeed flawed at times, but there is no way around it. It is impossible to excel both at being a great artist and a good writer. While there may be things that each of us would want to change (when comes to characters or the plot), it is still important to remember that it is not our creation. We can only decide whether to keep reading and enjoy what we get or move along. There is no point in attacking the author or generating constant pessimism.

#19 days #long post #that...was a tiresome writing #Anonymous #q&a time

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