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4mrplumi · 29 days ago

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( crow choir. entry two) ── ravens hiding in a shoe ( m.s | prev/next )

IMPORTANT author’s note at the end.

note: this entry is entirely re-written. you can read the first, now “non-canon” version here. events there do not apply to the current story.

crashed out on the couch with some abysmally boring show on the tv and the filthy humidity of your apartment is exactly how you expected to spend the week. your phone’s acting all funky while you scroll through a net-tabloid about oliver green with a plastic pen in your mouth, the cracked blue paint on it crumbling onto your lips.

you’ve long since tuned out the annoying buzz from the faulty lights in the corridor, the sound of them breaking through your door like the thieves that take cover at your place often, and you have to set your overheating phone down for a moment before you get up and wipe a hand against your face.

shortly after turning nineteen, you’d moved out with less than a word to anyone, figuring they’d piece together your whereabouts if they really needed to. and you doubt they do, since you’ve been living in genuine, peaceful, boring simplicity for a few months now. as peaceful and boring as it gets in gotham anyway.

you don’t have many friends, have a side job at a corner-store that gets robbed habitually on tuesdays and fridays, and have to shoo away loud kids playing at the front like an old man. it’s absurdly mundane, and you can’t help but calm down from your raucous everyday doings.

you’re finding peace in the silent shadows that you used to fear as a little kid, basking in them to make up for the lack of sun in the city. the more you grow older, the more you change. it’s expected of course, but it must be odd to not have anything really stopping you from ever-continuous change. some kids had parents doting over them turning into teenagers, teasing mood swings and scolding more often. some parents teared up when their kid turned old enough to be called an adult, feeling eighteen years slip through their fingers like sand. you don’t have a mother to wipe your tears or a father who wants to pat you on the back for a job well done.

growing up in the wayne manor is an experience envisioned as boundless privilege, written about in absurd fictions by wealth-worshipping teenagers from other cities, and scorned by the angrier lot of the unfortunate here in gotham. and you suppose it is. it is a privilege, and much different from the life you’d been living before. you guess you’ve payed your due for living so selfishly in that luxury by being ignored all your time there. you know your siblings also pay for that privilege, in more difficult, harsher ways, with fists and feet and rods and ropes.

changing, changing, changing. you think that for now, you’ve stopped changing, thinking back to the numerous times your mentality morphed to your surroundings like an asocial chameleon. when you were very young, freshly twelve and thrown into a house with your real father and a permanent family, you hated them. detested them even. you’d scowl and hiss at any glance from a brother, any dignitary waving at you at a gala and even the greenhouse plants that withered upon your arrival in dismay. you hated your fathers ploys at power and sauntering smiles, the skin with which he shook official hands and the pearly teeth with which he grinned. you hated richard’s comforting nod, and the way tim talked to guests, the way alfred always knew and the way bruce never did.

but you softened. you matured, is that the word? you saw them in a warmer light after hearing a girl squabble and wail at her patient father at the park and thought with a surging need, you wanted that too. so you smoothened out your frayed ends, stitched together competency. it would be hard to raise yourself to your brothers’ level, but you could try. among the chaos of being bruce wayne, being batman, being father and being vigilante, you’d resolved to be a beacon of peace for them.

but what beacon could you have hoped to be, if your light was so dull?

they didn’t ignore you, no. your father’s eyes glazed over you, like the block of your body was an insignificant dot among many others. like you were a clear champagne glass, like the ones served at his galas, to be nursed all throughout the event, but never indulged. you’re lucky others loosen themselves at drinks though, because you’d manage to craft quite a respectable social image among his associates and guests. grayson junior, an old lady draped in large, large pearls, had laughed, a charming little thing with only half his enthusiasm. a washed out, non-temperamental, unfeelingly warm version of your eldest brother. a stain of what he was, and a poor attempt at following his example.

but you twitched smiles through backhanded compliments about your inheritance in the family, the ushering prods at you to speak to your father about a deal (you’d never even dream to) and various vain offences made a speciality by gotham’s elite class. you’d endured all of that with half the mind to sock those prudish grins right off, so that your father would recognise your discipline and nod at you. he never even looked.

and after attempts after attempts after attempts at harbouring their favour, to grasp onto this life and make the best of it, never let go, you destroyed the little smudge of any real anger you ever had. you were reduced to a plain slate, an unused blackboard, a project in the making. you had no end goal, however, no final version. ever-changing.

you began to resent them, once more. miserably sulking over “how could they?”s and then, “how dare they!”s. you took to meaner methods of nagging for their attention. always being at the scene of some altercation at school, having prodded or initiated a fight between people was just a perfect look. you could justify any slight guilt at seeing bleeding lips curved into bruised scowls directed to you by thinking, your friends were much worse! so there’s really nothing wrong. those guys are odd anyway, they had it coming. but even that changes, and you once again erode to nonchalance.

your friends, however, do not change, redirecting their focus from messing around at school to sneaking into bars and clubs with comically fake ids, slipping into petty crime and street-fighting, racking up tickets on their profiles like medals. but you didn’t leave them, no, you were attached. forget rose-tinted glasses, yours were bright, hot, pink, finding a way to justify just about every brawl they stuck up, every man they mugged and every shot they downed while being well under the right age to. but gotham’s an odd place, it’s not too absurd to see a bunch of scrappy fifteen year olds running about with forks and foxes in their hair.

and you stayed this way, morbidly going through long, lonely days of watching your siblings live a life entirely parallel to yours. an ache that carved down from your chest and across the first bones of your ribs became a permanent one, and your throat would sting far too often to be considered normal. you’d kick and scream and fight with anyone you could, breaking into gushing tears the second they looked away. always conflicted and always changing, it messed with you, especially with no one to tell.

your family would be out at night, fighting the very same thugs that your friends are turning to become, all while you languished through the day counting bills and reading licenses off the wallets they pocket. after particularly violent exchanges, you couldn’t even look at the warmth that radiated off of bruce’s hand on damian’s shoulder, dick’s grin at tim or cassandra’s strange card game with duke. you couldn’t want to be a part of them, because you knew that maybe, you never would be.

yes, they have bigger problems. and yes, you blend perfectly into the blur of all the hooded and masked faces of gotham, and yes, you never do any real harm. but you can’t imagine being caught, returning to such unpleasant ways of life despite being given a hand at the one offered to you on a gold-plated platter. guilt and pride fought with their fists in your head, the second beaming at the idea of their surprise and notice if you ever made a mark, and the first ashamed at the thought of it at all. but you couldn’t live this life.

so when it got too heavy, you made the quick decision to leave. you’ve been changing so much, doing so much. moving out of the manor with all the necessary legal requirements was the tamest of them. you made all the proper requirements, choosing to call alfred after you moved out with just the slightest hesitance, worrying that he’d snitch you out in a way that doesn’t seem right. doesn’t justify your decisions.

and it’s after your budding malevolence for the lame-vigilantism stream of gotham’s legality is relocated from the estate’s concrete, and into the plywood of your apartment, can you really feel satisfied with yourself. when you hide a scrambling girl with a gun in her sleeve from the officer that knock on your door a minute later, can you feel satisfied.

admittedly, it is petty to be harbouring the same small-time criminals your family tries to turn over, but who cares? your friends are among the lot, those who couldn’t escape gotham’s gravity and leave, coming through your door with botched noses and empty barrels, and you wouldn’t turn them over. especially not to people who turned you away. there’s an ebb of sadness, a doubt that asks if you could have turned out different, and you squash it with the joy you get at seeing the vexed silhouettes of the caped crusaders perched on terraces from your window.

and with a tremendous stretch and a yawn, you pull yourself and your stiff joints out of thought, going to open the main door after a squealing notification from a regular visitor asking you to open the door. the people behind the door change, but at least they always come back.

it was troubling to say the least, when alfred informed bruce of (name)’s relocation. of course, he’d expected at least a little knowledge of it from the kid themselves, but didn’t dwell much on that. according to his accounts and alfred’s motionings, (name) was well and enough the age to own an apartment, own it legally and without trouble, and sludge through the days just fine, since they’d speak regularly with alfred.

he does bristle at your unsaved contact number, noting it from alfred and resolving to call you later. he does however send it to the kids as well, asking them to check in on you incase they haven’t recently. he doesn’t know if they met up with you after you left.

right now, he’s more focused on a little branched out gang that the commissioner, gordon, was troubled with. the week had been relatively quiet, spending patrol through stopping little crimes and such. offering a little assistance wouldn't take up any time, and was a productive way to spend little time too, according to him.

he went through witness files, the crimes all regular, as regular as they get. robberies, violent fights, keying cars (bruce purses his lips at the immaturity) and more. one case however, sticks out. the members of the gang, group even, considering their lower than low presence in the crime world all seemed to disappear right after making turns outside an apartment owned by an elderly estate manager. bruce deduced that it must be their hideout, but couldn’t really risk chasing them in, since the building was well occupied by civilians too and it’d be difficult to figure out their exact residence without prior investigation. not to mention, a little background check assured him that the man running the place was not affiliated with the people gordon was motioning at, other than the fact he presumably (and unknowingly) was housing them.

but what caught his eye was the disappearance of a girl near the same place. a profile by another victim of the gang’s mugging described her as somewhere around twenty years old, or just an exceptionally old looking teenager. according to the poorly kept case files one of GCPD interns, she was not identified among the regulars, and did not leave the building like the rest of them.

the whole thing was very mundane, low-profile, and her disappearance could also be swept away as just a reconsideration of career choices on her behalf. a new member, who decided quickly she didn’t want to be a part of it all. of course, that’s rarely ever the case in gotham, and could very well set a stage for a suspected murder, kidnapping.

first things first, simply a checkout of the place should be enough to confirm any further decisions that he’d tell gordon to carry through. in the meantime, he ought to check in with the league, the asylum, crime alley and nightwing. bruce can be described as paranoid, even if very few people can say it to his face.

he prefers being prepared. if not the strongest or the fastest, he can be the most prepared. maybe, he was prepared for this too.

“(name),” tim sighed, “won’t answer my message.”

bruce had put him to reaching out to his older sibling, over a number he’d spent a few minutes memorising before texting. dick, present at the time, insisted he called, but quit after getting a look.

he leaned over the back of the couch to see, staring into the chat. “let me see,” he prodded, “maybe you’re being too blunt,” tim raised an eyebrow at him, “not everyone can be as persuasive as me, you know”.

tim drake - 21:32

where are you

(name) - 21:43

tim

you moved out right

where’s your address?

(name)

why are you asking?

tim

can’t i?

dick cringed at the screen, exasperated as he asked “really? right in the face like that?”. tim just rolled his eyes, frustrated, a little embarrassed. “just scroll.”

tim - 21:45

sorry

where are you

(name) - 21:56

dude

why do you want 2 know.

tim

bruce wants to know

read

(name)??

read

“very suspicious,” dick proclaimed, poking his shoulder, “i can’t imagine why they wouldn’t tell you. so surprising.” tim frowned, taking his phone back and frowning “look, i tried didn’t i? but if they’re not responding, i’ll have to tell bruce,” he ran a hand through his hair, “i don’t think he’d be much less conspicuous about (name) not telling us their address.”

dick nodded. when he first moved to bludhaven, he’d wanted a start as his own man, without the help of the batman or bruce. maybe (name) wanted the same? tim shouldn’t have said bruce wanted to know, he thinks, could’ve played it off as a “i want to visit". he suggests the thought, only be faced with an awkward smile on tim’s face.

“i don’t know if that’d work,” a short reply, “me and (name) never really talked much. it’d be strange to just butt in like that.”

dick hummed, resting his chin on the couch’s head in thought while he spoke “me and (name) have… talked a bit. send me their number, i could ask,” he elbowed tim’s head gently, joking, “one-up you.”

“you don’t have (name)’s number?”

…

“never had the chance to get it.”

your thumb grows numb from pausing at an awkward position on your phone. stuck on the same chat for about six minutes. two new numbers messaging you on the same day, both from your brothers. you’d assumed it was a new phone from one of the girls, but the first was from tim’s saved contact, his personal one. of course, since you’d read the message, you had to respond, sending in an aloof question mark to dismiss him.

when the second one, an unsaved contact, messaged you with a whole lot of exclamation points after a waving emoji, you’d assumed it was a rebooted number of one of your guys. but no, of all people, it was richard grayson, your older brother. you weren’t daft when he sent in a message asking the exact same thing, your address, saying he “wanted to visit”.

did he take you for an idiot? you know it’s bruce who wanted to know, as stated so bluntly by your little brother. even if he did want to visit, you’d go five floors down hell before letting him come over. a thumbs-down reaction and shutting your phone off did what you wanted it to, slamming a figurative door in his face.

but what makes your whole body go numb and buzzing is when your bell rings. it’s out of habit of course, not a lot of people ring the door unless it’s the landlord or a visitor’s family member, with prior notification first. it could be just one of them, if it wasn’t nine in the evening. the only people who clocked in at this time were your friends, and they never rang the bell.

you peek through the keyhole, and your breath stills. it’s then when you back up from the door, cursing as an unnamed objecy clatters to the floor and miraculously, doesn’t break. you can hear the wooden plank of the floor outside tense, and you just know the person outside heard it. you can’t play off a “no one’s home” game this time, and considering who’s behind the door, you don’t assume she’ll leave peacefully.

you have to gather yourself, level your breathing, skim through quick backups depending on whether she’s looking for (name), her sibling, or (name) a crime affiliate. it’s been a minute, and you quell your nervousness, wiping your lips after biting them so hard, to open the door.

cassandra cain looks surprised, and her narrowing eyes make you nervous, even as you lean against the doorway. you pray she doesn’t read through that, giving her the blankest look you can, the same one you give to the neighbours when they come to complain about the noise.

silence. you speak up first.

“cass… andra,” you add, a slight hesitancy when you remember yourself, “hi?”

she tilts her head at you staring up with a look that could be described as innocent, if her lip didn’t unconsciously twitch when you glanced away for a second. gosh, even after having knowledge of her intellect, you’re still messing up. get a hold of yourself.

she drops her arms from where they were crossed, giving you a knowing look. yes, cassandra, i’m here, you want to say after deciphering that glare with a little trouble, holding it back. what’s she here for? you didn’t give anyone even an inkling of your whereabouts. did alfred snitch? but you never told him either. did bruce figure it out? no, you think morosely, you don’t think he’d do all that.

you try to play it off, a hand to your head, staring down with just the slightest feigned frustration, hoping she takes the hint. “look kid,” you say, voice carefully dry, “i’ve got shit to do, you need something?”, with a seconds’ hesitation, a little demeaning comment slipping out of your mouth before you can stop it, habit, “or are you girl scouting for bruce?”

nice. great way to go. not only does she know that you’re purposefully avoiding him but also that you don’t want him to know. your sister is incredibly adamant to being loyal to him, worryingly so, and you know she won’t let it go. you’re no trained mind-reader like her, if you can call it that, but even your heart rate spikes at the subtle tensing in her jaw.

she points at your apartment, careful, slow. and you frown, obviously. no, she can't come in. she drops it, looking away.

silence stretches on before she exhales sharply through her nose, taking a step back. she’s leaving, you understand anxiously. you know she won’t listen to you if you ask, know she won’t answer any of your questions either, but you try anyway.

“going off to tell bruce are you?” she pauses, turning around to face you again. you’re put off, straining the rest of the sentence so it doesn’t sound odd. you want to say, beg, don’t tell him, you want to say, snarl, get out. instead you just draw your shoulders in and return inside, shutting the door. man, you messed up.

bruce is only momentarily distracted by tim and dick’s hushed talking, weary of what they’re up to, before quickly focusing back to the apartment layout he’s handed by the owner of the building, a mister ford, after requesting for it through a burner account. cassandra’s there too, dressed in gear to leave for patrol in a bit, getting a head start before bruce does the same. he’d sent her out to check the place out, maybe set sights on figures she could suspect to be a part of the trouble he was reviewing earlier, time-pass assignments to sludge through the dullness of the evening.

and she comes back with results, circling an east facing room on the third floor on the flat plans. he can’t help but notice a slight moment of hesitance before she does though, turning to bruce with her grimacing full-face cowl, a silent statement. he thinks about asking her, but decides against it. if she’s worried for their safety, thinks them to be innocent, or doesn’t want them caught, she must want it for some reason. he’ll make sure the GCPD knows after sending gordon's intern the file later, in hardcopy via an open window or softcopy through yet another burner account.

but it’s then when he catches a stray hiss from tim, a “just tell him later,” and pulls away from the screen for just a second. “tell me what?” a brief sombre octave to his voice, he knows it’s not wise to leave tim, of all people, hiding something. especially not moments before patrol.

the boy just shrugs, shaking his head, “nothing important,” he lies, “err�� bludhaven stuff.” dick blanches, gesturing in a “what the hell?” manner and cassandra inclines her head. bruce sends in the file, before turning around with the slightest frown to his face. if you have something unimportant to say, the unsaid message floats through the room, say it now, before patrol.

before tim can though, dick gets to it first, a hand to his head in perplexed motion; “you know how you told us to check in on (name)?”.

bruce responds plainly, “i asked tim.” dick’s lip turns downwards just a hint as he lets his arm down, “i’m getting to that.”

“(name) didn’t respond to his,” dick jabbed a thumb in tim’s direction, “message, so i tried. won’t answer mine either.”

“so, you don’t know where they are?” bruce finishes for him, a hand yo his chin in thought, “it’s fine, tim, dick, i’ll see to it later. carry on with patrol, and if you have the chance to, look for robin and tell him to return to the cave.”

it’s funny to dick how easily he slips between proper names and aliases, even if the surroundings are occupied only by associates. paranoid, he thinks, uselessly so. cassandra clears her throat, causing everyone to turn to her, glance in her general direction since she's so well hidden.

she points at the screen, the file sent to a contact with the police department’s logo as its profile picture. her voice is soft, but holds a small, uneasy reluctance to it.

“(name) was here.”

oh.

oh?

INTERACTIONS, REBLOGS AND ASKS VV APPRECIATED!!

- woah. re-written entry?? whatever for?? i overestimated myself.. got carried away and derived way off my ideas.

my exams are coming up and get dragged all the way into JUNE can u effing believe it. so obviously i wont be gone completely but will be kinda compromised.

i do still encourage sending in asks or ideas bc honestly without interactions idk what ppl think and i think thats important for any media u release into the wild,, to some degree!! also keeps the motivation to write up and stuff.

i have plenty things to add and a hollow head full of things to talk about which ill eventually get onto depending on everything. don’t take my characteristics VERY seriously and dont shy away from feedback.

thank you for reading!

# taglist: @cxcilla @strwberryglass @c4xcocoa @yaoizee @secretsandwriting @sirenetheblogger @charlenexoxo1 @mirabilis-polaris @jsprien213 @tfimherewhy @yuyuzi-ling @crazycaoticsimp @m0na-lis4 @trashlanternfish360 @thehammerx4 @ninihrtss @kaitense1

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torchwood-99 · 6 months ago

Text

Eowyn's Pre-Canon Life

Inspired by @emyn-arnens post

Eomund is usually away on campaigns and Theodwyn is in charge of running Aldburg in his absence. When Eomund is home he spends most of his time with Eomer, preparing him for leadership.

Eomer gets most of the attention from the people at Aldburg, who make a fuss of him as a future lord. Eomer is favoured over Eowyn by most of the people. Not only is he the lord, and the people are eager to please him, but Eowyn is reserved and resentful, and Eomer is outgoing and friendly.

When she was little, Eowyn used to throw tantrums about this but was scolded and punished harshly, and told to act like a young lady. If she got too rowdy playing with Eomer, she would also be told to behave and calm down, in a way Eomer wasn’t (not that harshly, but it stung nonetheless), and if an adult got involved in a childish squabble with Eomer, the adults would side with him, or be significantly less harsh on him if he was undeniably in the wrong, and find some way to twist it back around to Eowyn.

As a result she learned to repress her emotions early on, and became deemed as “cold” and “sulky”.

Eomer gets more attention from Theodwyn. As she is acting Lord in her husband’s absence, she has Eomer accompany her in her duties, so he can learn to be Lord of Aldburg, and because he reminds her of Eomund.

Theodwyn prefers Eomer’s company because she sees the best of both herself and Eomund in him, and not knowing what to make of Eowyn, except that she’s rather like her mother, who Theodwyn had always fancied as haughty.

Theodwyn herself is either very cheerful or very tearful, and naturally effusive and openly affectionate, while Eomund is “sunshine and storms” either being boisterously cheerful or furiously angry. Neither Theodwyn nor Eomund really understand Eowyn’s reserve, and they dub her as a “little changeling”, in a way they mean to be affectionate, but doesn’t really translate as such.

During the day, Eowyn is usually left with the womenfolk of Aldburg, who (being overworked and having their own families to care for as well as their work) are impatient with her. They do teach Eowyn household duties, but Eowyn dislikes the work and resents Eomer not having to learn it, resulting in her getting a lot of scoldings.

Eomer is the only person at Aldburg who consistently shows Eowyn affection, having been told at a young age that it is his “duty” to protect her, so if anyone is outright unkind to Eowyn or shows him blatant favouritism over her, he sticks up for her, however he still takes a lot of the favouritism shown to for granted, as he (and Eowyn) have been raised to expect it.

Eomer sometimes asks Eowyn why she isn’t as nice and warm as he knows she is capable of being, and tries to encourage to be so, but Eowyn believes herself to be the bad and sulky child she’s treated as and thinks she can’t help it.

After Eomund’s death Aldburg suffers a great deal, as Theodwyn is unable to handle running Aldburg in her grief.

When Theodwyn falls ill, as Theodwyn’s closest kinswoman, it is Eowyn’s duty to sit with her on her deathbed to witness her passing. Theodwyn spends her coherent moments asking for Eomund and Eomer, who sometimes seem to become one in her mind.

After Theodwyn’s death, Eowyn keeps to herself and is often forgotten. Eomer is busy observing the lords left in charge so he can learn about leadership, and he becomes more focussed on learning to fight, determined to avenge his family.

Theoden arrives to take the children into his care. Eowyn is dazzled by him and sees in him everything she wishes to be. Theoden meanwhile expects a child who has just lost her parents to be a bit “odd”, and dismisses the court’s warnings that she’s a naturally bad tempered child, so he is patient and affectionate with her in a way few adults are. He also encourages Eomer to play a bit more, which means Eowyn has her old playmate returned to her somewhat.

Eowyn warms up to Theoden in a way she hasn’t anyone else, and on returning to Edoras he initially makes a lot of her and Eomer, feeling sorry for them for what they have suffered. The rest of Theoden’s court follow suit.

Theoden’s attention to Eowyn wanes once she is settled, and he leaves her upbringing to the court, but he still makes a bit of a fuss of her when he sees her, giving her presents and taking her and Eomer out on rides. Eowyn loves these excursions, and finds her uncle’s company very exciting.

Eowyn is also allowed to start training as a shieldmaiden (which is customary for ladies of the nobility, more as a traditional practice than for practical reasons) and proves herself quick witted enough to be educated alongside her brother, which focusses her energies.

She’s sent to assist in duties around Meduseld, both in the house, but also in the stables and the village. While she doesn’t like the more domestic chores, the company is more friendly to her, and she’s able to tolerate it because she’s also doing work she enjoys.

She gradually becomes popular with the people at Edoras, as popular as her brother. She isn’t as easy in her manners as Eomer, being naturally rather serious, but people find this precocious and admire her sincerity and depth of feeling, and many of her uncle’s court take pride in being able to make her laugh and smile.

That the people in Edoras don't have cause to favour Eomer over Eowyn as they do in Aldburg also means they are treated (on a personal level) on slightly more equal grounds, although Eomer as future lord and Marshall still gets attention and training that Eowyn doesn't, and Theoden is more hands on in his training. At the same time, Eowyn is more likely to be "indulged" (given treats and coddled slightly) as there is less need of her to grow up "hardy and strong" like Eomer.

Having been treated rather coldly her whole life, and believing this to be her own fault, she credits her uncle with the change in attitude towards her, and this incentivises her worship of him. Theoden is amused by this and quite enjoys the adulation, so once she has reached her teens he makes her his cupbearer.

When Eomer leaves to become Lord of Alburg, he offers to bring her along, but her memories of Aldburg and her love and gratitude towards Theoden and Edoras keeps her in Edoras.

Eowyn becomes acting Lady of Edoras, and while she likes the rank and responsibility it gives her, she finds the work dull and repetitive, and longs to become a Rider. This is denied her, as Theoden, Theodred and Eomer all agree that having "a woman" in their ranks would only cause discord.

Of all her duties, Eowyn finds healing the most interesting, as it challenges her intellectually and physically. She likes making potions and gathering the ingredients, and she likes getting to leave the house to visit patients in the town.

She is very aware that when her cousin and brother marry, her standing will drop, as both Edoras and Aldburg will have a lady. Knowing she is forbidden to join an eored, she resolves to travel to Minas Tirith to become a fully trained healer.

She thinks having a trade will grant her freedom to go wherever she likes, and the rank of healer will ensure she will continue to have authority and prominence after Theodred and Eomer wed, in a way that isn’t tied to her male relations.

She works on Theoden to allow her to go, and he is inclined to do so, but then he sickens, and he takes back his permission. Eowyn feels it is her duty to tend to him, and dedicates herself to his comfort, out of gratitude for everything he’d done to her.

Besides, as the king’s loyal counsellor, Grima Wormtongue, points out, Gondor’s friendship to Rohan has been suspect of late, and it’d be a bad idea to send a hostage straight into their hands.

#LOTR #Lord of the Rings #Headcanon #Eowyn #Eomer #Theodwyn #Theoden #Eomund

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cynicalmusings · 8 months ago

Note

vanilla bean ౨ৎ for xiao?? and maybe slip in a jing yuan bc of the hmc au — @milkstore

vanilla bean ౨ৎ what does a day off with your lover look like?

(i’m going to interpret this as a modern au, because i firmly believe xiao as he is in canon teyvat would not fall in love with a human, much less myself.) days off are pretty chill, i’d say. we meet up to go out for a morning walk, whether that be in the city or a park nearby, have lunch out or go to a cafe for breakfast depending on the time, and once we get back, spend some time together doing some Musical Stuff, such as practicing together, playing some songs, listening to some music, etc. maybe we’ve booked tickets for a concert that day and go to see that, possibly with a couple of other friends like yunjin, ganyu or xianyun. get boba afterwards (and possibly dinner, depending on whether we’ve already eaten out earlier), and go our separate ways.

in jing yuan’s case, it’s… also chill. jing yuan sleeps in while i make some breakfast (straying more towards brunch, considering the time he wakes up, if not lunch itself), and after we’ve eaten, we walk through the streets with mimi and chat a little before jing yuan finds a warm spot (either inside or outside the house) and soaks in the sun for a good hour at least. he dozes off at that point, and i either join him in napping or just read/occupy myself otherwise until he wakes up. after that is mimi grooming time back at home, and after that jing yuan crushes me at starchess before we cook dinner together. overall, it’s a very domestic and slow-paced day, which is a breather jing yuan certainly needs in the context of his demanding job.

because you mentioned the hmc au, i’m going to answer again but now in the context of sophie!reader after the timeline of the fic (i also think the character dynamic makes it more fun, to be honest). this won’t make 100% complete sense to those who haven’t beta read it, which is admittedly most people, but it’s fiiine. the reader allows jing yuan to wake up slightly later than usual after they’ve already made breakfast for everyone, and they have a family meal in the main room, during which fu xuan and yanqing squabble a lot (while jing yuan secretly goads the two on for the sake of his own amusement—although he makes sure it doesn’t escalate into something serious—and the reader scolds him for it). there’s a piece of meat put out for mimi, and they have also reluctantly given the sparrows a little platter of various seeds. fu xuan just eats sugar cubes. following that, the reader and yanqing clean the dirty dishes before jing yuan takes yanqing to stargazer navalia to frolic around the markets and look at some swords. the reader goes to fyxestroll garden for a (fyxe)stroll (haha) and to idly pick some tea leaves for the next few days of business because they literally do not know what it means to take time off. mimi probably comes with them for the sake of it. everyone is back on the ship by around late afternoon, and jing yuan insists on playing some board games with everyone—probably a set of monopoly or something which he brought over from china. yanqing groans, because he thinks it’s boring (why play board games when you could be sparring?), but isn’t about to disobey. fu xuan scoffs at the triviality of this ‘rectangular human entertainment’, as she calls it, but ends up being by far the most invested and laughing whenever she charges someone for landing on her properties. the reader and mimi are a team, the latter who is just chilling while the reader explains to yanqing on why he cannot, in fact, stab fu xuan’s figurine so she loses all her properties. now, jing yuan has invited over the reader’s family for dinner and didn’t tell them about it because he didn’t want to stress them out, but when they find out it has the opposite effect and they go into hosting overdrive, cleaning every inch of the house they can and hastily trying to come up with a menu. jing yuan calms them down and assures them they don’t have to prepare any food—he’s got that sorted (he did anticipate their overreaction, so he’s ordered takeout and is having it delivered to his address in china). suffice to say yanqing is very confused when he opens the door 中国-carving down and sees a stranger holding odd, thin, white bags out and asking for jingyuan). anyway, dinner is eaten, the reader still insists on doing all the clean-up (thankfully yukong and qingni come to the rescue and help them with the workload), and everyone chats amongst themselves for a while until it’s late into the evening and the reader’s family leave, with yukong promising to invite the ship’s crew over to her place for a meal next time. the crew ends up watching a film (yes, the ship now has a TV), and wouldn’t you guess it, it’s the howl’s moving castle ghibli film! the reader, yanqing and fu xuan are left to wonder at some of the similarities to their own lives presented in the story while jing yuan smugly watches from the sidelines. (they get confused about the bird part, though—although ironically, now that i think about it, the whole mimi-jing yuan thing does kind of reflect film!howl’s birdiness despite this being an au of the book… huh.) once it’s finished, the reader tells yanqing to go to bed, who initially insists he isn’t tired but eventually relents, and fu xuan falls asleep shortly afterwards (do heliobi even sleep? they do now, in any case). jing yuan and the reader do the final bit of cleaning up before also retiring to bed.

#the hmc version was so fun to write #…you can probably tell by the fact that it’s five times longer than the others #sent: milkstore #r answers #thank you again for the ask and humouring my delusions!

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ironhusband · 4 years ago

Note

ironhusbands for the ship meme!

How do much do I ship it?: Never heard of it/ Notp / Dislike / used to ship / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / IS IT CANON YET?

What non sexual activities do they like to do together? Workshop time!! Also trashing sci-fi movies together while cuddling. Doing crosswords together on Sunday morning. Going for a flight with their suits. Sometimes just spending time together in silence.

Who does chores around the house? Mostly JARVIS.

Who’s the better cook? Rhodey. You will not convince me that Tony is able to cook, YOU WILL NOT. Rhodey is an amazing cook though, he was taught very well by his mama.

Who’s the funniest drunk? I want to say Tony but because getting near any alcohol these days is basically a relapse for him, which is Not Funny, I'd say Rhodey. He's more of a wistful drunk, but Tony thinks Rhodey misquoting Popeye is still very funny.

Do they have kids? Yes. They're both father figures to Nebula. And they adopted Lila after Jeanette died. Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

Do they have any traditions? Every winter and every summer, they win sand castles building competition and snowman building competitions. They both judge robot competitions during the robot season. They come back to MIT every five years, just to see the old campus. They make breakfast in bed for each other for each of their birthdays (Rhodey's birthdays go horribly but he appreciates the effort, and Tony is getting slightly better every year). They always spend Fourth of July at barbecuing at the Rhodes's and they climb up to the roof to watch the fireworks and kiss.

What do they fight about? They never fight about anything but really important things. Morals kind of things. Mental health kind of things. But they squabble. They bicker. They playfully argue. But they don't fight.

What would they do if they found their paring tag on tumblr? (If they have one) IF THEY HAVE ONE IS RIGHT - but no, Tony would be very amused, and Rhodey would be slightly less amused because he isn't used to media attention as Tony is, but he wouldn't really care.

Who cried at the end of Marley and me? Both of them. They're big softies at heart.

Who always wins at Mario kart? It's pretty much a tie FOR NOW, the Mario kart tournament is not over and will never be over until one of them wins (they've been doing the tournament since MIT).

One thing I like about this ship? God. ONE thing??? I can't chose. How devoted they are to each other, staying together as friends through all those years. How fond they are of each other, calling each other ridiculous nicknames and giving one another heart eyes. How they can stand up to each other, and it's part of their healthy relationship. How they're genuinely best friends and love each other so much oh god I love rhodeytony so much oh god.

One thing I don’t like about the ship? The writers' treatment of them since Civil War 🔪 let them speak again please but now it's too late :(

The song I would say fits them? John Legend - Conversations in the Dark

Another headcanon about the paring? (Free space) They each hold each other's MIT photos as blackmail material.

#ironhusbands #asks #ask game

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tahitianmangoes · 4 years ago

Text

Absolution

Pairing: Micah x Arthur Summary: Micah often felt like he and Arthur were two sides of the same coin. Whether or not Artur shared that sentiment, ever since an encounter out west, inexplicably they keep finding themselves pulled back to one and other. Smut | Not canon compliant

Chapter One - Two Sides of the Same Coin

Chapter Two

It was hard to believe that less than a day ago, they had been in the sticky New Austin heat and now, Micah Bell was spending the night freezing his balls off in some godforsaken outhouse half way up a mountain with Bill Williamson snoring loudly beside him.

Things turn on a dime, Micah knew that better than most.

Micah doesn’t sleep. He’d been part of the Van der Linde gang for around six months and that was probably one of the few things that people really knew about him. No one cared to ask why he didn’t sleep, not that Micah would tell them anyway. He would usually sit around the campfire, sharpening his hunting knife or cleaning his revolvers. Sometimes sleep would get the better of him and he’d be woken up by the sudden jerk of his head falling forward onto his chest and that’s when he would hear it - that voice that still struck fear into him even twenty years on: Do it!” The voice screamed at him, “prove to me you ain’t the yella bellied coward you say you aint, boy!”

Just one day ago, Micah had been doing just that, sitting at the campfire in their camp outside of Blackwater. His hat was pulled low but he was listening, he usually was; he could hear John Marston and Abigail Roberts squabbling as usual, he could hear Lenny and Jenny twittering like lovebirds and Reverend Swanson’s drunken singing off in the distance somewhere.

It was Dutch and Hosea that Micah was listening to, though. They were arguing in Dutch’s tent. Dutch was playing his gramophone in a bid to muffle them but Micah didn’t have to hear them to know what it was about; Hosea didn’t think they should do the ferry job the next day. Hosea and Arthur had a lead, what it was Micah hadn’t asked but probably something akin to a theatre vaudeville performance if he knew Hosea Matthews at all. Micah wasn’t a fan of all of the conmanship - it felt underhand. Of course doing what he did, going in all guns blazing, was no better but it didn’t feel as sly - you knew where you stood with a gun being pointed at your head.

Micah was told that Dutch and Hosea used to have more of a united front, in more ways than one but it looked to Micah as if this had run its course.

To Micah, Dutch and Hosea seemed so very different; Dutch was charismatic, charming and spoke such pretty words and had big ideas. He was an optimist, believing that he could change the world and Micah believed him, so did everyone else for the most part. Hosea on the other hand was a pessimist. He sat around the camp with a dark cloud over him, picking Dutch’s plans apart and doubting him at every turn. Dutch, of course, was as patient as a saint with his partner - more than lenient with him in Micah’s opinion - but even a saint has their limits.

So Dutch had proceeded without Hosea this time, entrusting Micah with helping him with this job. It didn’t go unchecked by Micah that this was a big deal; he had been part of the gang for less than a year yet Dutch trusted him to help him with this job. He had to do his best to impress Dutch because who knew where this could lead…

Micah had never known the gang so quiet or sombre the night before a big job. Some people retired early but Micah knew they weren't sleeping, they just didn't want to talk about it. Charles disappeared for guard duty, Javier wasn’t playing guitar and Arthur lay with his hat over his face so Micah couldn't see him but he had a feeling that he was listening hard to Dutch and Hosea too.

For a few moments, Micah let his attention settle on Arthur Morgan - Dutch’s right hand man. Arthur didn't like Micah much but Micah got the impression that Arthur didn't like many people. Arthur had intrigued Micah ever since Micah had joined the gang. From what he understood, Arthur had been taken in by Dutch and Hosea when he was just a kid - it sounded like something out of a boyhood dream, to be taken care of and raised by outlaws… Whether Arthur was grateful or not, it wasn't clear; he was sullen and surly, got that moody cowboy thing down to a T. Always complaining about something or other. He was as stubborn as a mule and as dumb as a dog yet Micah was drawn to him inexplicably.

Maybe if things had worked out differently, he would have been more like Arthur. If his daddy had been a fine man like Dutch. Maybe Micah and Arthur were two sides of the same coin… Micah wondered if Arthur saw that they weren't so different, too. Regardless, Arthur avoided Micah wherever possible, especially after what had happened out at Gaptooth Ridge…

Micah let his thoughts settle back there for a while. It wasn't a particularly happy memory but one he played over and over to himself, trying to work out what it meant. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. So why did he keep thinking about it? Letting himself get lost in the gentle morning sunlight again and again when he closed his eyes, imagining Arthur lying beside him, feeling the heat coming from the younger man and remembering the look in those brilliant blue eyes...

He often wondered if Arthur thought about it too. Right now, in the small, delipidated building on the mountain, he thought of Arthur in the next building over and wondered if Arthur couldn't sleep either.

****

Sooner or later, a job's going to go wrong and boy oh boy, did the ferry job go wrong. Maybe they'd been set up because no sooner had the ferry been too far out for them to retreat, there were Pinkertons and lawmen everywhere. Everyone had been whipped into a frenzy, John Marston , Mac Callander, Davey Callander and Jenny Kirk had all gotten shot and the latter hadn't made it out alive. Charles Smith injured himself and Sean Maguire was taken captive by some bounty hunters. And then Dutch shot that girl...

It was a mess. Micah had never seen a job go so wrong so quickly, not since him and his daddy...

They'd managed to flee to camp, to pack up in record time though things were lost and misplaced along the way and Dutch told them that they were heading north. "North?" Hosea repeated looking sceptical. "North." Dutch replied firmly. "We gotta get outta here and we got get outta here fast." "What... What happened on that boat, Dutch?" Hosea asked sheepishly. Dutch turned his dark eyes to his partner and said solemnly, "nothing good."

Dutch had meant north as they headed deep into the mountains of Ambarino. Soon, a terrible storm set in. The snow swirled around them and Miah could hardly see three paces in front of him if it weren’t for his lantern. He followed the caravan blindly, his loyal Missouri Foxtrotter Baylock stepping carefully through the snow that came almost to the horse’s forearm.

He accompanied Arthur and Dutch in the hopeless pursuit for supplies once they found somewhere to settle. All they found was O'Driscolls and another mouth to feed, a woman named Sadie Adler. Exhausted and freezing, Micah curled up on the floor of the building he'd been delegated to with Bill Williamson, Lenny Summers and Charles Smith. He dozed for a short while but he heard that voice again, piercing his slumber and jerked awake to find that light was seeping in through the cracks in the rotting wood of the structure.

That next day was calmer, as if the storm before had never happened. Outside was bright, the cold sun reflecting off of the untouched snow.

Javier Escuella shivered around a small fire. He’d been outside all night on guard duty. Javier was warmer to Micah than Arthur or even Hosea. He wasn’t brooding or stoic, he could take a drink and a joke and Micah liked that about him.

He wasn’t dressed for the cold, a poncho slung over his shoulders and a denim jacket the only thing between him and the sub-zero temperature only made worse by being sent up a mountain earlier that morning with Arthur to rescue John Marston who’d gone and got himself lost in the storm.

“Are you taking me off?” Javier asked, tired eyes looking hopefully at Micah. “Dream on,” Micah replied gruffly. There was no way he was taking up guard duty out in the cold without orders from Dutch. Javier narrowed his eyebrows, looked like he might want to argue but maybe didn’t have the energy.

Micah warmed his hands briefly by the fire, not that he could feel them and if he didn’t hold them out in front of him, he could have sworn that they had fallen off in the night. Javier muttered something inaudible before disappearing towards the stables.

They had managed to find a place up on this godforsaken mountain, a place that could hold all of them - for now. It looked to have been a mining town at one point but long abandoned now, most of the buildings still stood but were derelict, some beyond repair. They wouldn’t be able to stay for long - sure Pinkertons might not be dumb enough to follow them up here but they’d most likely starve, freeze to death or both if they didn’t leave soon.

Micah never thought he’d miss their camp out of Blackwater, god knows he’d been complaining about wanting four walls and a roof over his head but he hadn’t factored in the snow...

As Micah moved away from the fire, he could hear voices coming from the next building. He recognised the familiar low rumbles of Arthur Morgan. Before Micah had time to move, Arthur and Dutch spilled outside, Hosea hovering in the doorway.

“Arthur, we’ll starve up here,” Dutch was saying. His voice had changed over the past couple of days - he sounded tired, desperate in a way but not yet defeated. “Dutch, I ain’t no hunter.” “I know, son. But we got no supplies here - Miss Grimshaw and Mr Pearson did their best but… We got a few cans from the Alder woman’s homestead and we can’t ask Charles to hunt with his hand in the state it is…” “I don’t know what I can do.” Dutch looked up and caught sight of Micah “Take Mr Belll here with you, go scouting. There’s gotta be something else up on this miserable mountain,” he said. Micah knew he was grasping at straws if he was suggesting that the pair of them went out scouting together. Arthur heaved a sigh, not needing to say anything. Dutch continued, “You’re two of the fittest men we got …I wouldn't normally ask like this. Please, son. We gotta try. People are dependin' on us.”

His voice was soft and coaxing, he usually used that voice when he wanted something from Arthur and Arthur usually fell for it. This time was no different. “Fine.” Arthur muttered in a tone that suggested that it was anything but fine.

The pair of them looked at each other; it wasn't the fact they were being asked to go scouting but the fact they were asked to go together.

****

They rode in silence for what seemed like a long, long time, Arthur just up ahead of Micah, obviously not interested in small talk.

These mountains were all but barren - they saw some deer that fled too quickly for either Micah or Arthur to pull their rifle out, heard the echoes of a distant grizzly bear washing over them periodically but nothing else.

"Maybe we should just head back now." Micah suggested after over an hour of them riding away from camp and seeing nothing but more snow. The sun would soon be going down and the last thing they needed was to be stumbling about in the dark. "Jus a little further…" Arthur muttered. Micah knew Arthur didn't want to let Dutch down - he never did.

So they carried on, climbing and following a trail so buried by snow it was barely visible. Once they reached the top of the climb, a basin came into view - a frozen lake surrounded by trees whose leaves had never cared to grow back and at the top of the frozen lake was a small cabin.

The pair urged their horses towards the cabin, a spark of hope for the first time in days. Arthur went to knock on the door only for it to swing open at his touch. The cabin consisted of one room: a small cot was pushed up against one wall, a table was in the centre of the room beside a fireplace. There were various cupboards and chairs but not much else. It looked like someone had been there once upon a time but not now. Everything looked to be covered by a thick layer of dust but there were provisions - mainly canned goods. On the table was rancid bread and cheese that was covered by mould and newspaper clippings that when Micah inspected them, saw they were from three years prior.

"Well, looks like they won't miss this stuff," Micah said more to himself than Arthur as they set about taking whatever they could. It wasn't a huge haul but it would be enough to feed them for a day or two when added to what they found in the Adler house. “This oughta keep us goin’ til we get off this goddamn mountain.”

There was a pause before Arthur shot back, “we wouldn't be stuck on this goddamn mountain if it weren't for you."

Micah turned to look at Arthur now. He was older than Arthur by around five years, they were around the same height, give or take an inch or so, both blond however Arthur’s hair was more a fawn colour and looked soft to the touch. Both had blue eyes, Micah’s icy and Arthur’s rich like the ocean. He was broader and more muscular than Micah who was perhaps thirty pounds heavier than Arthur and couldn’t boast of the same brawny frame as the younger man. Arthur was handsome, even if he couldn’t see it. Maybe Micah resented that, resented the way that his uncomplicated good looks often made things easier - women around the camp didn’t look at Arthur with the same repulsion they did Micah and maybe even Arthur’s looks meant that he was treated more favourably by Hosea and Dutch - not having to go on guard duty, always getting a tent with a cot and having any mistakes he made glossed over so easily...

Different sides of the same coin

Micah drew himself up to his full height before responding. “And how'd you come to that conclusion, cowpoke?” Micah asked, rolling his eyes at Arthur. Arthur always had something to say about him or the way he conducted himself.

“If you hadn’t egged Dutch on with all the ferry crap, we’d be well on our way to gettin’ ourselves some land. Me an’ Hosea had it covered-” “Sure looks that way,” Micah retorted with a sneer, “what was it this time? Hosea pretendin’ to be an college professor or maybe a magician? And you his pretty assistant? Or maybe you was both dressin’ up as ladies and stealin’ from a church fund?” “I have had enough of you!” Arthur snapped, “all you done since you joined us is cause problems, an’ now we lost Jenny, Davey, maybe Sean and Mac too!” “Less mouths to feed don’t sound like a problem to me, cowpoke.”

Arthur made a sound similar to a growl. Micah saw his fists ball, Arthur was the type to settle his scores with fights rather than words, maybe because words so often illuded him. Micah smirked. “Go on then cowboy, show me what you got.”

Micah saw the thought flicker through Arthur’s eyes briefly like lightning in the night’s sky and then he decided against it.

He turned, heading back to the door of the cabin muttering about going back to camp. When he flung the door open, the light had dwindled considerably quicker than either of the could have imagined and snow was coming down in thick, heavy flurries. “Shit!” Arthur hissed. “Well,” Micah sighed, heading to the door too and surveying the magnitude of the situation, “don’t look like we’re goin’ anywhere fast, sweetheart. Jus’ you an’ me now.”

****

There were logs that had been left by the previous tenant that Arthur threw into the fireplace and proceeded to light. The pair of them sat close to the fire, the night had drawn in fast and not only was it the only source of heat in the small cabin, it was also the only source of light.

Micah could see that Arthur was shivering, his arms folded flush across his chest and jaw tight. He glared into the fire. “I’m freezin’ my ass off,” He grumbled. “Well we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Micah replied with a hint of snideness about his voice. Arthur shot him a look colder than out in the storm but Micah continued, maybe because he liked to see Arthur squirm. “You ain't cuddlin' up to me to keep warm if that’s what you want.” “I’d rather die o’ hypothermia than let you anywhere near me.” But they both knew that wasn't true.

Both knew the other was thinking about Gaptooth Ridge again now. It was all Micah had thought about since the day it had happened. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in their tent, panting and moaning softly with Arthur’s lips on his like nothing else in the world mattered, and perhaps didn’t even exist anymore. He could hear trains rumbling in the distance and condors circling above, the warm air enveloped him just as Arthur’s smoky scent did and everything in the world was still aside from his racing heart.

“When we gonna talk about it, Morgan?” Micah asked without even thinking. He’d wanted to ask Arthur for weeks but Arthur had been avoiding him even more than usual. He felt so weak caving and asking first. He didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be; did he want this to be a thing? No. That wasn’t Micah’s style… Yet… He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about Arthur. About the way they had been together that day.

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about.” Came Arthur’s gruff reply. Micah let out a snort of disbelieving laughter, “ain’t there?” “No. There ain’t.”

Arthur got to his feet now and walked to the back of the cabin, Micah's eyes followed him. Micah watched as Arthur leant against the wall and nonchalantly lit up a cigarette and smoked it, not looking at Micah but watching the tip of the cigarette burning down in his fingers between drags.

“Bullshit.” Micah said hotly, squaring up to Arthur. “You’re talking bullshit as usual.” “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout it, Micah. As far as I’m concerned, it didn’t even happen. It was nothing.” A twisted smirk crept across Micah’s face. He wanted to play it the hard way, huh? “That ain’t what you was sayin’ when you had my dick in your mouth.” Arthur’s eyes flashed and his face turned stony. “You watch what you say to me.” He growled. Micah wasn’t about to back down, his body pumped with adrenaline. “What would ol’ Dutch say if he knew what you got up to? Or does he know you like to get on your knees-”

Before Micah could finish his sentence, Arthur had grabbed him by the collars and pushed Micah up against the wall with such force that his hat toppled from his head. Micah would have laughed if the wind hadn’t been knocked from him. Arthur threw his cigarette to the floor and that hand found its way to Micah’s throat. Micah’s eyes flickered, Arthur was panting, they stared at each other wordlessly. Micah still wore his lopsided smirk, as if willing Arthur to do it.

Arthur’s brows were knitted together, eyes mean and jaw clenched. He looked like he would kill Micah. Micah didn’t doubt that he could.

Before Micah knew it, Arthur had pushed his lips to Micah’s in a kiss. Micah made a sound - a groan. Oh, how he’d longed for this again, thought maybe it would never happen and that their time out at Gaptooth Ridge had been a one off, one of those crazy things that never happen again no matter how hard the yearning. Arthur kissed hungrily, one hand still pressed against Micah’s throat and Micah kissed back eagerly, tongue sliding into Arthur’s mouth and Arthur permitted it with a sigh, as if he had been longing for this too.

Micah brought his hands up, cupping Arthur’s face, the skin cold, the stubble scratching against his fingertips and Arthur shivered at his touch. Arthur removed his hand from where it rested now so Micah could breathe again and tugged Micah’s head back by his hair, exposing his neck so he could kiss it bruisingly, making Micah gasp.

He placed his hands on Arthur’s broad shoulders, fingers curling around the thick material of Arthur’s winter coat, submitting to the younger outlaw, almost paralysed in pleasure at the feeling of Arthur’s hot mouth - tongue licking and teeth grazing - sucking at the sensitive skin of his neck.

He felt Arthur wedge his thigh between his legs and his hips moved instinctively before he could stop himself. The friction was delicious, Micah was uncomfortably hard in his pants already and he let out a soft moan at the relief Arthur’s leg provided. He heard Arthur growl into the crook of his neck. They remained like that, Micah shuddering as he rutted against Arthur and Arthur biting at Micah, hard enough to leave bruises, hands groping at him through his clothes, making Micah sigh and moan.

Suddenly, Arthur ripped away from him. Micah panted, whimpering quietly- unsatisfied. His breath visible in front of him in the cold, cold cabin but the heat between them was like a furnace. Micah stared at Arthur, for once lost for words. Arthur’s expression was unreadable. Had Arthur come to his senses?

Perhaps not. Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the bulge in Micah’s pants. He was hesitant as he reached to press his hand against it but Micah didn’t stop him, of course not. He had wanted this, hadn’t he?

It didn’t go unnoticed by Micah that Arthur’s fingers seemed to tremble as he unbuttoned Micah’s pants and freed his erection. Micah turned away at this, slightly embarrassed at how hard he was. He could hear Arthur’s breaths heavy and hard before he felt the other man’s hand wrap around his cock.

Arthur held him firmly. Micah let out a sound, higher pitched than normal. He felt his cheeks burn but he didn’t have time to feel embarrassed, the feel of Arthur’s hand on him so starkly made him quake. And then Arthur’s hand moved, grip strong as he pumped Micah’s cock. “M-Morgan..!” Micah choked. Arthur's shimmering eyes met Micah's, as if asking for permission to continue. Micah didn't say anything, he leant his forehead against Arthur's shoulder and let his hips rock into Arthur's hand.

Arthur stroked him fast, making Micah's breath catch in his throat. He found himself clinging to Arthur, clawing at the other man's wide back as he tried to stop himself calling out. He felt Arthur's lips on his neck again, kissing along the exposed collarbone to his shoulder. Arthur's name tumbled from Micah's lips like the snow from the sky outside.

It took an embarrassingly short amount of time for Micah's orgasm to coil in his stomach. He found himself moving faster, rutting helplessly against Arthur as he began to shiver, knowing he couldn't hold on any longer. He tried to stifle himself as he came, burying his face in Arthur's neck, taking in Arthur's strong musky scent of gunpowder, cigarettes and whiskey.

He stayed like that for a few moments, blood pounding in his ears, eyes closed trying to compose himself. Arthur didn’t move either, they leant against each other. It was Arthur that moved away first. Part of Micah wished Arthur would stay like that just a little longer.

Micah’d gone soft now, his release was on his pants, on the floor and on Arthur’s pants, too. When he looked back up at Arthur, he could tell that the younger man wasn’t finished with him just yet. He had a dark look in his eyes that Micah wasn’t sure he had seen before. Arthur didn’t say a word, his eyes still fixed on Micah’s. It was his turn to unbutton his pants now and then, he laid his hand on Micah’s shoulder, gently but firmly pushing Micah down to his knees. Micah didn’t resist.

Arthur’s length was strainingly hard and tip slick with precum as he freed his cock from his undergarments. Micah'd seen it before, of course; part of him had known that Arthur’s cock would be generous in size and he had been right about that in both length and girth. Micah had never felt an urge quite like it, an instinct almost, to take it into his mouth and suck. Tentatively, he touched the reddened skin of Arthur’s throbbing erection, it was burning hot under his fingertips. He wet his lip before he opened his mouth and as he did, Arthur grabbed a fistful of his hair and stuffed his length down Micah’s throat without giving him a chance to adjust. Micah made a choked sound and tears instantly filled his eyes at the stretch from the sheer size of Arthur. Arthur didn’t relent. Micah knew this was punishment but part of him didn’t even care, there was something about having Arthur above him like this , powerful, doing his best to repress his moans that turned him on.

Arthur didn't talk, just fisting Micah’s hair and snapping his hips forward rhythmically so he can fuck the older outlaw’s throat. They didn't talk last time either, just their touches had been enough. Micah's gags and heavy breathing filled the room along with Arthur's low growls and soft curses. As the length hit the back of Micah’s throat, Arthur hissed and fuck, that sounds made Micah’s own cock twitch awake again. Micah felt his face redden, he could feel the drool and precome spilling from the sides of his mouth and his jaw ached. He tried to steady Arthur, putting his hands on Arthur’s strong thighs, using them as an anchor so he can bob his head back and forth on the length, sucking as best he knew how, using his tongue to pressure the underside of the shaft like the whores he’d used before had done to him… like Arthur had done to him before.

He closed his eyes now, getting used to breathing through his nose. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, drawing back to pay attention to the tip and then taking as much of the length in its entirety at a time. He used his tongue to flick the tip, let his throat and jaw go slack so Arthur could press in further until he felt the younger man shiver.

Arthur groaned softly, when Micah looed up, Arthur's eyes were closed and his face was sheer portrait of perfection - lost in a rhapsody of bliss. Micah took hold of his throbbing cock now, needing some relief and as he did, Arthur gasped, hips stuttering, eyes open now, a flash of blue as he cursed loudly, "shit, Micah!" and spilled himself into Micah’s mouth.

Micah retched at the taste but was taken by surprise, swallowing the majority of it and coughing as Arthur pulled out. Arthur’s breathing was hard as he moved away from Micah and tucked himself back into his pants. Micah remained on his knees and wiped his mouth. He stared after Arthur who returned to the fireside, composing himself.

Arthur didn't look back at him as he spoke. “Now we’re even.” Arthur said almost emotionlessly. Micah didn’t want to admit it to himself but it hurt.

#morbell #rdr2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #micah bell #writing

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rooksilver · 5 years ago

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made a sequel to my first jrwi oneshot because why not. yes i am aware that the vengolor brothers’ reunion is canonically inaccurate but i took a couple of artistic liberties. enjoy

The Great King’s Wharf stinks to high hell in the summer, broken-down sewers and half-rotten barrels of fish taking full advantage of the heat. Sylnan barely notices as he paces from one end of the docks to the other, as he has taken to doing in the mornings and evenings when the ships come in. Not many visitors come to the Wharf, but he keeps his rigid patrol anyway, occasionally stopping at a glimpse of tousled fair hair or glittering green eyes, but nothing ever holds his attention for long. The fishermen along the harbour recognise him now, bloodshot eyes following him as he passes, low murmurs of a lover lost at sea. The rumours almost make Sylnan laugh. Nothing else changes. He spends his days feeling out the rare gold lining the pockets of more fortunate citizens and avoiding the rat king back at the warehouse. When he is not doing those things, he is at the docks. Pacing, watching. Waiting.

Across the ocean, Br’aad stands at the docks of the small port town whose name he has forgotten. Unlike Sylnan, he doesn’t move or pace. He stands silently at the water’s edge, watching the ships dock and set sail. His gaze is less expectant and more yearning, a secret wish buried deep inside himself. Life’s not so bad here. The town is much more diverse, and it is nice not to have anybody staring at his ears for once. Br’aad gets by on the old routine, the unsuspecting townsfolk making much easier targets, but it doesn’t really seem complete without Sylnan, and often he finds himself running after people to return coin purses they dropped. He tries not to think about his brother too much. It still stings, the scars, in the form of his aching tattoos. He doesn’t look at them anymore, stops trying to comprehend the language. Obnockshai visits him every so often, with games and deals and gambles at hand, but Br’aad declines them all—the trickster god has nothing he desires. For weeks, Br’aad prowls the quaint streets of the town, agitated, some unknown emotion perpetually simmering just underneath his skin. A few months in, when the feeling seems to bubble up, ready to erupt, Br’aad takes a desperate turn and finds himself at the docks. At sight of the ocean, the restlessness inside him calms a little. Since then, he spends most of his time there. He never boards a ship, never approaches the sailors or fishermen. He stands apart from the people, quietly watching the sea. Rumours spread here too, less far-fetched than in the Wharf, half-formed speculations about the young half-elf standing at the docks day after day, staring at the horizon with a faraway look in his eyes.

They say time heals all wounds, they say distance makes us wise. And they must be right, because almost a year later Br’aad gazes at the blue-green waters and realises that he misses his brother very much.

One afternoon, Sylnan trudges down to the harbour. He fingers the meagre earnings of the day in his pocket and sighs. A crumbling fishing boat pulls in nearby. Seagulls squabble over rotting scraps. The sun is unrelenting, bathing him in baking heat. Sylnan pauses a few steps into his usual patrol and rubs a hand over his face. He is tired. He is so, so tired of everything and just doesn’t have the energy to walk along the docks. Just a little further, a voice pipes up in his mind, just a little way. Just in case. Just in case what? Sylnan doesn’t know the answer, but he keeps walking anyway. The tabaxi catches his eye first. Then the pink-skinned tiefling beside him. It’s unusual, foreigners in the Wharf. He stops and stares for a second, and then walks on. They don’t interest him as much as they would have a year ago. Then his gaze lands on the half-elf beside them. Long, messy brown-blonde hair. Gleaming green eyes and a goofy grin. Strange purple tattoos crawling up the length of tanned arms. Sylnan stumbles forward. It feels like he’s in a trance as he hesitantly approaches and calls an achingly familiar name. And a face he knows well turns to look at him, eyes he has missed dearly light up, and then Br’aad is running at him and throwing himself into Sylnan’s arms, and oh, gods, it is him, he came back, his brother came back, and Sylnan’s vision is blurring but it’s okay because Br’aad is choking back tears too, and there’s no need for apologies because they are both forgiven, have been forgiven for the longest time now, and they will always be brothers and they will always love each other and that is all that matters. And when Sylnan returns home that night, Br’aad laughing and joking beside him, he is, for the first time in a long time, smiling.

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imaginaryelle · 5 years ago

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Take This Piece of Me as Part of You

For the day 5 Untamed Winterfest prompt, “ribbon.” ~3.5k, wangxian, post-canon. This one is rated Mature, mostly for implied offscreen things that accompany heavy kissing. There’s also some biting, and a marriage proposal.

This fic can also be read on AO3 and is part of the same series as Light a Fire They Can’t Put Out and Kiss Me, Keep Me (Never Leave Me), but does not require reading either of them. Many thanks to @roamingjaguar for giving this a quick read and setting my mind at ease, and to @soundsaboutrighttumblr for this lovely picture prompt.

Note: xingan (心肝), according to what I’ve read, is a quite serious term of endearment that means “heart and liver” or “one I cannot live without.”

Wangji commissions the forehead ribbon as soon as he’s sure, which corresponds roughly with his first night back in Cloud Recesses without Wei Ying.

He doesn’t sleep much. Even two short weeks of Wei Ying pressed against his side in the evenings, of warm skin and soft lips against his own and fingers trailing through his hair, is enough to change his habits. The Jingshi is too quiet. He finds himself listening for Wei Ying’s breath. Reaching for him in a space he’s never occupied. Expecting him to turn up with a fresh supply of water or some treat he’s purchased from a street seller, even though this is Cloud Recesses, and Wei Ying hasn’t so much as stepped across the threshold since Wangji was named Chief Cultivator over a year ago.

He meditates. He cleans his guqin. He thinks, quite seriously, about retrieving the rest of the Emperor’s Smile he’d hidden away and drinking some, just to pass the time, but he sets that aside fairly quickly. He combs his hair and polishes the pin and ornament, and dresses for the day, and waits.

At five, he leaves the Jingshi and makes his way to Lan Shu’s workshop. He brings tea, to facilitate matters.

Lan Shu listens to his request, and drinks the tea, and doesn’t ask questions. She hadn’t asked questions about the ribbon for Sizhui, either. And she’d never mentioned anything to Uncle.

“A marriage ribbon will take several months to complete,” she tells him, which he already knows. “I can’t guarantee delivery before Qingming.”

He won’t see Wei Ying until after Qingming anyway. It’s not an obstacle.

She gives him a long look, then shakes her head. “Go eat your breakfast, Chief Cultivator,” she says, setting down the tea. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

The weeks drag on. The Spring Festival is an extended trial that feels endless and is made longer by the sure knowledge that Wei Ying is in Yunmeng, not Gusu, or Lanling, or any of the other places the Chief Cultivator is required to be in the days leading up to New Year’s Eve. Xichen-ge agrees to break seclusion and help him hang decorations at the gentian cottage, and Sizhui returns just hours before the reunion dinner begins, but still Wangji feels keenly aware of a missing presence, despite the fact that Wei Ying has never spent the Spring Festival at Cloud Recesses and so he should have no expectation of such a thing.

Next year, he promises himself. Next year he and Wei Ying will clean and decorate the Jingshi together.

The close of the Lantern Festival brings a letter that speaks of Yunmeng’s beauty, of the promising young Jiang cultivators and their cleverness with fireworks, of papering over old wounds with new memories. There is also a gourd delicately painted with the Yunmeng lotus and several pages of sketches, but he hardly has a chance to savor them or think of writing back before he’s called away again, chasing rumors of something feeding on villagers and cultivators alike in the south.

It is a long, bloody hunt, and when he returns to Cloud Recesses to see the gourd still hanging where he left it and a new letter waiting, he knows it will be more than a year before Wei Ying joins him here. He will not make his father’s mistakes. He will not give less than all of himself, and he can offer nothing but a cold, empty room and his own repeated absence for as long as he remains Chief Cultivator.

He nearly resigns on the spot, but there is no one to replace him. The Jin sect is struggling to find its stride after a decade under Jin Guangyao with only the young, brash Jin Rulan to take on his duties. Xichen-ge has returned to seclusion and Wangji cannot fault him for it. Nie Hauisang insists on maintaining his distance from politics. Wangji doesn’t want to consider what might happen if Jiang Wanyin took the post. Perhaps he can start with the smaller clans, plant the seeds for a new shape of the world. One where a single cultivator can never again hold as much power as Wen Ruohan or Jin Guangyao, or at least one where more than one man might be held responsible for success and disaster.

Weeks turn to months. Long months, full of new duties and squabbles between cultivators who seem to have little else to do but pick fights and endlessly practice sword forms, waiting for spring thaws. He writes many letters, precious few of them to Wei Ying and nearly all of them terse and direct, but he receives new missives every day, complaints and ambitions and worries and petty rivalries besetting him on all sides from every household in the cultivation word. There are arguments to settle and ceremonies to plan, and to attend. Coming of Age ceremonies. Foundation laying ceremonies. Marriage ceremonies, which strike him as particularly unfair even though he’s told no one else of his intentions. The invitations threaten to engulf his writing desk. Worse are the genuine requests for aid, some of them from small clans scattered through the mountains and others from towns without a cultivation clan to protect them. He understands, quite thoroughly, why Jin Guangyao was so very insistent on setting up the watchtowers, but for all the man’s crimes and plans the system is still shockingly inefficient. Wangji spends more time visiting cultivators and convincing them to grant money, or food, or martial aid to their neighbors than he does actually night hunting himself. Worse, he does not have Jin Guangyao’s gift of pleasing words, and yet everywhere he goes people want to speak with him. Continuously. Exhaustively. No matter how far into silence he retreats or how firmly he refuses to adjust his position.

A week after Qingming, Lan Shu gives him a sandalwood box, subtly carved with clouds and mountains and symbols of longevity in love: butterflies, shuang-xi characters, and paired magpies. The ribbon inside is a close copy of his own, but the silk is freshly woven, the blue embroidery newly dyed; the embedded talismans glitter in the box’s shadowed confines.

He seals it away without touching it, slips the box gently into a qiankun pouch, and resigns himself to waiting.

Three years. That’s how long it takes him to get a working replacement for the post of Chief Cultivator in place. If Wei Ying thinks of marriage during those years, or if he resents the time Wangji spends on the rest of the world, he never shows it during their meetings. He could perhaps be described as clingy, when the weeks and months extend too long, but Wangji is no less possessive of their time together. He is sometimes melancholy, but neither of their lives has been easy and Wangji knows Wei Ying has regrets, for all that he rarely dwells on them. He takes hope from the fact that Wei Ying always returns to him. That his greeting is always welcoming, always eager. That even with so much time apart, his passions burn just as bright as Wangji’s. But hope is a poor substitute for certainty when such assurance is so immediately close to hand.

The sect leaders are displeased at his leavetaking, of course, but they’re always displeased. The ink is still wet on the agreement, red seals settling in cinnabar and silk, but Wangji makes it clear he will not be available for further discussion—he will return to Cloud Recesses for the official announcement, three days hence, and no sooner. In the meantime, they are all welcome to review the paperwork he’s accumulated. And even though it is already well past sundown, and even though his presence is not expected, he mounts Bichen and flies to meet Wei Ying as quickly as spiritual power will carry him.

It only occurs to him later, as he stands in the middle of the town’s main road, that he doesn’t know where, precisely, Wei Ying is staying, or even if he’s kept to the travel plans outlined in his latest letter.

The handful of people still out at night are very polite to him, but not very helpful. Despite years of night hunts, travel, and overlong political conferences, he is not nearly so efficient at soliciting information from strangers as Wei Ying is. Yes, they say, they remember a young man of that description. Yes he did appear to be a cultivator, though he carried no sword. He’d offered to look into a hungry ghost for one family, and disappearing ducks for another, and sold some protective talismans. No. They don’t know where he might be staying.

An inspection of the nearest inn’s stables shows no sign of Little Apple. Wangji grips Bichen tighter and hurries to check the next. Footsteps behind him suddenly speed up and he whirls, sword drawn.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying looks at him up the length of Bichen’s blade, a smile teasing at his lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a conference in Gusu?”

“It ended.” He sheathes his sword and studies Wei Ying, marking as many details as he can. His clothes are a little more worn than on their last meeting, months ago, but not badly so. His movements betray no sign of injury as he steps closer, a slight curve in his path and confusion drawing a line between his brows. He smells faintly of ginkgo and chrysanthemum, and his hands are slightly stained. Perhaps he has been gathering supplies.

He looks tired. Drawn thin, the bones of his face too-prominent.

“You’re not eating,” Wangji observes. Wei Ying rolls his eyes and leans in close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“I eat,” he insists, setting off again in a slow walk in the direction Wangji had been heading. “I eat plenty. I don’t need all that money you send me you know, I can earn my own.”

“You give it away,” Wangji reminds him, falling into step at his side. He’s witnessed Wei Ying’s generosity more than once.

“I do fine,” Wei Ying says, and then spins around to face him, walking backwards and changing the subject. “Lan Zhan, if anyone needs to take better care of themselves between us, it’s you. You’re letting all those Sect Leaders run you around, and then you still fly all the way here the same night? What were you going to do if I didn’t find you?”

“Keep looking,” Wangji says, both because it’s true and because he thinks it will make Wei Ying smile. It does.

“Even past nine?” he asks.

“Mn,” Wangji confirms, and Wei Ying laughs. He grabs Wangji’s sleeve and tugs him toward an inn’s brightly lit gate.

“You always wear so much white, Lan Zhan. People will think you’re a ghost come to haunt them.” His grin is teasing. “You should come inside with me so no one gets worried.”

It’s a ridiculous excuse. Wangji doesn’t bother to hold back his smile.

The inn is not the best in town, but it is clean and well-appointed, and the owner seems happy to supply a light meal despite the late hour. Wei Ying’s room is small, with little more than a table, a seating cushion and a bed, but Wangji hardly gets a chance to see it; as soon as the door slides closed behind them Wei Ying takes his face in his hands and kisses him, insistent and covetous like he thinks the opportunity will be snatched away.

It won’t be, but it wouldn’t be the first time that duty or disaster came unexpectedly calling.

“How long before you have to go back?” he asks, already slipping his hands under Wangji’s outer layer, pressing clever fingers down his sides to slide under his waist sash.

“Two days,” Wangji says, letting his own hands settle on Wei Ying’s waist and returning the kiss. But after that. After that... The qiankun pouch feels heavy in his sleeve. He wants to reveal it now. To know, immediately, but there’s a void opening up in his stomach, a swirling suction of doubts he can’t ignore any longer. Wei Ying may refuse him. He may be happy with what they have, despite his pout and the complaints of so soon, too soon, he’s muttering into Wangji’s chest. He may have a different vision of their future.

Later. He’ll ask later. For now he picks Wei Ying up—to a shout muffled against his shoulder—takes four steps, and spills the both of them onto the bed.

“Lan Zhan, if you tell me it’s nine already—”

“It’s not,” Wangji assures him, nuzzling his way up Wei Ying’s neck to his ear. “We have time.”

Wangji wakes at five, as usual. Wei Ying is asleep, curled in on himself with his back pressed warm against Wangji’s side. His eyelids flicker with dreams, and the dim light of the coming dawn paints him with soft gray shadows, smoothing away the worries he carries by day.

He’s beautiful.

He always has been.

Today, Wangji determines. He’ll ask today. This morning. As soon as Wei Ying wakes, or perhaps soon after, depending on his mood.

He allows himself a few moments to watch morning light move over Wei Ying’s skin as he breathes, to memorize, once again, the soft curve of his eyelashes and the gentle slope of his mouth. Then he sighs and sits up, ready to prepare for the day.

“Mnnnn, no, Lan Zhan, come back to bed.” Wei Ying rolls over and grabs him around the waist before he can stand.

“It’s five,” Wangji reminds him, even thought they have this conversation nearly every morning they wake up together and he knows that Wei Ying knows what time it is.

“This isn’t Gusu,” Wei Ying says against his back. Warm lips press against his skin. “Even the innkeeper’s family isn’t up yet. If you rise too soon you’ll disturb them.”

The statement is obviously untrue; Wangji woke to the sound of movement in the kitchens, and the both of them can clearly hear a child feeding the chickens and collecting eggs outside their window. But still, Wei Ying moves himself around on the bed until he can kiss Lan Wangji’s thigh and hip.

“It would be rude,” he says grinning and mischievous even as his hands slide over Lan Wangji’s stomach.

Wangji hesitates, which Wei Ying takes as surrender. He kisses his way up Wangji’s chest, to his lips. It’s a lingering, coaxing kiss that turns more heated as he slips himself into Wangji’s lap.

It makes a much better argument than anything to do with their hosts, and Wangji gives in easily, willingly. Wei Ying pushes at his shoulders until he lies back and then Wangji rolls them both over and catches Wei Ying’s hands between them. Wei Ying tugs at his grip, more playful than forceful, grinning wider and wrinkling his nose as Wangji’s hair tickles his face. He arches his back, seeking more contact, and rolls his hips and—and grabs the trailing end of Wangji’s forehead ribbon in his mouth.

Wangji bites his shoulder in retaliation and Wei Ying laughs through his teeth, no longer tugging at his hands, but wriggling as Wangji drags teeth and tongue over his chest and down his ribs, on his way to lick at his stomach and nip the curve of his hip bone. And then … then Wei Ying yanks his head a little too hard. The ribbon slides off Wanji’s forehead and keeps falling. The silver emblem smacks against his cheekbone on the way down, and then it and the rest of the fluttering white-and-blue length slips down to land on Wei Ying’s bare stomach.

“Ah!” Wei Ying spits out the ribbon end and looks immediately remorseful. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—here, I’ll—”

“Keep it.” The words slip out of his mouth without the permission of his rational mind, the weight of three years of longing and waiting pressing behind them, closing his throat to anything else.

Wei Ying goes still. His eyes are very wide.

Wangji is doing this wrong. This is not at all how a proposal is supposed to go, he’s certain, but he’s said it. He can’t take it back now. He can only keep going, struggling toward a future that suddenly feels as substantial as mist.

“Keep it,” he repeats, willing the intent to be understood, but Wei Ying is still staring. Wangji needs to do this properly. He wrenches himself off the bed despite Wei Ying’s wordless protest, finds the qiankun pouch, and shoves the sandalwood box rather unceremoniously into Wei Ying’s hands.

Wei Ying cradles it against his chest for a moment, Wangji’s ribbon still hanging from his fingers and his mouth slightly open, like he wants to speak but can’t think of what to say.

Wangji collects his own ribbon from Wei Ying’s unresisting grip and smooths it carefully. Then he kneels, and waits.

“What…?” Wei Ying sits up and looks down at the box, then frowns and looks closer. He holds it delicately, as if he thinks opening it could release a demon. Or perhaps like a firework that’s already been lit. But he must know what it means.

“This is for me?” he asks, the words sounding half-strangled.

“No,” Wangji corrects, holding out the ribbon he’s worn most of his life. “This is for you. If you want it.”

Wei Ying looks at the box again. His fingers trace over the carvings.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, almost at a whisper, “this is—Lan Zhan are you asking me to marry into the Lan clan?”

It occurs to Wangji, sudden and shocking as water from the Cold Spring, that he could have done this differently. They don’t have to follow the Lan clan’s customs in order to be cultivation partners. They could simply travel together. Live together. Perhaps start their own sect. They don’t have to go anywhere near Gusu or Cloud Recesses. He could have waited three days and then disappeared into the night with Wei Ying at his side and no one the wiser.

His hands clench tight around the ribbon. Cloud Recesses is his home, and being a Lan is woven into the fiber of his entire self. He wants to share that, not set it aside.

“Yes,” he says, trying to keep his eyes on Wei Ying’s face. “If you want it.”

Wei Ying sinks to the floor across from him. He reaches out, then pulls his hand back, as if he’s now afraid to touch the ribbon he’s touched so many times already. That he had in his mouth. He sets the box on the floor, almost reverently, and stares at it for a moment.

Then he laughs, the sound turned strange and high. “I don’t think I’ll make a very good Lan,” he says, as if it’s a joke.

Wangji thinks the void in his stomach might engulf him whole. He looks away. Down at his hands and the ribbon stretched between them. His throat aches with words that can only make this worse.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying’s hands are on his shoulders, a warm, strong grip. On his face, coaxing his chin upward.

“Xingan, don’t look like that.” Wei Ying is smiling. Wangji feels the ribbon pull free of his hands. “I accept, I accept, I just—” Wei Ying laughs wetly. There are tears slipping down his cheeks. “It’s just that you really should have been part of the Yunmeng-Jiang Sect, you know. Attempt the impossible.” He laughs again. “I just keep thinking of your uncle’s face when he sees—how am I supposed to wear this?”

Wangji can’t speak. He wants to say, Are you certain?, and I don’t care what Uncle thinks, but xingan is echoing through his head, blocking out everything but Wei Ying’s face as he clumsily tries to tie on Wangji’s forehead ribbon.

“It’s crooked.” He reaches up to straighten it and ends up retying it completely, intensely aware of Wei Ying’s breath against his arms and chest, and the soft touch of his hair, and a sort of whole-body tingling that makes him feel slightly unreal.

He draws back.

Wei Ying is wearing his forehead ribbon.

None of the marks he’s left on Wei Ying’s skin the last three years made him feel like this. Like his blood is heating up too quickly. Like he needs to kiss Wei Ying immediately, which he does, doing his best to claim him with lips and tongue and teeth.

Wei Ying, gratifyingly, climbs into his lap once more and melts against him, whining slightly as Wangji bites at the hinge of his jaw.

“Lan Zhan,” he pants as Wangji mouths down his neck. “Xingan,” he repeats, sending a full-body shudder through Wangji’s frame. “Am I supposed to give you the other one?”

“Later,” Wangji tells him.

He is not currently interested in self-restraint.

#untamed winterfest #wangxian #wangxian fic #the untamed #chen qing ling #the untamed fic #chen qing ling fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #alex writes #light a fire verse #long post #winterfest2k19 fic

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skekheck · 5 years ago

Note

if your still doing character thing: skekmal

Yeah I’m still willing to do these: they’re a lot of fun!

Why I like them

There’s this lure about him like we know what kind of character he is, but there’s still an air of mystery to him. We get a pretty good idea what the other lords do in their day to day lives. SkekMal’s seemed way more interesting, battling against the elements and hunting whatever he could find. I really want to know the history with some of the trophies he wore. Not to mention, that unspoken relationship he had with Rek’yr. I mean they were on a name basis. As I recall, no other gelfling referred the skeksis by name, only as lord or by their title.

A lot about skekMal is so interesting. Like how there are legends surrounding him by gelfling and podlings, referring to him as “the Hunter”. How he lived off the lands instead of relying on the Crystal (at this seemingly). But his most interesting aspect is his obsession with the hunt and how it shows deeper roots into his hidden fear of death. SkekMal’s whole philosophy hunting down worthy targets and wearing their remains somehow giving him strength. Thus, keeping off death’s doorsteps. I also feel like, besides enjoying the carnage of his hunts, he’s desensitizing himself from death. The more he kills, the less he’ll fear it. This is also why he has a great distaste for the skeksis court and their way of life. SkekMal sees how much they deteriorated, becoming weaker, closer to death. How much they rely on weaker beings for resources, being pampered and drowning in useless trinkets. The endless squabbling that goes on in the court about things that in the end don’t matter. He doesn’t want to become like that. He needs to keep himself strong and get stronger. That’s why he dedicates his life to the hunt: it’s a way of self-preservation.

I’ve been thinking about skekMal wasn’t always this obsessed and that he may have had a better social life when he was younger. I’m under the assumption the skeksis are social creatures, seeing how they have their own cliques and friends. And while I think skekMal still had a similar bad attitude in his younger days, I feel like he was more mellowed out enough to have some friends. But as they got older and fears of their mortality sprung up, skekMal completely changed. He began dedicating himself to his profession, spending much longer time by himself. He grew more wild and untamable and the others began fearing him, maybe even moreso than before. No one wanted him around so they rarely summon him (and only do so under extreme circumstances). That doesn’t mean skekMal didn’t have any social contact. Despite how fiercely independent he is, he relies on the Dousan to guide him on hunts. And seeing how he and Rek’yr are on a name basis, I’m sure he has made similar connections over the years. But it’s not enough for him. I’ve read that social isolation leads to increased aggression and violence so perhaps this is why he’s so violent (and isolation probably amplified these traits).

Why I don’t

This stupid bitch is the reason why urVa had to sacrifice himself. If skekMal wasn’t such a feral bastard and maybe chill the fuck out, they’d both be alive.

Favorite episode (scene if movie)

Episode 4 is the best. Not only because he makes his debut here, but also features skekMal’s fight against Rian and Ordon. Which, in my opinion, is one of the best scenes in the series.

Favorite season/movie

I mean, AOR. I could count the book series, but he is a waaaaay different character there (even between books: he seems way different in Flames than he was in Shadows). Also he’s a by far more interesting character in AOR than in the book series.

Favorite line

“Nothing can stop the hunt!”

Favorite outfit

I do like him with the metal mask he wore briefly, but his bone mask is a LOOK.

OTP

It’s no secret that I ship MalVa. It’s the best one. You can fight me on that. I’m all about that self love!

Brotp

Talked about possible friendships he could have had in another post, but I also wanted to bring up skekSo. Like I talked about in skekSo’s post, I feel like the two would have an unspoken respect and fear of each other. SkekSo is the only one that can control the Hunter and that takes some skills considering how wild he is now. I can see that the two got into a pretty bloody fight and skekSo came out the victor, asserting his dominance over skekMal. Or he could have seen the Emperor beating skekShod to a pulp for even questioning his power and that might have gained some respect for him. Or might even be a combination of both. I also feel like out of all the other skeksis, skekMal might still see skekSo as powerful as he was in his youth and would hold him in high regard over the others.

Head Canon

The Dousan Clan heavily influenced skekMal, especially in regard to his philosophy. The Dousan already live a similar lifestyle: only living off the land and what’s provided for them. They’re nomadic and don’t have a permanent residence. Plus, they have a spiritual belief for the cycle of life and death. The skeksis fear the Dousan for this and therefore not only limit visits to them, but also are the only clan that cannot become a castle guard. I feel like all of this would at least intrigue the Hunter. The more he spends time with them, understanding their culture begins inspiring his lifestyle. When he saw that the Dousan wore bones and believed they were charms, he inherited this belief. All of his trophies are his own charms: charms that give him power.

Unpopular opinion

Every now and then I see people hypothesize that MalVa was Dark Heart, the urSkek that ultimately caused the Great Division. The Creation Myths imply that it’s SilSol, since you can tell it’s skekSil being torn from urSol. But even if they didn’t, it would suck if MalVa was the one and they both died without having that addressed. Or having it to be addressed and they’re already dead so what’s the point? Also since Dark Heart was a musician and urSol is the chanter, that’s an easier deduction. Additionally, skekSil has qualities of a musician, being able to pitch his voice and using words to sway others. Also on multiple occasions in the series he’s seen orchestrating/ordering the podling musicians. As dark and evil as skekMal is, he doesn’t hold a candle to skekSil’s own wickedness.

A wish

Seriously hoping that Rek’yr and skekMal’s relationship can be explored in the prequel series. Also flashbacks of young skekMal would be nice.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen

I mean he’s already dead so… it’s already happened LMAO.

5 words to best describe them

Wild | Persevered | Bloodthirsty | Unpredictable | Ambitious

My nickname for them

Feral with variations (like bastard, bitch, asshole).

#Anonymous #skekmal #asks for skekheck #once again I am reminded I can just easily write a character study on this guy

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thelazyhermits · 5 years ago

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After getting so many asks about Nighteye, I figured I’d share some HCs involving him haha

After the raid, Fortune and Nighteye exchange numbers so she can contact him if she ever has any worrisome visions about All Might. What she didn’t expect was for him to occasionally text her to see how All Might is doing, basically acting like a worried parent even though he’s younger than him lol

Fortune thinks it’s sweet how much Nighteye cares about All Might so she doesn’t mind giving him updates. She’ll also tell him about any funny events involving All Might that she happens to witness.

Also, regarding Nighteye’s birthday present for her in A Bright Celebration, Fortune takes a picture of it dressed as Dad Might and sends it to Nighteye after thanking him for the present. She also includes a caption of the words she told everyone else. Nighteye took a long time to respond cause he had to spend several minutes fighting the urge to laugh. He was literally shaking at his desk with his face buried in his arms.

So, I know that Midoriya ends up interning with Endeavor during the winter break. I don’t plan on changing that since I think that experience was good for him. The reason he wasn’t with Nighteye despite him being alive is because Nighteye was in the middle of an investigation that involved the LoV. Since UA wants their students to stay away from the LoV for now, Nighteye recommended that Midoriya intern somewhere else during that particular week which led to him accepting Todoroki’s offer.

Up until that point though, Nighteye has Mirio and Midoriya come do intern work. I figure UA wouldn’t temporarily stop the internships in TABF since things ended so much better with the raid as compared to canon. However, it becomes less frequent like they mainly go during the weekend or like in the afternoons.

During that period of time, Nighteye asks Fortune to come along every now and then since he wants to see her Quirk in action for himself. Since their Quirks are so similar, he figures he can offer some helpful advice. Even though he knows she’s technically a civilian, it’s obvious she’ll still get involved with fights as long as she’s staying at UA, so he might as well help ensure that she survives those fights lol

Naturally, Midoriya is completely fascinated with the idea of two people with foresight Quirks sparring. He wonders how that’ll work, and honestly, Fortune and Nighteye are wondering the same thing.

When they try to find out, they discover they can’t use their Quirks on each other at the same time, meaning if they try to fight each other with their Quirks the Quirks will cancel each other out. This makes sense to me since how else would a fight work when both fighters can predict the other’s movements especially since those movements are in response to those predictions?

I think their brains would have a fail safe for situations like that, so their Quirks don’t activate when other foresight Quirks are involved since it would overwhelm the brain if so many possible scenarios were being shown to it. It just seems like things could get bad quick, so no foresight Quirk battling for those two lol

As a result, whenever Nighteye spars with Fortune, it’s mostly hand-to-hand but sometimes he’ll get her to use his Quirk since he still needs to see it in action. He also has her fight Mirio and Midoriya, figuring it’ll be good training for everyone involved.

While they do get along better as compared to their first meeting, occasionally Fortune and Nighteye butt heads mostly when they disagree over something or when they’re both being stubborn. Mirio thinks it’s a sign of how well they get along that they can fight like that but Midoriya isn’t so sure. Midoriya always panics in the background when the two adults squabble while Mirio just laughs and enjoys the show.

So, you know how Nighteye knows pretty much everything about All Might? Well, there is actually something that Fortune knows that neither Nighteye nor Midoriya knows about, and it kinda drives them crazy since they hate not knowing everything about All Might lol Basically, it was an event that she saw in her vision that no one else but her saw since All Might was alone at the time. It was an embarrassing moment for All Might so he doesn’t want her talking about it even though Nighteye and Midoriya are obviously curious.

In regards to what the event was, I like to keep it vague so y’all can let your imaginations run wild. What I had in mind was either a costume malfunction happening while dealing with a villain or him accidentally running into something while on patrol XD

#TABF #bnha spoilers #figure I should use that #since I mentioned the winter internship arc #I was not expecting so many nighteye asks lol #of course I didn't mind #since it was fun answering the questions about him #it's always fun getting asks about tabf XD #TABF HCs

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darlingrutherford · 5 years ago

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Once Upon a Time in Thedas Update

Because I’m writing these in short scene-based chapters rather than longer ones, I went ahead and put out the next update for my DA Cinderella!AU :)

Trigger warnings for this series for mentions and scenes of mental/physical abuse.

Once Upon a Time in Thedas - Chapter Two | Cross-posted on Ao3 | DA Cinderella!AU with alternate world canon | Alistair Theirin/Lana Surana | Mature rating for this chapter for minor mention of abuse, much less than the last chapter though |

The Royal Palace in Denerim was large. Much, much larger than the mabari pens Alistair had slept in as a child. His entire life had been a whirlwind - of vying for the attention of those who were supposed to be family, of trying to impress them and do what was asked of him so he could belong - he had even suffered through templar training at the behest of his Uncle, Arl Eamon, who had passed him off at the behest of his wife, only to drag Alistair back to run a kingdom he hadn’t been raised to rule. Being King wasn’t easy. Not that Alistair had expected it to be, but when Eamon had brought him to Denerim and presented him as the bastard son of the deceased King Maric, he had expected that maybe he would have at least been okay at it. Why else would Eamon have suggested him for the job if it hadn’t been true? ‘Bastard son of the previous King, half brother of the deceased’ didn't exactly flow off the tongue otherwise. Alistair felt at a loss, though, clinging to the advisors that had been appointed to him at every matter thrust his way. Thankfully, everything to fall in his lap had been apparently on the easier side of things - small squabbles between parishes, lands arguments between farmers, no all out wars or large dealings with other countries as of yet. Still, it seemed like quite a lot for only having been crowned for a week, and Alistair was already exhausted.

“Maker’s breath, is it going to be like this every day?” Alistair sat at the head of the table in the council chamber, groaning as he and his advisors finished combing the stack of papers in front of Eamon. It had been a long day - the same as each the past week - and his brain found itself wanting to quickly vacate his body. He felt little sympathy being thrown his way, since everyone around him had been more groomed into a life of high service than himself, though the sympathetic huff from the mabari at his feet did make him feel a little heard.

“You have only just ascended the throne, your Majesty,” Eamon said from his seat to the left of Alistair. “The people of Ferelden have been without a king for months while others vied for that power. It will take time to return to the peace we were once at.”

“In the meantime, there is one more item on our agenda for today,” Teagan spoke from the other side of Eamon.

“Fine, what is it?” Alistair asked as he picked up his cup, looking at the water as if hoping it would gain him a sliver more of energy.

“It is most important,” Eamon said. “As King of Ferelden, you must have a wife chosen.”

“A what?” Alistair sputtered as he choked on the water that had been halfway down his throat. The mabari perked his head up, tilting his head in concern with a whine. “Maker, I’ve only just… Right now?”

“Not this very moment, but Ferelden must have a Queen with which you can continue the Theirin bloodline,” Eamon said.

“First you’re talking about marriage and then you jump right to babies? I can’t decide that all in one day!”

“You needn’t decide at all. As your advisors, we have compiled a list of eligible women. We may decide which would be best suited to -”

“You can’t expect me to marry some random noble woman you chose from a list?” Alistair asked, interrupting Eamon in exacerbation. A few of the other advisors sighed, as if growing impatient with how long the day had dragged on. “Maker, I’ve… Everything in my life has been chosen for me, surely I at least should choose my own wife if I have to have one? And not from some… list. What if I don’t even like any of them enough to love them?”

“Love is earned in many marriages of birth,” Eamon sighed, his patience with Alistair clearly waning.

“No. I won’t leave something like that up to chance,” Alistair said firmly.

“And how do you expect to meet your perfect woman while you are spending your days in these meetings?” Eamon asked.

“We could throw a ball,” Teagan suggested. Eamon looked at Teagan in disbelief, as if his brother should have been trying to convince Alistair to allow them to choose. Teagan glanced at Eamon with only a hint of an apology, before looking at Alistair and continuing. “To celebrate King Alistair’s coronation, and to allow him to choose a bride. A three night event all eligible women may attend.”

“Three nights? Is that all?” Alistair grimaced. Three nights seemed barely enough time to get to know a person, let alone the woman he was expected to spend the rest of his life with and make children with.

“It is either that, or our list,” Eamon sighed. Alistair paused, leaning back as he mulled it over. It wasn’t ideal, but, then, was any of this? Everything, from his title to the clothes he wore, had been chosen for him. If they would allow him to choose this, to choose a person who he could perhaps love enough to be a true partner to him, well, he supposed he would have to take it.

“And I get to choose anyone there?”

“Yes, but you must choose on the third night,” Eamon said firmly. “If you do not, we shall choose for you.”

“I want any woman allowed to attend, regardless of status.”

“Regardless of -”

“My own mother worked in the kitchens, or so I was told,” Alistair interrupted Eamon. His voice was more stern, unwilling to budge. Why should he limit himself to nobility, to people who would only want to be there for the chance to be Queen? He was sure it would be difficult to find anyone who didn’t have that as their number one priority, but perhaps then he would at least be able to find someone who meshed with him well. Someone he could have actual conversations with, rather than constantly bringing up the affairs of state and other subjects that bored him to no end.

“Very well,” Eamon grumbled in defeat. “We shall draw up the plans for the ball. Let it be held the third week of Harvestmere. Unwed ladies of all status shall be interested to attend. By the end of the third night, King Alistair will announce his choice, or we will, if none are chosen.”

“Does this mean he gets to choose one as well? Are you inviting all the eligible mabari in Ferelden? Since Bryn is King of the Mabari, and all,” Alistair joked. The mabari at his feet barked loudly and enthusiastically, his little tail wagging wildly. Eamon only groaned, muttering under his breath as Teagan choked down a laugh.

Two weeks had gone by since Lana had been locked in the closet by her mother. The offense had cost her an entire day, as her mother grew more and more frustrated with Lana's ‘outbursts’ of magic. Since then Lana's days had been rather uneventful, back to her normal routine, with some minor changes. As part of her punishment, Lana's mother had confined her to her room when she was not finishing her chores. She had been careful as ever, and spent as much time as possible in her room near her sunny window, knowing that if enough time went by of her behaving her mother would eventually allow her outside again. This particular day Sister Leliana had come by, and together they sat on her bed with legs crossed as they spoke with hushed tones.

“It's not right,” Sister Leliana was saying. Lana's hand was in her palm, and her fingers delicately rewrapping the bandage on Lana's pinky finger. The finger was slightly off-set and swollen, even after the two weeks had passed. Lana winced slightly at how tight Leliana was tying the bandage, although Leliana had assured her she knew what she was doing.

“Sister -”

“Yes, that's right. I am a Sister, and I say it isn't right. This isn't what the Maker wishes for you, Lana,” she said softly. She tied off the bandage gently before continuing. “Many parents must deal with the change magic brings to a family, but she needn't break your finger for it. It is vile… You should let me reset it. It is not healing correctly.”

“It hurts too much… I don’t want to upset her by being too loud.” Lana had spent the past two weeks being as quiet as possible. If she upset her mother now, she wasn’t sure if she would even be allowed the window in her room going forward.

“Maybe one of these days I will happen to stop by when she is not here. Then we may set it correctly.”

“You aren't like the other Chantry Sisters who have checked on me in the past,” Lana said with an appreciative smile.

“Want to know a secret?” Leliana smiled as Lana nodded. She leaned in closer, whispering more quietly for emphasis. “I wasn't always a Sister.”

“Really?”

“I was a bard.”

“What?” Lana clapped her hand over her mouth as the word burst loudly from her tongue. The two of them laughed quietly.

“It’s true. In Orlais, for some time. I traveled all over, performing at great palaces and learning all their secrets. I have seen enough to know the good of mages. I know you did not deserve this. The Maker knows too, I am sure.”

“Tell me about Denerim, please,” Lana asked as she wiped her eyes. Compliments were difficult for Lana. She appreciated every word, more than Leliana could know, but there was always a part of her that refused to believe it. Her mother had spent Lana’s entire life telling her just the opposite. How could it be true?

“Of course,” Leliana said with a smile. “Did you hear the King is to pick a bride? They will be holding a grand ball for his decision. Three nights, of parties, and music, and all the women for him to pick from.”

“Maker, that would be a wondrous sight,” Lana sighed with a smile on her face. Her eyes trailed up to the roof as if picturing it. “Can you imagine? All the ball gowns, the dancing, all the people. I wonder if there will be other elves there? What kind of food will they have? Have you been to such a thing before?”

“I have, yes.” Leliana smiled. She watched Lana for a minute, her face never changing from one of wonderment as if she were still imagining it. “Would you like to go?”

“Me? A mage?” Lana laughed incredulously.

“Why not?” Leliana asked. “I would be shocked if you were the only mage in attendance. Many mages are not kept within the walls of their home as you are, Lana.”

“I… Don't think my parents would allow me to,” she said. The smile faded from her face, her eyes moving to the bed. “It would be nice, if only to see it once. But, I haven't even been to the marketplace since I was a child. And I would stick out like a sore thumb among all their graceful clothing in my own.”

“What if someone were to give you clothes for it?” Leliana raised her brows suggestively. “You must live a little, Lana. I worry what will happen to you if you live your entire life cooped up in this home.”

“Not everyone has grand lives, I’m afraid… It's not a life meant for me. I'll just have to dream about it.”

“Don't give up on your dreams,” Leliana said with a sparkle in her eyes. “You never know when they'll come true.”

#dragon age #cinderella!au #alistair theirin #suranistair #leliana #alistair x surana #dragon age au #fanfiction #lana surana #ao3 #my work #my ocs

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blogmaria333ph · 6 years ago

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Almost Two Years Later

Still a fan of APH Veneziano.

Still not overly fond of Romano/Veneziano, Germany/Veneziano or HRE/Veneziano, but not a hater.

Thinking back, I've comprised a list of Veneziano pairings I liked/would still like to see/read.

And here they are.

*Breathe deeply*

Gosh... Here's a rather long list of ships for one character...😅 Feel free to reblog this if you agree with a ship😉

(PS: I made up ship names for a few of them. Ultimately, a lot don't have one...)

Angel Pair (England/Veneziano) - The Ship Name was bestowed upon these two by other fans. The ship originally came from the game, HetaOni, but I personally think they grew close during the days when Rome had England as a colony.

PasTea (China/Veneziano) - Ship Name equates to Pasta + Tea. I imagine China spent a lot of time with him during the Silk Road Days, what with Rome taking him along almost everywhere!

EngVeneChu (England/Veneziano/China) - Stern, parental China and (quite possibly) magical, protective England. Between the two of them, I think Vene would be well cared for, yes? Then, whenever they feel down due to any reason, Vene would cheer them up!

Scotland/Veneziano - Imagine that. "Ve... _____ is scary!" - Vene. "So, _____. Want to fight and lose?" - Scotland. Or "My people want to leave but England's politicians won't let them..." - Scotland. "I can try talking to England about it?" - Vene.

Wales/Veneziano - Wales, according to many a wiki, is apparently calm. I can see him just being a support for dear Vene during hard times. Vene would keep him from feeling down whenever he remembers the days he fought England.

VenezIre (Veneziano/North Ireland) - North Ireland is a bit less mature than the other UK countries, I think... I mean, if I were to decide his character, he would probably be more playful than work-oriented. They'd be great together, no?

UkVene - This ship is Veneziano with more than one of the four UK countries. Any combination.

Hongkong/Veneziano - Hongkong probably was just looking for something to do at a meeting until he noticed Vene being all forced smiles and shaky laugher. He'd likely set off fireworks just to fix that and then promptly get lost in the honest sparkle of happiness radiating from Vene. 😊

KimSta (South Korea/Veneziano) - Ship Name is a combination of the words: Kimchi and Pasta. South Korea would jump and claim certain parts, which Vene would laugh at and allow. South might likely take a while before admitting to any commitments, but once he sees how caring and positively fun Vene is, he might just settle down.😉

North Korea/Veneziano - Yeah. Imagine him just terrorizing all those who so much as pose a threat to Vene!😉😁 ([*muttering* I'd attempt to pull him out of isolation just for this]) He'd probably start their friendship just to annoy certain countries but Vene has a way of 'melting the ice', right? So, eventually, he starts to actually fall for the bubbly, cheery man.

PaShu (Japan/Veneziano) - Ship Name = Pasta + Shushi. Veneziano was Japan's first friend, even before America! They liked each other's culture and history even before officially meeting! (According to one episode, at least.) Not hard to imagine Japan protecting Vene, seeing as it does happen in the show.😉😉

Mentioned Asian Countries/Veneziano - More than one, that is. Any combination.

HamSta (America/Veneziano) - Ship Name = Hamburger + Pasta. America has a hero- complex, or at least something like it. It's actually not hard to picture him standing up against those belittling Vene. And when he feels like the pressure of being a World Power is crushing him, Vene would be there with smiles and pasta!

MapAsta (Canada/Veneziano) - Ship Name: Maple and Pasta. I imagine Canada as a sweet friend to Vene at first, gradually becoming more. They bond over not being listened to enough. Canada has a violent side, though, which comes up when friends and loved ones are threatened. Vene would always be there for Canada, seeing and hearing him regardless of the others' reactions, or lack thereof.

CanZiAme (Canada/Veneziano/America) - A sweet lover with a tendency to get be violently protective. A protective lover who loves to try out new things. An optimistic lover who is happy just being there for them emotionally and physically. Really. They're cute. 😚

Sonet (Austria/Veneziano) - Ship Name derived from my head Canon that Veneziano also loves music, like Austria. To be honest. I rarely think of them this way anymore, but I still find them cute and sweet together.

SwitZiano (Switzerland/Veneziano) - I like how I got this to have 'sweet' in it.😉😉 Switzerland had protected Vene as much as he could during the Italian Wars. I imagine he still has a soft spot for Vene, though rather pushed to the far corners of his mind. (A lot like his affections for Austria.) Vene might secretly miss the days when he and Switzerland would travel together.

PrussiAno (Prussia/Veneziano) - Ah, Prussia. A passionate man with a rather large protective streak focused on his brother and Vene. Truly, my head Canons are rearing their, well... Their heads... Anywho, Vene doesn't like the fact that Prussia gets sad, he also hates the possibility that either of them might leave the world at any time. Prussia does, as well. So they spend as much time together as possible.

Austria/Veneziano/Switzerland - Both of them are strict. Both have a strong sense of duty, due to the military style upbringing. Both, also, have a soft spot, though for different things. Vene is well aware of the soft spots and uses them to stop any conflict between the two. ((Also, he is more than happy to sleep between them to be sure they don't fight in their sleep.😂))

Austria/Veneziano/Prussia - One is strict. The other is adventurous. Both like music and art. Vene acts as a buffer in their squabbles and is happy that they at least tone down the shouting and cold shoulders.

RussiAno (Russia/Veneziano) - A cute pairing, I think. Russia wants friends but everyone just tries to avoid him. Vene finds out and tries to overcome his fear-filled thoughts about the large nation. They become friends, and more, and Vene swears the rest of the world don't know what they're missing due to fears. Russia is content with the development and is more than happy to show exactly how he feels when anyone doubts his feelings. (Pipe and chilling atmosphere, anyone?😉😉)

Poland/Veneziano - They started out as close friends, bonded over love for artistic pursuits, and before they knew it, they were in love. Of course, they don't talk about it for years, until others point it out and push them into tackling their feelings before they start experiencing any regrets.

Lithuania/Veneziano - Poland introduced them to each other and Poland pushed them together because they are both his best friends, first and foremost. So, if they light up like bulbs when they so much as hear of each other, well. Poland certainly won't be getting in the way.

Lithuania/Veneziano/Poland - Poland introduces them to each other and sees the happiness radiating from them when they're together. Poland knows that Lithuania still loves him. He knows that he at least cares for Vene. So, without any more hesitations, he does all he can so the three of them can be together. Vene is happy being with them and Lithuania is grateful for his two lovers.

Estonia/Veneziano - *shrugs* Seems like an interesting pair... (To me, at least...) Estonia might actually try to fight Russia for Vene's sake and Vene might try it, too. For Estonia's sake... Maybe?

NordIano - This is more than one Nordic country with Veneziano. Any combination.

DeNe (Denmark/Veneziano) - I imagine he would try convincing Vene to stay a bit at his place for winter. Then, he would use the cold as an excuse to cuddles and warm kisses.😘 Vene would probably try to show him the soft, pretty snowfalls in the Mediterranean, prompting even more cuddles and warm kisses.😊

SwedEziano (Sweden/Veneziano) - Sweden appreciates how Vene does not mind his silence. Vene likes how Sweden actually, truly, listens to him.

FinVene (Finland/Veneziano) - A cute pair, really. I can honestly see how Finland would show his more violent side in response to anyone who poses a threat to Vene. And I can see Vene being all subtle about keeping those like Russia away from Finland.

ZiaNor (Norway/Veneziano) - Norway would, maybe, appreciate Vene's sweet, happy gestures in public (brief touches and chaste kisses). He might also enjoy the cuddling they have in bed. Vene is right there whenever Norway gets bad days (like having Iceland ignore him). He does a lot to keep Norway happy and optimistic about his relationship with Iceland.

VenIce (Veneziano/Iceland) - Iceland has a bit of insecurity problems regarding Norway and the other Nordics. Vene helps him see he has nothing to worry about in regards to the Scandinavians. Vene Has self-esteem issues. Iceland does everything to help build up Vene's confidence. (I especially like how this ship spells the name of Italy's Floating City. 😉😍)

VeneRia (Bulgaria/Veneziano) - Bulgaria had been Vene's Ally since before the World Wars, although it was a decision he did not initially like. Vene is all smiles and positive opinions about Buglaria. Bulgaria, eventually, gets caught in the roller coaster of emotions and happiness that is Veneziano.

RomanIano (Romania/Veneziano) - He heard of Vene from Bulgaria and decided to meet the bubbly Italian. He is quickly taken by the warm smiles and positive outlook in life the other bestows upon everyone.

Romania/Veneziano/Bulgaria - Really. They would want to keep Vene safe and Vene would want to keep up the positive vibes around them.

England/Veneziano/Norway - I imagine England would focus on cursing those who speak badly about them. Norway would probably just get trolls to take care of any annoyance. Vene would just sigh and leave them be for a short while before ultimately coaxing them into a cuddle.

England/Veneziano/Romania - basically similar to the above Trio, actually. But Romania deals with problems using potions.

Romania/Veneziano/Norway - similar to the two above.

Magic Trio/Veneziano - Honestly, the three of them with Vene.

Greece/Veneziano - Lots of nap time with cats. Greece also finds it easy to replicate his mother's warrior side for Vene's sake. Vene, on the other hand, finds he can easily cheer up Greece.

OttoZia (Turkey/Veneziano) - started as a rivalry and turned into something else, entirely.

Greece/Veneziano/Turkey - Vene (again) acts as a buffer between his two lovers. They know he doesn't like fights so they do their best to get along.

Greece/Veneziano/Japan

Greece+Turkey+Japan/Veneziano

Egypt/Veneziano - I got this in my head cause of that one scene where Vene went to Egypt and he was caught.😉😊

Any of the aforementioned countries forming Vene's harem.

Last, certainly not the least: Top!Vene or Seme!Vene with any of these countries.

#hetalia #hetalia axis powers #aph north italy #aph veneziano #aph rare itaships #my aph itaships #list of ships

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regrettablewritings · 7 years ago

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Bruce Wayne x Reader Ship Meme

Author’s Note: Super big thanks to @twisteddamselartwork for her kindly donation for not one, but two ship memes!! Here’s the first one!! Be on the lookout for the bonus question that I got too carried away with and thus had to create an entirely separate post for 😘 Happy reading!!

who is more likely to hurt the other?: Bruce, without a doubt. Not physically, but emotionally. It isn’t even like he intends to, but Bruce is already an emotionally stoic man. Frankly, it’s a trait that’s only gotten worse with time, alongside his emotional welfare. During the events following the Kryptonian attack, he became hypervigilant and all the more bitter and suspicious towards people and less agreeable towards those who may hold a slightly more sympathetic view towards the Superman, so if you happened to be one of those people there was a decent chance that he might coldly insult you or scold you. Of course, being that you’re his significant other, he tries to be a bit more reasonable with you than he would with others but that doesn’t necessarily do much. Post-Doomsday Attack, however, as he works toward regaining his former principles, Bruce also is working toward controlling his temper far better. He owes you that much.

who is emotionally stronger?: You’d think it’d be Bruce, but it’s honestly most likely you. (For crying out loud, the man’s response to his parents getting gunned down in front of him was to put on a bat suit, play ninja, and beat the shit out of people who wear brazen makeup and ridiculous clothes!) All jokes aside, though, the circumstances surrounding Bruce’s emotional stability is complex. Because on one hand, the fact that he’s withstood all that he has and more without collapsing in the traditional sense is pretty astounding. But on the other, enduring all that he has at the frequency with which he has, coupled with his unhealthy coping mechanisms, makes for the chance of his emotional state being a true ticking time bomb. You may not be the scarily enduring soldier of sorts that Bruce has proven to be, but you’re at least more likely to confront and sort out your feelings.

who is physically stronger?: Oh, Bruce, without a shadow of a doubt. The man has been training for ages, pushing his body to its limits to assure himself as a commendable fighter for Gotham City. Even in his older age, he doesn’t show any sign of slowing down his intense regimens: He does chin-ups with heavy weights tied to his hips, he pulls bigass truck tires, he lifts dumbbells restrained by chains to produce resistance – his 6’3” ass had better be physically strong after all that!

who is more likely to break a bone?: Despite all of the coverage that armor gives him, Bruce always manages to find a way to get a broken finger, rib, toe, tailbone, etc.

who knows best what to say to upset the other?: As stated before, Bruce isn’t exactly the best when it comes to softness all the time. When he’s in business mode, he’s better at holding his tongue because it’s what the job demands. But a both good and bad thing about Bruce being able to be himself with you is just how easy it is for his more lax nature to let something slip out and frustrate you. That isn’t to say that you’re completely innocent, however: You can say some things that Bruce finds just as hurtful (i.e. that he’s being a complete asshole of a brute, that he’s being inconsiderate, nothing he’s doing is working, etc.)

who is most likely to apologize first after an argument?: Bruce is. Even though his image will always be associated with that of a playboy (it’s hard to scrub that image off even years after the fact), Bruce still knows the right and wrong ways to treat a lady, especially the one with whom he’s in a relationship. He can get fired up at you all he wants, but he’ll hear the voice of his father in his head scolding him for being “an uppity jackass” and begin to truly weigh in on just how unimportant the argument probably was in the grand scheme of things. After he’s taken some time to cool down and think up the right words, he’ll ask if you’ll listen and gently try and explain himself and ask for your forgiveness.

Of course . . . there are some arguments between the two of you that are, regardless of how minuscule in general, feel mighty big to you both. In which cases, apologizing becomes a lot more difficult to do, even with Bruce’s typical consideration for being the bigger man. The two of you can probably go for days just ignoring one another, with you tending to sleep at your old apartment or Bruce preferring to spend his nights in the Batcave or even patrolling way past his usual hours until the sun is coming up and you’re due to be on your way to work.

It’s moments like these that require a little “nudge.” That is, if Alfred threatening to strangle Bruce or drag him by the ear as though he were twelve again counts as a nudge. In which case, it’s still technically Bruce apologizing, but it was kick-started by Alfred getting irritated by watching the both of you silently squabble like children. He’s done his time raising wee ones: Unless you’re planning on bringing a Wayne heir into the mix, he’s not going to be dealing with two big children! He is firmly Done™.

who treats who’s wounds more often?: You barely do anything warranting wounds to begin with, so it’s easily you who treats Bruce’s wounds. Thankfully (though perhaps more worryingly), Bruce is so used to being busted up all over that he barely flinches through the entire ordeal, making him the perfect wound patient.

who is in constant need of comfort?: Don’t be fooled by his cold, independent exterior: Bruce is in desperate need of comfort, far more than he would ever readily let in on. He needs it on all three levels: Physical, mental, and emotional. While Bruce isn’t what many would consider touch-starved (after all, all those women who came before you sure were rather handsy with him), he’s been starved of touches that communicate genuine affection; an intimacy no one-night stand or even year-long fling could conjure up to the fullest extent that you can. Mentally, Bruce is canonically described as “morally bankrupt” – and who could blame him!? He’s been at this essentially thankless job for decades, becoming more and more exhausted to the point of cutting corners to assure that the people he puts away stay away (or, in the cases of those branded, down). With the things he’s seen and done, the things he must live with the consequences of, it’s a surprise Bruce hasn’t had a complete mental breakdown at this point and forced himself to check into a rehabilitation center to calm down.

Linking with these things are his emotions: Bruce has trained himself to be a stoic of sorts, and isn’t too great at expressing emotions beyond collectiveness and anger. As a result, he tends to bottle up a lot of his real thoughts and feelings and it’s sort of corroded him from the inside out along with the passage of time. He desperately craves constant relief in the form of gentle touches or speaking his own truth to the fullest extent that he can. And you would gladly help him with those things – if only he would just admit to it more often.

who gets more jealous?: Honestly, the both of you tend to display traces of jealousy. Even though Bruce has put his playboy days behind him, labels are sticky and therefore are difficult to shake loose. As a result, some women still haven’t quite gotten the picture that he’s perfectly happy in a committed relationship with you. And honestly, you try to remember that last part. You really do. But when you accompany Bruce to a gala and see those socialites gathering around him, smiling with those pearly whites and fluttering their mascara-caked lashes as they press their breasts against his arm in ways so obvious that a person on the other side of the room could feel them . . . you just can’t help it! Thankfully, Bruce is pretty good at reading you and can essentially sense your frustration. He has no qualms with calmly excusing himself from the women’s presence to take you elsewhere.

This calm and collected appearance also accompanies Bruce when he’s the one experiencing jealousy, though it’s far less amicable. Unless you were originally a part of Gotham’s elite, it’s very unlikely that you’re familiar with these sorts of events. This sort of innocence coupled with how dolled up you look tends to make you catch the eyes of sleazy attendants whom Bruce is all too willing to keep you out of reach of. Unfortunately, with the crowds and people constantly stopping Bruce or pulling him to the side to talk or be interviewed or establish a business connection, it would only been a matter of time before the two of you became separated. Almost immediately, like piranhas to an unsuspecting animal, the previously mentioned sleazeballs would approach you, offering you drinks, eyeballing you as one eyeballs a tender porterhouse steak.

Thankfully, this predicament doesn’t last long – the shadow of your towering boyfriend is cast upon them, brightened by the glint of his smile (which you almost swear has a sort of menacing hint to it). Once the pests bug off, Bruce takes extra care to assure that you don’t venture too far away from where he can see you and make sure that you aren’t getting harassed.

The truth of the matter is that while many may consider Bruce to be a catch, he places your value above his own. He’s grown too accustomed to your presence to suddenly be without it. And even though he knows you’d never go for any one of these creepy, arrogant asshats, some part of him still fears the possibility of you somehow uncovering somebody better than him. Which brings us to . . .

who’s most likely to walk out on the other?: All things considered, you. Bruce is a difficult man to be with, even without taking his moonlighting job into account. On his own, he’s an often aloof, very busy man who’s developed a bit of a drinking problem over the years. But then you add in the fact that he’s the Bat of Gotham and everything gets a lot more complex: The long hours, constantly keeping secrets “for your safety”, the fact that your life is now even more in danger than what it already was by just being with a billionaire . . . It could be overwhelming for anybody. Dating a vigilante, no matter their abilities or resources, is not for everybody. And the sad truth is that if it ever gets to a certain point, it may prove not to be for you.

who will propose?: Bruce does. Honestly, deep down he sort of wishes you would, but he also understands that he doesn’t exactly communicate “I want to genuinely settle down with somebody and I want that somebody to be you”, what with his philanderer past still wisping about on his association (plus, being a vigilante who honestly can die at any moment does little for your confidence in his desire to wed). However, you’d be surprised to find that marriage is something Bruce has thought about more than you assumed. Certainly, the two of you had discussed it before, but never to the extent that Bruce implies he’s been thinking on it for.

He wants to connect your name with his, to show the world who he’s with and vice-versa, but on a level that states commitment more than moving out to his place in the middle of nowhere could. On top of this, from a slightly more business standpoint, Bruce just wants to make sure that you’re taken care of in the event of his death. As soon as the events involving Steppenwolf have been settled, he wastes no time getting ready to pop the question. The only thing stopping him from marching right up to you, still damp from the much-needed shower, and bluntly going, “Marry me? I nearly died today and maybe it’s the adrenaline still in my system but I just really think now’s the time to tie this down” is that Alfred dragged him to the side for a talking to. (Though, if such a brusque proposal is more your bag, you can fuss at Alfred’s sabotage later.)

What he winds up going for is renting one of the finest restaurants on this side of the Gotham-Metropolis Bay just for the two of you. If we’re being perfectly frank here, a man with Bruce’s financial status could easily afford to do a lot more for his proposal. Sometimes showy like establishing an entire festival in your honor. But he doesn’t: He just wants to keep it as simple as possible, as intimate as he can. Besides, he’s honestly still a little sore from Russia; he can’t have the paparazzi or other prying eyes looking in on such a life-changing moment, now can he? You initially think that maybe this is a celebratory dinner, considering the mission was a success and he didn’t die. However, this makes you wonder why he’s not spending it with the newly found group; after all, all you were able to do was assist in the Batcave here and there, pose as a superior-than-Bruce host. Little things. So why was he spending this with you – Oh.

As Bruce lowered himself down to one knee before you, you finally understood why the only person he wanted to be with after the incident was you.

You’re not sure how the news was able to spread to fast (maybe somebody Snapchatted from the kitchen), but you frankly didn’t care. Not when a small group of cameramen and women gathered outside of the eatery and began barking questions at the two of you, not when the engagement was suggested as a rumor by that evening’s late-night talk show, not when your coworkers gathered around you asking if it was true the next time you came into work.

All you needed to show was the ring on your finger. Martha Wayne’s ring had been mangled in the heat of the fire that consumed Wayne Manor, but Bruce couldn’t bring himself to part with it. But luckily, by combining it with a newer metal and placing the newly conceived ring on the finger of his fiancée, it appeared he’d never have to part with neither the heirloom or you.

who has the most difficult parents?: Yikes.

who initiates hand-holding when they’re out in public?: You do. Bruce doesn’t mind light PDA, he just doesn’t really initiate it unless it’s at a gala (“Gotta feed the damn paparazzi,” he mutters, though he won’t deny enjoying the contact with you). You like holding his big, calloused hand. It makes you feel nice and safe.

who hogs the blankets?: You do. Bruce is a big, walking bag of heat and often sleeps in next to nothing – a ballsy move for somebody living in a house that’s 98% glass. As such, the covers are typically all yours, something which you take full advantage of.

who gets more sad?: Both of you do, but it’s easier to tell with you. You haven’t trained yourself to express an air of calm the way Bruce has; even when you try to hide the feelings of dread and worry that you bottle up every time Bruce goes out on patrols, or displays mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion, the man can tell that they’re there. But Bruce is the one actually enduring these things, and he’s been going through them for a long, long while. By the time of the events surrounding his battle with Superman, Bruce was essentially depressed at the notion that all of his work towards a better, brighter future had been for naught. However, he doesn’t translate his sadness very well; usually it comes out in the form of aggression, the most of which he takes out on perpetrators.

who is better at cheering the other up?: It’s kind of weird between the two of you but to anyone who knows Bruce, they would be able to tell that you make him feel a whole lot better than what he normally would be. He doesn’t smile a whole lot for one reason or another, but sometimes just hearing you talk about your day as though you belong to a normal relationship, or seeing you wiggle around in one of his button downs (of which you drown in) is enough to crack a smirk out of him. And let’s be real: A smirk to Bruce is like a huge grin on regular people.

who’s the one that playfully slaps the other all the time after they make silly jokes?: You don’t really slap him when he makes a joke, either because Bruce’s joke are silly but in a different way or just because it’s not really in your nature to. You prefer to squeeze his arm instead.

who is more streetwise?: Bruce. Don’t let his status as the Prince of Gotham fool you – this man has had to learn all that he could about seedy urban underbellies. The man attends underground fight rings for God’s sake!

who is more wise?: You are, at least in the way that you take more time to consider all the options or potential circumstances. Bruce is mighty gung-ho for a man his age.

who’s the shyest?: Definitely you! It was a wonder you were even able to talk when you first met Bruce. You’ve gotten a bit better, but you still have a slight tendency to cling close or even try to hide behind him whenever he’s approached by other high society figures. He doesn’t mind it much and actually finds it quite cute. He just worries that this will make you even more easy to be taken advantage of.

who boasts about the other more?: Bruce does, though not often. It’s not that he isn’t proud of you (far from it; the man simply adores you), it’s just that he prefers to keep his private life exactly that: Private. This may be ironic considering that the man has a history for flaunting himself and that his decision to reconstruct a home resulted in a house made out of glass but remember: That glass house is in the woods, way out of city limits. Even when being showy, there’s an air of limitation to how much people get. Plus, it’s not as though there are many opportunities for Bruce to bring you up within reasonable conversation: The League keeps in contact regularly (in fact, Arthur seems to prefer communicating with you than with Bruce, much to the latter’s ire), leaving no real reason for him to bring you up to them. And Alfred already sees you as his daughter-in-law before marriage is even considered as a possibility; in short, he doesn’t need Bruce to boast about you, he’s practically trying to sell you to Bruce as a worthy mate.

At most, this sort of situation will likely pop up during conferences or when Bruce is meeting with CEOs from other companies looking to partner up with Wayne Enterprises. Maybe during lunch or dinner, some of the honchos will talk about their women at home, maybe jab a joke or two at her expense. But when Bruce is asked about you, he keeps it brief but makes it very clear that he has no intention of making jokes about you. How could he when he finds that there’s so much more to crow about? He’s got a devoted woman who loves him for him, who makes him smile, who makes coming home a lot easier and life less lonely.

“Plus, I’m pretty sure she could cook a better blackened catfish than this,” he chews thoughtfully before popping another piece into his mouth. And that was the end of that. If he had less control over himself, he just might’ve gone on a bit more about you, but frankly he wants to be out of this thing and back home to you as soon as possible.

who sits on who’s lap?: Bruce is a 6’3” pile of muscle and meat: I sincerely hope you don’t plan on having this man basically terminate you lap by sitting on it. But in all seriousness, this man loves having you sit on his lap, especially after a long day at work when he can just wind down and breathe for a little while. (Plus, on a naughtier note, it really plays into his daddy kink if the mood is just right.)

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader headcanons #bruce wayne headcanons #batman x reader #batman imagine #batman x reader headcanons #regrettablewritings #ship meme #dceu imagines #dceu imagine #bruce wayne imagines #batman imagines #bvs imagine #bvs imagines #justice league imagine #justice league imagines #character hc meme

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deathnoting · 7 years ago

Note

i'm new to the death note fandom, and everyone seems to have vastly varying interpretations of L's character do you mind talking a bit about how you interpret him?

hi anon! first of all: welcome to the fandom! we’re not dead but we’re close enough that you could bury us by mistake. always good to have new people. :-) as for your question…. *cracks knuckles* i’m so glad you asked.

thinking about it, i guess i interpret/have interpreted L in a lot of different ways since i first got into death note. of all the main dn characters, he invites the widest range of interpretations. not only did ohba state that much (most?) of what L says is a lie, L also refers to himself as a liar on at least one canon occasion. add to that the variation in his characterization between the early manga chapters (scenes where he is alone) and the later ones (scenes where he is around other characters), the ryuzaki alias and mannerisms being used by b in labb in such a way that calls into question their origin and authenticity, and the general tilt of facetiousness to most of his dialogue (depending on who’s playing him. alessendro juliani’s L constantly talks like he is lowkey making fun of everyone), and it’s no big mystery why there’s so many fanon versions of him. he’s a character that’s enigmatic enough to generate questions in and of himself, and when you give the fandom a decade to stew over those questions, this is what happens.

(small aside: this is one of the things i absolutely love about fandom. the way that one work can spawn so many works, and one character can spawn so many permutations. as someone who spends a lot of time creating and developing characters on my own, it’s humbling and amazing to see characterizations crowd-sourced over such a long period of time from people all over the world. that doesn’t just go for L, but for all of my favorite characters who have enjoyed long and complex fanon careers. i’m looking at you, Every Harry Potter Character.)

as for my personal interpretation of L? if you’re looking for the cliff’s notes, it can be summed up pretty well by this post.

the full earful is:

since i’ve ever been in the fandom (say 2013 ish?), L’s characterization has been a hot topic. this was discourse before it was even called discourse. (rip “fandom wank”.) there was a good portion of people who were big fans of L, saw him as the “good” character to light’s “bad,” and just wanted to fantasize about their anime husbando in peace, goddammit. the backlash to that was the establishment of a long and enduring tradition of posts pointing out all of L’s morally dodgy actions, and tagging pictures of him with #garbage man or something along those lines. that was definitely an aspect of my brand when i was a popular blog. “this is my favorite character in the series and how dare you say that he is a good person!!!!” at the time i was very into squabbling over anime character interpretations. idk what ya’ll were/are doing in your teens, but that’s what i did.

at this point? i see it like this: in the canon, there’s a sharp disconnect between L’s quirky, pun-making, donut-scarfing, face-pulling personality and the insidiousness of his tactics. you can only really read his disregard for the law and for conventional human decency as harmless if you assume he is stupid, and since the very basis of the plot rests on the viewer accepting his (and light’s) genius, then that means he is smart enough to know exactly what he is doing and in what ways it is wrong, and doing it anyway because he believes that it’s necessary to achieve his ends. what’s cool about this is that ohba doesn’t insist on this perception. it isn’t hammered into the bones of the story the way that light’s hypocrisy is (probably because it was more incidental than not) but it is very much there in between the lines: L is not a better person than light, just more subtle.

something that i have always really liked about death note as a piece of media is that, although it is a heavy-handed, cartoonish (literally, yes, but also thematically) shonen jump series where all the characters are caricatures, it occupies this weird space of bleak realism that fits so strangely within its genre that it is almost like the whole world of the story is being pulled in two totally opposite and incompatible directions. light’s bond-villian-esque tirades are bordered by panels of disturbing domestic emptiness. L’s helicopter-flying, ice cream guzzling world’s greatest detective (like, honestly, how is that a real title that exists and is known and cared about by the public?) schtick overlays scenes of him holding suspects for fifty days, limbs bound, without trial. there’s a morbidity to all the fun in death note and i think one of the reasons L is so popular, and so polarizing, is because he holds those two aspects pretty well in balance. after his death, light’s desolateness is the only thing left standing. (i’m not saying mello and near aren’t fun, but i’d argue that their isolation from each other makes it so their morbidity outweighs the level of fun they can produce.)

if you skew a lot closer to the more sober and realistic aspects of death note and further from the hijinks of its genre, that’s where my interpretation of L sits. i think, if this person actually existed, what would he be like? probably unhealthy, both physically and emotionally, but high functioning. desensitized by over-exposure to disturbing stimuli. prone to exaggerating his natural eccentricities in order to throw people off. egotistical, but also preoccupied with things that have the potential to prove him wrong. enamored by the mysterious. terrified of death. disfigured by physically damaging habits but too set in them to want to change. do i see him as a bad person? well, it’s next to impossible to wield that amount of power and not be. L’s power is integral to his character. if he had no money, no handler, no international reputation, or ability to construct a building a moment’s notice, or helicopter, or sway with which to bypass a police protocol—well, then it wouldn’t matter what his ethical philosophy was. (which, the canon suggests, pretty much boils down to: “L always gets his man” *finger gun* *wink*). just like light’s self-aggrandizing idealism would be more or less harmless without the death note, L’s identity is inextricable from his role as the world’s greatest (three) detective(s). without those larger than life roles, light is just the pretentious kid going off in your intro to ethics class and L is just the harried professor pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering how academically scrupulous it is to tell him to shut up. (and yes, please, someone write that au.)

that’s just my canon analysis, though. i think, especially for new death note fans, coming straight from the source material into the world of totally wacky and incongruent fanon ideas and characterizations can be very disorienting. if you want to know all my self indulgent characterizations that i assign to L just because i like them and not because i have any good reason to, that’s a whole separate post. (hint: they involve a victorian gothic childhood and an interest in power-bottoming for the people whose paychecks he signs/prison cells he holds the keys to.)

sorry to go off, anon! i’m not even sure i fully answered your question but hopefully this provided a little clarity as to why this fandom is in disparate characterization shambles.

actually i think it would be cool to hear from a lot of people about their L interpretation. if you asked this q to multiple people, anon, you should amass the highlights into a mega-post of crowd-sourced L characterization or something.

#death note #l lawliet #jaye writes meta #catch me fucking critically examining death note as a piece of media in 2017 #ok not that critically #but still yeah i still have a feeling or 80 about all thus shit #sorry to go so funking off course. like. really if you want an a straight answer just read the post i linked #actually i think beyond or matt would be the best candidate for a crowd source characterization post but i digress #Anonymous #asks

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asktheseawitch · 7 years ago

Note

Headcanon: Whitebeard

Weird Head-canons Meme: Open

@my-muses-in-opGive me a character and I’ll tell you my headcanon for: Whitebeard

What they smell like: Brisk. It must be the herbal blend he washes with. It’s pleasant and drowns out the scent of sterilized surfaces and potent medications. How they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): The captain sleeps mostly vertical, such as in a chair. It helps prevent excessive drainage into the lungs plus it troubles him less when Marcel comes with his early morning medication. Schedule wise, he does ok for the first couple hours but struggles until the next dosage of medication (that he’ll argue about taking anyways). For the rest of the day he catnaps when time allows. What music they enjoy: Depends on his mood, probably something light and in the background. Though, he won’t deny that he gets a kick over cheery music that gets his boys up and dancing. How much time they spend getting ready every morning: Longer than he would prefer, with how much Marcel and him squabble (it’s a good thing Marcel too is a big man), but he passes the time by taking briefing from Marco as Marcel does his thing. Their favorite thing to collect: Family Members, apparentlyLeft or right-handed: We’ve seen him be right handed but I get the feeling he’s actually a bit ambidextrous. Religion (if any): Not necessarily in a “higher power” but most certainly he believes in the freedom that the sea brings to men Favorite sport: When he was a bit more spry, wrestling. There was only a handful of times in his entire life he lost. Favorite touristy thing to do when traveling (museums, local food, sightseeing, etc): Certainly trying the local specialties (Food, alcohol, festivals) Favorite kind of weather: Sunny but with some sparse clouds A weird/obscure fear they have: Falling. Not from tall heights but just in general. It would never harm him (physically but he’s be embarrassed) but, with his size, he could easily hurt a child of his. Especially as he grew older, he was extra cautious of where he stepped. The carnival/arcade game they always win without fail: Do I really need to say it? (Any “Test Your Strength” game)

#weird headcanon meme #Ft.Whitebeard

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what-happened-to-agent-georgia · 7 years ago

Text

Training Exercise

I got to work with the amazing @tackytacs for the Reverse Big Bang! The art for the fic is here, and it's fantastic! Fic also on Ao3.

Pairings: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons

Warnings: Canon-typical language/violence

Summary: Frustrated by Grif's penchant for hiding in closets and napping during training, Simmons decides to up the ante to motivate Grif to take a more active leadership role. As the saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures. And explosives.

Trying to get the New Republic soldiers and the Feds to get along is like locking a cat and a dog in a windowless room and telling them to ‘play nice’.

Simmons feels like the dumbass who locked them in there.

“You’re supposed to hit the cone, Willems,” Alvarez snorts from where she’s standing on the edge of the makeshift firing range Simmons set up for joint target practice. She’s New Republic, from Simmons’s original team. Crossing her arms, she adds, “No wonder you guys didn’t win the war.”

“No one won the war, idiot.” Willems lowers their gun to glare at Alvarez. “We made a truce.”

“Only because one of our captains revealed Felix’s evil plot.”

“Well, who were the ones dumb enough to trust Felix in the first place?” Willems retorts.

Excuse me?” Alvarez raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t see you lot figuring out Locus was in on it anytime this century.”

Simmons sighs.

Willems versus Alvarez, Volleyball versus Persaud—someone’s always bickering. And it’s always the same argument: Who started it, who finished it, who was smart, who was dumb. Simmons almost misses how it was before Tucker and Epsilon broadcast Felix’s creepy monologue, ending a bloody civil war that had decimated the planets population and infrastructure.

Simpler times, he thinks. When they all thought we were cool and everyone got along.

Simmons is all for everyone, you know, not killing each other, and of course he’s glad the civil war has ended…

—But it was a lot easier to get his squad to listen to him (on the occasions he actually managed to string a sentence together) when it was only composed of News. Now he’s breaking up petty squabbles between old enemies on a daily basis. And this is on top of training a group of young people who, while sworn to kicking Felix and Locus’s asses, would rather be sleeping this early in the morning.

Speaking of sleeping.

Simmons tunes out Willems’s shrieking and Alvarez’s indignant squawking to glance around the training hall.

Agent Washington, Tucker, and Caboose are busy training their own troops. Washington seems to be in charge, but now and then Tucker doles out some wisdom of his own.

Caboose isn’t really participating in giving orders, but he is running with the troops, outdoing them in every single drill and having the time of his life.

Carolina is busy at the punching bag. Simmons is surprised to see her here so early—she usually debriefs with Doyle and Kimball at this time. Then again, the trio’s meeting ended in heated words yesterday—anyone within a hundred yards could hear them. So maybe they’re taking a much needed break.

Sarge is absent from the training hall, but that’s normal. Being the leader of Red Team, he has more important duties than training a bunch of kids to fight off a band of highly skilled mercenaries. He’s probably in the armory with Lopez, polishing his shotgun and working on the blueprints for his latest master plan.

Simmons moves on to Gold—Orange?—Team.

Matthews is doing his best to break up a fist fight between a New and a Fed, though he looks more terrified than intimidating. Bitters is pretending to do pushups, and the rest of Gold Team is either doing half-hearted calisthenics or just standing around talking.

Fighting and low motivation aside, all members of Gold Team appear to be accounted for.

All but one, that is.

Simmons narrows his eyes.

Grif is nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, Grif is hunkering down in one of the New Republic’s many supply closets. Honestly, it’s like this base was made for avoiding responsibility. And naps. Nestling between a stack of towels and a rack of cleaning supplies, he pulls of his helmet and sighs as cool air hits his face. The power suits are a fucking nightmare, and the less time he has to spend wearing his the better. It’s bullshit the troops he’s (not) training don’t have to wear theirs for the first half of the day. He’s captain, he should get to wear whatever he wants!

Grif wishes he could get away with going into battle without his armor. They do it in the movies and stuff all the time. He could totally pull it off!

But this isn’t the movies, and he would have to have a death wish to fling himself head on into battle without armor. Sometimes, Grif thinks he has a death wish for getting involved in this civil war-turned-war-for-survival at all, but what did he expect? He’s always getting dragged into these things.

Anyway, hot and heavy it may be, the power suit is orange. When people here see orange, they don’t think of pumpkins and certain citrus fruits. No, when they see orange, they think Grif. And if he doesn’t have the orange armor, how will people know he’s Grif?

Without his orange armor, he’s just… some guy without armor.

“Dude,” Grif whispers to himself.

Grif wishes Simmons was here. He’s usually the person Grif dumps all his existential crises on.

Then again, if Simmons was here, he’d probably be yelling at him to get off his ass and do work and train his squad and all that jazz. Which is why he’s hiding in an obscure supply closet in a remote corner of the base.

It’s much easier to pretend it’s because he’s lazy. Grif is the Lazy One™, always willing to go the extra mile to put as little effort into something as possible. Ask anyone.

But if Grif’s being honest—and he likes to think he’s a pretty honest guy—he wants nothing to do with being a captain. That’s a lot of responsibility. He’s not talking about the paperwork or extra cleaning duties or whatever, either. He’s great at delegating, so the odds of him doing those extra things are slim to none.

No, the thing is, when you’re a leader, you’re responsible for lives. Lots of lives. Oodles and oodles of lives. And Grif doesn’t have a great track record for protecting people.

Look where trusting him got his allies in the Great War, or Kai, alone and probably dead in an abandoned base in the middle of the galaxy?

Grif shakes his head.

Leave the leading to the real leaders, like Kimball and Carolina, or Wash and Tucker. They know what they’re doing.

“Goddammit,” Grif mumbles. He came here to get away from life, not think about it.

Grif tugs his gloves off and tosses them aside. Turning toward the rack of cleaning supplies, he reaches underneath the bottom shelf. He feels around the cold cement floor until he hears the telltale crinkle of plastic as his fingers brush against something.

“Ah ha!” Grif cheers, grabbing the candy bar he squirreled away a few supply runs ago and pulling it out from beneath the shelf.

Grif rips open the candy bar and bites off a chunk.

As he eats, he takes in the fine layer of dust on everything, inhales the musty smell of neglect that’s the same no matter what planet you’re on. No one’s used this closet in ages.

I could chill here for hours and no one would ever know where to find me. Everyone would give up before they got this far, Grif thinks with a grin.

Then he frowns.

Well, there was one person who wouldn’t give up looking, even if his life depended on it. Only one person dedicated enough to search every storage closet on the entire fucking plan—

The door to the supply closet bangs open, and several towels topple off the stack and land on top of Grif.

“Grif!”

Speak of the fucking devil.

“Simmons!” Grif shouts back. He grabs a towel and chucks it at the maroon soldier, who tries to bat it away and misses. The towel slaps against his visor.

Flustered, Simmons crosses his arms in a vain attempt to establish some sort of authority. Then realizes the towel is still hanging from his helmet.

“What are you doing here?” Simmons snaps, yanking the towel off.

“I think we both know what I’m doing here, Simmons,” Grif says, popping the last piece of his candy bar into his mouth. “The real question is, why are you here?”

“What?” Simmons throws his hands into the air. “Obviously, I’m here looking for you, dumbass!”

“Ya know, the thing about hiding, Simmons,” Grif says, crumpling up his candy wrapper, “is that people usually do it because they don’t wanna be found.”

“Unless it is hide and seek,” a familiar voice chimes in.

“Fuck!” Simmons yells, jumping a good foot into the air.

Grif sighs. He knows that voice, and he knows it means he can never use this place as a hiding spot ever again.

Simmons whirls around, nearly colliding with the hulking blue mass standing in the doorway.

“Caboose! Aren’t you supposed to be in the training hall?” Simmons asks. “With Agent Washington and, uh, Tucker, or something?”

“I want to play hide and seek instead,” Caboose says with a shrug. “It sounds more fun.”

Grif rises to his feet, letting out a groan as he leans down to scoop up his gloves and helmet. He lowers his helmet onto his head and fastens it into place. Back to feeling like he’s trapped in a sauna.

“No one’s playing hide and seek, Caboose,” Grif says.

“Then what are you doing in the closet?” Caboose asks.

“It’s a mystery,” Grif sighs.

“The only mystery is—agh!” Simmons yelps as Grif about knocks him over clambering out of the closet.

“C’mon, Simmons,” Grif says, lumbering off down the hall. “What would Sarge say if he saw you slacking off? For shame, Simmons, for shame.”

“Grif, you—”

“Mmmute,” Grif sings as he cuts off radio communication with Simmons.

Relishing the silence, Grif makes his way to the training hall, where the soldiers—aka, the lives he happens to be responsible for—are waiting for him.

He wonders how long he could get away with making his troops run laps while he naps standing up.

Simmons watches Grif saunter off down the hall. Once again, he’s managed to slack off, turn Simmons into a bumbling mess, and then somehow walk away with Simmons feeling like the guilty party, unsure of who started the argument in the first place.

“Yeah, soooo if we’re not playing hide and seek, I’m going to go now,” Caboose declares, and sprints away down the hall after Grif.

Simmons knows he should follow them, but he notices the state Grif the supply closet in and grimaces. He could just leave it. He could. In theory.

Will he leave it, though?

“Goddammit,” Simmons mumbles.

And, not for the first time (and certainly not the last, he knows), Simmons sets himself to cleaning up someone else’s mess.

Once he’s finished organizing the cleaning supplies, folding the towels, and stacking them neatly on top of one another, Simmons trudges off down the hall. Grif and Caboose are probably back at the training hall already—unless Grif took off for yet another of his seemingly infinite hiding places.

Simmons hopes his squad is done bickering and have gone back to the drills he gave them. He feels a sudden pang of guilt for leaving Jensen alone with them all, seeing as he just chewed Grif out. Then again, Grif left Bitters in charge of Gold Team. At least Jensen wouldn’t sprawl out on the floor and try to pass it off as doing crunches.

Simmons shakes his head.

At least he had a reason for leaving his troops alone. A good reason, that is. It’s not like he was even gone that long anyway.

Reaching the door to the training hall, Simmons prepares for whatever awaits him inside. Then he punches the “Open” button and marches in to find—

“Simmons!”

Sarge stands in the door, shotgun aimed right at Simmons face, and for the second time today, Simmons about jumps out of his armor.

Without waiting for Simmons to compose himself, Sarge takes a step closer.

“Why’re you late, Simmons?” he barks. “Never pegged you for a slacker!”

“No, sir, you don’t understand!” Simmons protests. “I was out looking for Grif, he’s—”

“Been here this whole time!” Sarge cuts him off. He gestures off to the right with his shotgun, where Grif is busy pointing at some obscure object in the corner of the room while ordering his squad to run towards it while carrying weights and even a couple punching bags. Simmons has no idea what the purpose of this exercise is, except perhaps endurance for the troops and amusement for Grif.

With a sigh, Simmons turns to face Sarge once more.

“But, sir—”

“But nothin’! I can’t believe you are being lazier than Grif!” Sarge cries. “Breaks m’ heart to see you go downhill like this, Simmons!”

Simmons opens his mouth to argue but decides his energy will be better served elsewhere.

“Sorry, sir,” he grumbles.

“I should say so!” Sarge harrumphs. He gives Simmons a curt nod before marching out of the training hall. Off to bigger and better things, Simmons supposes. Like creating killer robots.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simmons sees Grif looking at him. He can’t see his face through the visor, but he can bet Grif’s got that grin, that fucking grin that says I win.

Maybe this round. Simmons scowls, hoping Grif can feel his annoyance and anger. The orange sim trooper just shrugs and, now that Sarge is no longer present, plops down onto the floor with his arms folded behind his head.

Simmons stomps over to his own squad, where Alvarez has successfully pinned Willems to the mat while the other troops egg them on.

He’ll deal with Grif later.

Grif knows Simmons is pissed.

Simmons has his hands full taking care of his own squad. Alvarez and Willems have been at each other’s throats for days, not to mention Volleyball refusing to talk to any of the Feds for two days. Grif didn’t think she’d ever come around, but somehow Simmons and Jensen managed to talk her down.

That being said, no one asked Simmons to go looking for Grif. Simmons made that choice all by himself.

Grif watches as Simmons and Volleyball yank Alvarez and Willems apart. Willems continues swinging their arms, almost taking Volleyball out in the process.

At least Grif’s team is as lazy as he is.

Well, some of his team is lazy. He should just have Matthews take over, much as it would pain him to have two Simmonses in charge.

He watches as Orange Team does its own thing, with more and more troops wandering off to work with Wash or to see what Matthews’s group is up to.

Good. Maybe, by the end of the day, everyone will leave Orange Team for bigger and better things. Grif wouldn’t blame them. He’s not much of a leader.

The idea hits him the next morning while he’s brushing his teeth. Simmons freezes mid-brush and almost chokes on his excitement.

A training exercise.

He knows Grif is a good soldier. Hell, he’s a great one, no matter what Sarge says.

Grif might not take training—or most other things—seriously, but he does do well under pressure.

Grif is the only person he knows that can drive a Warthog through a metal wall, fight a Freelancer—and win. And when they all went after the Meta, Grif was able to keep a smoking ship airborne long enough to make it in time to rescue Doc and… well, not Church, but in an odd turn of events, they did rescue Agent Washington.

And Grif actually charged the Meta, leapt onto their back to distract them. Maybe not the best strategy, in retrospect, but Grif hadn’t hesitated at all.

Simmons feels a surge of pride for his teammate.

Spitting toothpaste into the sink, Simmons rinses his toothbrush as he begins to form a plan.

So. What if Simmons took a training exercise and upped the stakes?

The only problem is, Simmons isn’t exactly sure how to go about doing that. Especially without killing someone. That’s definitely something to avoid.

Suddenly, he remembers Tucker telling them about the training exercise Agent Washington put together for the blues at Crash Site Bravo.

Simmons washes his face and hurries to put on his power armor, so he can make it to breakfast before Grif gets there.

Arriving in the mess hall, he makes a beeline to the table Tucker, Caboose, Donut, and Agent Washington are all sitting. Then he screeches to a halt—should probably get food first. Less suspicious.

Simmons whirls round on his heel and merges into the crowd headed for the breakfast line. He barely pays attention as the kitchen staff hand him a tray, almost dropping the gray sludge—uh, oatmeal—dehydrated fruit, and crappy instant coffee in his haste to get through the line.

Biting his lip, he shakes his head. Keep it together, Simmons. Nearly knocking over several people and their trays, he makes his way to his friends’ table.

Simmons aims for a casual entrance but in his enthusiasm ends up slamming his tray down so hard the entire table looks up.

Smooth.

“Whoa, watch it!” Tucker says, scooting away from Simmons as a bit of coffee sloshes onto the table.

“Uh, sorry,” Simmons says, reaching up to remove his helmet as he slides into his seat beside the aqua—teal? Simmons can never decide—soldier.

Natural. Be natural. Simmons thinks. He swings his arm down to set his helmet on the table. There’s a smack as he collides with Tucker’s shoulder and then Tucker’s helmet, sending flying off the table and skidding across the floor.

“Dude, what the hell?” Tucker complains, rubbing his arm. He starts to stand up but Simmons beats him to it, almost tripping over his seat as he scrambles to retrieve the runaway helmet.

“Shit, sorry!” Simmons apologizes again, handing Tucker his helmet.

Tucker snatches it from Simmons’s hand, grumbles something under his breath, and goes back to eating.

Pushing his tray aside, Simmons leans in towards Agent Washington, who’s sitting across from Tucker.

Simmons clears his throat. “So, uh, how’s it… how’s it going?” he asks.

Agent Washington, coffee in hand, stops mid-sip and raises an eyebrow. He sets the cup down. Glances around, looking for who Simmons is talking to. When he realizes Simmons is talking to him, he says, “It’s… going well, I guess?”

“That’s good!” Simmons says, a bit too cheerily. Dial it back, Rich. He clears his throat again. “Hey, question for you?”

The agent eyes him.

“…Yes?” he asks, cautious.

“Um, yeah, what kind of, uh, training exercises did you have back, you know, in your old Freelancer days?” Simmons asks.

The table goes dead silent and all eyes lock on Simmons. Except for Tucker, who’s too busy choking on his oatmeal. Donut pounds on Tucker’s back. When the teal soldier finally catches his breath, his head swings up to ogle Simmons and he mouths, Dude, what the fuck?

Agent Washington’s eyes widen and he blinks a few times like he’s rewinding the question in his head before furrowing his brow. His eyes narrow.

Simmons regrets his life.

“You know,” Simmons squeaks, “I just remembered I left my, uh, my—thing for—it’s just back in—my room, so—Bye!”

Simmons grabs his helmet, jumps up from the table and sprints out of the mess hall.

New rule: Never use the Project F-word in front of Agent Washington and Carolina.

“Idiot,” he curses himself as he speed-walks down the hall.

He’ll have to settle for plan B, then. The armory. Sarge has plenty of… supplies there.

Simmons takes a sharp left and almost crashes head on into Grif.

“Jesus, Simmons!” Grif hisses, leaping out of the way and grabbing Simmons by the arm before the maroon soldier can topple over.

Simmons shrugs Grif’s hand off. “Watch where you’re going!” Simmons snaps.

“Okay, you were the one running around like a headless chicken, no me,” Grif grumbles. He sounds hurt, and Simmons feels a pang of guilt. But he shoves the feeling aside. He’s on a mission.

Simmons huffs and is about to stalk off when he remembers a key detail of said mission.

“Oh! Grif! I wanted to talk to you!”

Grif raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Let’s, uh, let’s train together today,” Simmons says. “You know, Gold Team and Maroon Team?”

“Orange. Orange Team, Simmons,” Grif corrects him. “I’m fucking orange.”

“Sorry, Orange and Maroon Team?” Simmons shifts on his feet, looking at the floor. “I, uh, I think it would be beneficial for everyone to work together. We could… run some, uh, drills?”

Grif narrows his eyes and looks Simmons up and down.

He’s onto me he’s onto me he’s—

“Yeah, sure,” Grif shrugs. “Whatever you say.”

“Great!” Simmons heaves a sigh of relief. He’d been expecting Grif to protest. “Meet on the outdoor training grounds at, uh, fifteen-hundred?”

“Whatever,” Grif says.

“Okay, great, bye then!” Simmons takes off before Grif can change his mind. Before Simmons can change his mind.

Now, he thinks, setting his jaw. Let’s see what Sarge has for me.

When Grif sees the obstacle course Simmons has set up for them, he immediately regrets his decision.

There are hurdles, barrels covered in barbed wire, and other contraptions Simmons expects them to maneuver around. Grif knows two things for certain: he will not be jumping over anything, and he is not. Running.

The only reason Grif agreed to this dumb teamwork shit is because it’ll give him a chance to kick back while Simmons does everything himself. That, and maybe—maybe—he feels a tiny bit guilty for throwing him under the bus yesterday.

Not that he was sad Sarge’s disappointment was directed at someone other than himself, for once. No, that was nice.

That being sad, his guilt is quickly vanishing as Simmons begins to explain the exercise.

“So, uh, today,” Simmons pauses to clear his throat, “Today, we’re going to be doing a joint training exercise. Everyone will pair up—a Fed and a New on each team.”

There’s an audible groan from somewhere behind Grif, and Bitters says,

“This is stupid.”

“Surely you can think of something better to say than stupid, Antoine,” Jensen retorts.

“Well, I think it’s a good idea,” Matthews chimes in. “Teambuilding exercises are shown to be helpful for teamwork on the battlefield.”

And, because it’s Matthews talking, Grif turns around and shushes them.

Simmons, wringing his hands, nods at Grif as if to thank him.

Grif rolls his eyes and, remembering Simmons can’t see it, shouts,

“Get on with it, Simmons!”

“Maybe if everyone would stop talking, I could,” Simmons retorts.

“No one’s talking, Simmons,” Grif says.

“I—but—you’re talking, dammit!”

“Only because you keep talking to me,” Grif says with a shrug.

“Just—just shut up, and let me finish!” Simmons snaps.

Grif holds his hands up and takes a step back, gesturing with his hand for Simmons to continue. While it was fun to see Simmons all worked up, he would love to get this shit over with so he can get out of his armor and eat something.

“As I was saying.” Simmons turns away from Grif to address the troops crowded around him. “We’re going to be doing an obstacle course. I uh—designed it to test your uh, reflexes and your, um, mettle.”

“Metal?” Matthews says. “Like copper?”

“No, that’s ‘metal’,” Simmons corrects him. “I said ‘mettle’.”

“Come on, let’s just get this over with,” Bitters groans.

“For once,” Willems says, “We agree on something.”

“Shut up, Wilhelm,” Bitters says.

“It’s Willems,” Willems growls.

“Whatever,” Bitters sighs.

“Just pair up, dammit!” Simmons screeches.

Everyone shuts up after that and, after twenty minutes of the Feds and News partnering up, fighting with their partners, trading partners, and trading partners again, they all line up, ready to run start the training exercise.

Grif doesn’t move through it all, hoping—praying—he’ll be the odd one out so he won’t have to participate.

His dreams, unrealistic as they may be, are crushed when Simmons comes up beside him and declares, “Grif, you’re with me!”

Grif groans.

“Why do we have to do this, Simmons?” he asks. “Aren’t we Captains? Shouldn’t we, you know, make everyone else do the work?”

Simmons crosses his arms. “Let’s go, Grif.”

Grif sighs and throws his hands up in the air. Better to get it over with. Once Simmons is attached to a project, you’d have to kill him before he gave up. Besides, he’s the dumbass who agreed to do this.

Before they begin, Simmons turns to address the crowd of disgruntled soldiers one more time.

“As you can see, there are lots of things to get around, and uh, treat this like you would a real battlefield. Like, the barrels could have bombs. Anyway. Shall we, um, get to it?”

The fun begins, and the obstacle course goes about as expected.

Those who can put aside their differences—whether it’s because they actually want to do well or because they’re eager to get to dinner, that’s up to them—finish first. Jensen and Matthews’s teams complete the course ahead of everyone else. Bitters and Alvarez’s teams finish last.

Well, next to last.

Grif has said it a million times, and he’ll say it again: he hates running. If he’s running, so should everyone else, because the only reason he would do that is if zombies are chasing him, or something.

Simmons tries to stay in step with him, but his long legs won’t let him for very long. Eventually, Simmons is a good hundred feet ahead of him, trying his best to hurdle over an old Warthog tire.

Well, I gave it the old college try, Grif thinks, slowing from a steady trot to a brisk walk. Digging into one of the pouches attached to his power armor, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and stops to light one.

“Come on, Grif, hurry up!” Simmons shouts.

Well, there goes his smoke break.

Looking down at his feet and willing them forward, Grif stuffs his cigarettes back into his pouch and breaks into a light jog. Looking up at Simmons, Grif notices that he’s still a good fifty to a hundred feet away from Grif, flapping his arms like he’s trying to fly away.

Grif grins at the sight, and stops to take a picture with his helmet cam.

“Grif hurry up!” Simmons yells again. “Grif—the bombs they’re—"

Unfortunately, Grif doesn’t get to hear what the bombs are, because it’s at that exact moment the barrels behind him explode.

It’s like a scene out of a movie.

Grif howling as he’s propelled fifty feet into the air, an angry red flower of fire and smoke blooming behind him as he begins his descent to where Simmons gapes at him, frozen. He raises his arms a little, as if he’s planning on catching Grif, who plummets towards him in slow motion. It would almost be funny—if this was a movie.

The wind is knocked out of him as Grif slams down onto Simmons, and they both hit the ground—hard.

“Oof!” Simmons gasps. He doesn’t want to know what would’ve happened if he wasn’t wearing his power armor.

Grif, on the other hand, was mere yards away from an explosion. Steaming and covered in scorch marks, the orange power armor has seen better days. Grif is still breathing, still conscious, and he’s—is he laughing?

“Grif?” Simmons tries to move out from under Grif, but Grif isn’t paying attention enough to catch on and just lays there, ogling Simmons through his visor.

“It’s just—it’s—” Grif wheezes, “It’s like I was flying! What a way to—to meet a guy!”

“Grif?” Simmons heart skips and he stops squirming to look up at Grif. “Uh, Grif, it’s Simmons? You know? Sim-mons?”

“Sssimmons,” Grif says, testing the name out. “Well, Simmons, it’s great to meet you, I’m… uh…”

“Grif,” Simmons interjects. “You’re Grif. Do you know where you are?”

“You get right to it huh, Simon?” Grif says, ignoring him.

“I what?”

“At least take me out to dinner first,” Grif giggles before he passes out on top of Simmons.

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

Well, isn’t that how it always goes? Simmons thinks. Everyone always says they never expected a prank to go south and fuck everything up.

So, naturally, everything went south and Simmons fucked everything up. The one difference being this went way beyond a simple ‘prank’.

And now here he is, sitting in the hall outside the med bay with a hysterical Matthews while the medics see to Grif.

Simmons silently volunteers Matthews for any transplants Grif might need. If they take any more of his own body, he might as well become a complete robot.

It would serve him right, really. Simmons groans and looks up at the flickering yellow lights on the hallway ceiling. He watches as one of them pops and darkens.

“That’s not ominous at all,” Simmons mutters to himself.

“Whuh?” Matthews stops pacing for a moment to shoot Simmons a curious, albeit teary-eyed, look.

“Nothing,” Simmons sighs. Matthews gulps and continues pacing.

If only Grif took training seriously. Then none of this would have happened, Simmons tells himself.

Simmons sighs for what feels like the thousandth time.

This wasn’t Grif’s fault.

No matter how many ties Grif sent Matthews to run his laps, ducked out of strategy meetings to sleep in supply closets, or ‘forgot’ to bring his gun to target practice, he still isn’t the one who rigged those barrels.

Simmons is.

He stares at the burnt-out light, tapping the toe of his boot, hoping to tire himself out. Just can’t seem to sit still. Stop his racing thoughts. He cracks his knuckles, flexes the metal joints of his mechanical hand, scratches his nose. Runs a hand through his fiery hair and clicks his teeth. Looks at anything but the med bay doors.

If he sits there a minute longer, Simmons is going to implode.

Leaping to his feet, he marches away from the med bay. Matthews calls out after him, but Simmons doesn’t register what he’s saying.

Simmons yanks a random door open—supply closet. He bites his lip and slams the door shut, moving further down the hall. He opens another door. Then another. Finally, two supply closets, one bathroom, and a bunk room later, Simmons finds an exit.

Bursting out into the night, Simmons is hit with a shock of chilly air, and he remembers he’s not wearing any armor. This doesn’t slow him down, however. Trying hard to control his breathing (in—out—in—out—in—), Simmons strides away from the base, kicking up clouds of dust as he goes.

Simmons glares ahead as he leaves the New Republic’s base further and further behind. It isn’t until the base is a good four to five hundred yards behind him that he stops in his tracks.

Confident no one followed him, Simmons chucks his rifle at the ground and shouts,

“Fuck!”

Grif is fine.

Been better, but this isn’t the worst shit he’s ever been hospitalized for.

He’s got lots of bruises and scratches, a couple cracked ribs, but no body parts need replacing. Unfortunately, due to the miracles of modern medicine, Grif should be cleared for duty in about a week.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Grif sighs and glares at the suspiciously yellow ceiling of the recovery ward. He was hoping this would bench him for at least a month.

Nope, he’ll be back in action in ‘no time’, according to Dr. Grey.

Of course, lots of things can happen in a week’s time. Maybe, by the time he’s ready to leave the hospital, the war will be over and they can all go home.

Grif sighs. He should be so lucky.

He looks away from the ceiling and notices Wash talking to Dr. Grey in the corner of the recovery ward. Matthews hovers off to the side, pretending not to listen to their conversation, probably waiting for the okay to rush over to Grif.

Maybe Grif doesn’t want to be stuck here for a week.

Grif grimaces over at Matthews, who smiles back, oblivious.

Rolling his eyes, Grif looks around for Simmons. He expected the nerd to come bursting in as soon as the medics were finished tending to him, pissed off that he almost died—again.

Grif strains to see into the hallway as Wash leaves the recovery ward, but all he sees is a dirty gray wall and flickering yellow lights.

Simmons is nowhere to be seen.

It’s Agent Washington who finds him.

He doesn’t ask why Simmons is all the way out here, doesn’t ask him where his helmet is or why his rifle is several yards away and covered in dirt.

Instead, he says nothing. Just walks up and stands behind Simmons, looking off at the landscape before them.

“He’s going to be fine,” Agent Washington tells him after a few moments of silence.

Relief washes over Simmons, but he clenches his jaw and says nothing.

“Just some cuts and bruises, a few cracked ribs,” Agent Washington continues.

“Cracked ribs?” Simmons exclaims. Still seated, he turns and strains to look up at the ex-Freelancer standing over him.

“Nothing too serious.” Agent Washington holds his hand up, as if that will calm Simmons down. “Grey says he can be back in… action in about a week.”

Simmons doesn’t like the way Agent Washington says ‘action’.

“Great,” Simmons replies, shifting once more to look back at… well, nothing really. Just some cliffs and stuff. Simmons is more of a forest guy.

“Should we head back?” Agent Washington asks.

“Uh, I’m fine right here,” Simmons mumbles. “Thanks for, uh, telling me though.”

Agent Washington shifts on his feet. Simmons isn’t looking at him, but he can feel the tension between them as the ex-Freelancer searches for something to say.

“You know,” Agent Washington finally breaks the silence. “Someone set those explosives with the intention of them going off.”

Simmons feels his mechanical heart shriek as he about dies of panic.

“Oh—Oh really? That’s uh, not good,” Simmons says. ‘Not good’? Goddammit, Rich.

“Simmons, I know it was you.” Agent Washington’s voice has an edge to it now.

Forcing himself to look over at the figure towering over him, Simmons swallows and resists the urge to run.

“I just—” Agent Washington sounds like he’s gearing up for a lecture. “I just think Captain Grif deserves an explanation, that’s all. And an apology.”

“Oh, yeah?” Simmons jumps back to his feet. His voice sounds angrier than he expected it too. Agent Washington takes a step back, shocked by Simmons’s sudden outburst.

That makes two of them.

“Grif deserves an explanation, an apology?” Simmons balls his hands into fists, taking a step towards Agent Washington. “You wanna—you want to know what I think, Agent Washington?”

It’s clear by the way Agent Washington takes another step back that he isn’t too keen to hear what Simmons thinks, but he doesn’t protest either.

Which isn’t great for Simmons, who has no idea what he was hoping to tell Agent Washington.

What the fuck do you think, dumbass? Simmons scrambles for something to say, considers running away for a moment. No—the ex-Freelancer would catch him. He’s way faster.

At this point Simmons realizes he’s been glaring at Agent Washington for a good thirty seconds and, flustered, blurts out the first thing he can think of.

“I think Donut deserves an explanation, and an apology,” Simmons spits.

Agent Washington starts, like he’s been slapped, and Simmons feels a pang of guilt, followed by more anger.

Donut may have forgiven Agent Washington for what happened, but Simmons still remembers holding Donut in his arms, thinking he was dead, mourning his loss.

“Simmons, Donut and I…” Agent Washington seems to shrink a little. “We’ve talked about it. At length. And I—I’m trying to make amends too.”

Simmons blinks.

“Oh,” is the only response he can muster.

“I’m… gonna head back to base,” Agent Washington says.

He spins on his heel and starts walking away. After a few steps he halts and looks over his shoulder at Simmons.

“I’m sorry, Simmons,” he says. “And I know you’ll do the right thing.”

With that, the ex-Freelancer jogs away.

Simmons watches him go, deflating as the anger whooshes out of him.

“Goddammit, I have to tell Grif, don’t I?” he asks no one in particular.

He’s answered by a gust of wind and then silence.

With a sigh, Simmons grabs his gun and trudges back to base.

Grif has long since shooed Matthews away and eaten all his dinner when Simmons finally walks through the doors to the recovery ward.

He doesn’t trust the look on Simmons’s face when he enters. Cheeks red, eyes darting back and forth, he’s looking at anything, anyone, but Grif.

Fidgeting with the stiff white sheet the medic tossed over him, Grif waits for Simmons to make eye contact with him as he approaches the bed.

He doesn’t.

“I just… I feel bad for, you know, the explosion and you getting hurt and stuff,” Simmons says.

“Not hurt enough…” Grif says with a wistful sigh.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Grif flaps his hand at Simmons. “’Sides, it’s not like it’s your fault. If anyone’s responsible, I’d bet my snack stash on Sarge.”

“Uhhhmmm.” Simmons swallows. “Looks like you’ll have to give up your stash, because it, uh, it wasn’t Sarge.”

Grif frowns.

“Okay, first of all,” Grif says, holding up a finger, “that was a completely hypothetical bet. No one is getting my food. Second, it was a freak accident, Simmons, you didn’t know they were actually going to blow. Third, if someone did put live freaking explosives in those barrels, and it wasn’t Sarge, then who the fuck did it, Simmons?”

Grif is staring at him like he can see straight through his skull and into his thoughts. Simmons feels his face go hot, and he wishes he hadn’t taken his goddamn armor off.

Even though he’s like, 95% sure Grif knows Simmons is guilty, he tries one more time to save his ass.

“Nnooo it’s probably like you said. A—a freak accident,” Simmons stammers. “Who—who would set live charges in the middle of a training exercise? That’s very irresponsible! People could get—they could get hurt! Hey—!”

“Simmons—” Grif tries to interrupt.

“Hey, you remember Tucker telling us about Agent Washington’s ‘training exercise’ he put together for him and Caboose at Crash Site Bravo?” Simmons continues, making finger quotes around the words training exercise.

“Simmons.”

“He used bombs, and real bullets, and—and, you know, exploding stuff,” Simmons rambles on. “I bet he did it, and just doesn’t want to say anything because you almost—you could’ve died. I bet—”

“Simmons!”

Simmons stops jabbering and, realizing he’s been staring at his hands, looks up at Grif.

Grif’s brow furrows in disbelief, and he blinks. For just a second, Simmons thinks he sees a spark of anger in the orange soldier’s eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and Grif’s face relaxes as it morphs from disbelief to disappointment to acceptance. The right corner of his mouth twitches—disgust? It certainly isn’t amusement—and he crosses his arms.

“You rigged the bombs, didn’t you?”

It isn’t a question, not really, and Simmons doesn’t offer up an answer. He just goes back to inspecting the dirt underneath his fingernails as the two of them sit in silence for a few more minutes. When Simmons sneaks a glance at Grif, Grif’s eyebrows narrow and his nostrils flare.

The anger’s back, and this time Simmons has a feeling it won’t disappear as fast.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” Grif asks, his voice hitching up an octave. “I mean, Jesus, Simmons, I could have died. For real.”

“I—I thought maybe if you knew the explosives were live you’d, well, you’d uh—”

“I’d what?” Grif snaps. “Run faster? You know I hate running.”

“Well, I—”

“And how was I supposed to know they were real, Simmons?” Grif goes on. “It was a goddamn training exercise!”

“I mean, I told you they could be live, and it’s—it’s not like we haven’t had more life-threatening ‘exercises’,” Simmons says, shuddering at the memory of Sarge’s more… creative plans.

He knows he’s making excuses—and so does Grif. Part of him, however, hopes Grif will take it and this argument will be over. That’s what they’re good at. Sort of kind of making up and then never bringing it up again.

“The difference here, Simmons,” Grif says, lowering his voice, “Is that I wasn’t the only one you could’ve hurt—or killed. Simmons, you could have killed someone. Which I expect from Sarge, but from you?”

Simmons isn’t sure what to say without digging himself an even deeper hole. He wants to yell at Grif, tell him he’s wrong, tell him the other troops were nowhere near the barrels, tell him even if there were others nearby, they were smart enough to get out of the way.

It’s always been difficult for Simmons to admit when he’s made a mistake. There’s no room for mistake in war. Fake wars, Freelancer drama, civil war in the middle of nowhere—it didn’t matter. Mistakes equal weakness, which is something Simmons cannot afford. For him, making a mistake is right up there with murder.

Which… he was also very close to committing today.

“I’m uh. I’m sorry you were almost blown up,” he mumbles, tearing his eyes away from his hands to look at Grif.

Grif rolls his eyes.

“You mean, ‘I’m sorry I put literal bombs in those barrels and almost killed you’?” he snorts, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry I almost killed you, Dex,” Simmons says. “I made a huge mistake, and I’m sorry.”

Grif looks him up and down, and Simmons feels his heart plummet into his feet as he waits for Grif to tell him to fuck off.

“Okay,” Grif says with a shrug.

“Oh—Okay?” Simmons blinks.

“Yeah, okay,” Grif repeats.

An odd turn of events, Simmons thinks. Grif isn’t normally so forgiving, there’s usually—

“But,” Grif goes on (there it is), “You gotta let me have more me time, Simmons.”

“More… you time?” Simmons asks, even though he knows exactly what Grif is getting at.

“Yeah, so, when, for example, I decide I want to nap in a supply closet and eat candy,” Grif says, “Just, you know, look the other way.”

Simmons crosses his arms.

“Right,” he huffs, “Like I’m going to let you just—just sleep while everyone works their ass off?”

“Yes,” Grif says with a nod. “Besides, do you really want me in charge? You and I both know Kimball and the Freelancers are way better equipped to train an army.”

“Hey, you’ve got leadership experience!” Simmons protests.

They both do, in fact. Simmons may not be Freelancer material, but he doesn’t believe that’s a requirement for being a good leader. Sarge was never a Freelancer.

Okay, bad example.

“Yeah, and look how well that went,” Grif scoffs.

“Well we—we all make mistakes,” Simmons says.

Simmons glances around the recovery ward and, taking in the yellowing walls, the scurrying medics, the other occupied—and freshly unoccupied—beds. His eyes drift back to Grif, occupying a bed of his own, hooked up to an IV and wrapped in bandages.

Everyone makes mistakes. Not everyone almost blows up their best friend—the guy they love—out of sheer annoyance and ‘good intentions’ that are severely misguided.

“If anyone should throw in the towel, it should be me,” Simmons says with a sigh. “I tried to blow you up to teach you a lesson. Some leader I am.”

Grif lets out a short laugh, wincing a bit. Simmons remembers he’s got cracked ribs and grimaces.

“Simmons, if there’s one thing I know about you for sure, petty nerd or not, you’re good at this soldier thing,” Grif says. “Even if you are an insufferable kiss-ass.”

“Please,” Simmons says. He feels his face go hot—again. “I’m useless. All I’m good for is following orders. You at least take initiative—even if that means taking the initiative to hide in some remote corner of the base.”

“What can I say, Simmons,” Grif sighs. “I’m a maverick, I go my own way.”

Simmons rolls his eyes. Well, his eye. He’s not sure what his red eye does when the rolls his eyes. He’ll have to practice in the mirror later.

Grif appears to be in better spirits, which is good, but Simmons can’t help but feel like there’s something Grif isn’t saying. Grif has never wanted to be a leader, sure. But he is a good soldier, and a great pilot.

And Grif might be able to fool everyone else, but Simmons knows Grif isn’t sleeping half as much as he claims he is. Most people don’t see Grif out of armor, but Simmons does, and he notices the dark circles under his eyes, hears the fatigue in his voice when it’s unmuffled by his helmet.

What are you hiding from? He wonders.

It’s not until Grif’s eyebrows knit together and the corners of his mouth twitch downwards that Simmons realizes he just asked that question out loud.

“What do you mean, Simmons?” Grif asks. “You know what I’m hiding from—work. Hate it.”

“Bullshit,” Simmons says.

Shut the fuck up, Simmons, he scolds himself.

“Look, Simmons,” Grif says, voice flat, “I don’t want the responsibility. Okay? Do you know how many people are in my squad?”

Simmons shakes his head. Wonders where Grif is going with this.

“Forty-seven,” Grif answers. “Forty-seven kids, Simmons. Forty-seven lives to fuck up if I don’t do everything absolutely perfect. Forty-seven families I have to answer to, assuming these kids still have families. Forty-seven kids looking at me like I know what the fuck I’m doing? Hell. No. You’re looking at the guy who napped through the massacre of his entire team. And that was only eleven guys.”

Grif pauses. Takes a breath.

“They’re better off with people who know what they’re doing, who aren’t gonna get them killed. Like you, or Carolina, or Wash.”

“Like me?” Simmons feels himself getting angry. “Grif, look, no matter who ends up in charge, people are going to die. We could die—fuck, you—you almost died today because I was a petty asshole. You think I should be in charge?”

Grif narrows his eyes, crosses his arms, and says nothing.

“In an ideal world,” Simmons continues, “Everything ends peacefully, no one dies, and we all live happily ever after and return to our respective lives—whatever’s left of them anyway.”

Simmons feels his heart whirring, realizes he’s just rambling at this point. But he can’t seem to stop the words tumbling from his mouth.

“But we don’t live in a perfect world. People die. It’s shitty, it—it sucks, but that’s war, Grif,” Simmons says. “And I think, after everything you’ve been through—after everything we’ve all been through, the fact that we’re still here shows we’re good at something.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” Grif asks.

“Living, dumbass!” Simmons cries, exasperated.

Grif opens his mouth to retort but closes it again. For what seems like hours, Grif just stares at Simmons. Simmons, exhausted from his numerous outbursts tonight and anxious for Grif’s inevitable attempt to poke holes in everything he just said, stares right back.

Finally, Grif breaks the silence.

“I didn’t know you were one for motivational speeches, Simmons,” he says.

“Well, I’m full of surprises,” Simmons retorts.

“Apparently,” Grif says.

Then he gives Simmons a look that the maroon soldier can’t quite read. It’s somewhere between curious and amused, but something else is there too, and it makes Grif look far away.

Whatever it is, Simmons decides not to read into it too much. His facial analysis skills aren’t the most trustworthy—cyborg eye notwithstanding. He over thinks what he sees, and ends up seeing more than is actually there. So, it’s better to forgo trying altogether, for the sake of maintaining his sanity.

“Well.” Simmons breaks what was about to become another awkward silence. “I suppose… if you try to at least keep the peace between your squad members, I can—uh—I can look the other way—” A huge grin splits Grif’s face— “Once in a while, Grif!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Simmons,” Grif says with a flap of his hand.

“You’re impossible,” Simmons sighs.

“You almost blew me up,” Grif says.

“Screw you, fatass,” Simmons snaps.

“Kiss-ass.”

“Dumbass.”

“Nerd.”

Simmons loses track of how many epithets he and Grif end up spewing back and forth, but eventually Grif falls asleep, snoring softly in time with the heart monitor.

Simmons remains at the foot of Grif’s bed, shoulders tense, waiting for the monitor to slow and stop. Logic tells him that he’s being silly, but this is not the first time Simmons almost lost Grif, and he’s afraid it won’t be the last.

It takes him at least an hour for him to breathe normally, slouch a little, and tear his eyes away from the machinery Grif is hooked up to.

Looking back and forth to make sure no one is watching, Simmons pulls a chair up to Grif’s bedside, lays his head down, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.

#rvb #rvb reverse big bang #h writes #tackytacs #many thanks again!#grif #simmons #canon-typical violence #canon-typical language #rvb art #hope you all enjoy #holy crap i never write long things so heh

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