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bukojuiice · 4 years ago

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rose-colored boy

ೃ pairing: (eren jaeger x fem! reader)

ೃ tags: college/modern au, fluff, humor, love at first sight cliché, mikasa is your cute little sister, armin, sasha, jean, and connie are your besties, and eren is a himbo who works hard and has terrible friends.

ೃ warnings: strong language and mild suggestive content

ೃ part 1/??? of my (eren x reader) college au!

ೃ word count: 3000 words

ೃ my nav → my mha writing masterlist

ೃ This is my very first snk x reader fic! so i hope you bear with some errors! qwq

i’ve been following the anime ever since it was released in 2013, and this is the first time i’m going to be writing for it. this month’s manga chapter really took me out so why not channel my sadness thru writing an fluff! eren fic? 🤧 i hope you enjoy either way!

ೃ please do reblog if you enjoyed!! (feel free to add tags too because i love reading them and my heart swells with happiness when people love my work!)

ೃ in which (Y/N) (L/N), 20, still in school, and regretfully-unregretfully-her little girl scout sister's assistant, meets eren jaeger in an embarrassing too innocent door-to-door cookie sale whilst a humiliating party was going on.

cookies, suspicious maybe-maybe-not pot brownies, meddling little sisters and friends, “oh my god they were roommates” vine on replay 24/7, homework, tears, and fairy lights bring them together.

“I’m going to enter now.”

“Ahhh yes, please!”

“Shut up, please.” Eren muttered to himself as he tossed and turned around in his bed, but still couldn’t get to sleep. “When will they ever stop doing this?” Why did Eren’s next-door roommate and his girlfriend have to do this five times a day? They had a lot of stamina for 21-year-olds who didn’t have anything better to do.

Eren’s thoughts eventually brought him to his parents.

His parents- did they even exist?

For pretty much 14 years of Eren’s life, they had been out of town or out of the country. His older brother, Zeke, blonde, bespectacled, tall, and sometimes too far up his own ass older brother who Eren is able to confide in from time to time, recently got a girlfriend whom he’s hopelessly in love with (they’re even thinking about getting married which isn’t really a problem since the girl is genuinely nice to his older brother so Eren is good with her.), so… things in the family had been a bit rough and busy to say the least.

Communication with his parents wasn’t always the best.

Eren would study late at night back when he was seven, because no one bothered to help him with homework. Along with the fact that he wasn’t the brightest kid in class, and he knew that very well, but he had ambition and he was determined to make it big in the world. He focused more on sports, particularly Soccer in middle school and high school, and tried to balance that with his studies. After being granted a Sports Scholarship from Shigashina University, Eren decided to rent and share a flat, living with his batchmates who he met at a mixer party (before Uni started as this whole meet and get to know each other kind of thing) and whom he was so quick to call his ‘friends’, just so that he could get out of the hellhole that was his own house.

But things turned out much worse than expected.

Eren thought that the ‘College Life’ was to focus more on pursuing your future career and make a name for yourself but… it was the other way around.

He thought that after Freshmen year, everyone would take things seriously. Sure, have some drinks, get wasted after finals, or have house parties from time to time. But he was unfortunately, dragged into the wrong crowd. After attending around 5 parties in the first few months of being generalized as one of the infamous and pompous freshman archetypes present in every university, he called it a year and spent the rest of his nights doing homework, projects, playing video games, staying at the school soccer field until 10PM while his roommates were probably smoking crack and not caring about the number of units they needed to take for each of their goddamn subjects.

He was ~living the life~ and now that he regrets most of the decisions he made in freshman year, the only option that he has left was to wait until his third year and move to a different apartment.

Now, here he was, Sophomore year, nearing the end of the semester, and very much eager to get the hell out of here and also study for his upcoming finals on Constitutional Law II, as his professor, Mr. Erwin Smith, was going to throw hands if one of his students score below average on the exam.

“EREN MICK JAEGER! BROOOO!” Eren winces when he hears the shrieky and annoying voice of his flatmate Thomas Wagner, calling out to him. “Wanna go and party with us?” Eren smiles halfheartedly, shaking his head, “Ah, no thanks. I have a game tomorrow and finals coming up on Thursday.” Thomas smirked and wrapped his arm around Eren, “Oh fuck that, live the college life ya spoon.”

“No, really I have to study.”

Thomas frowned and groaned, “Oh god, you’re such a killjoy. Fine, if that’s what you want. Don’t blame us if we tell you to buy some beer down the block.”

Eren cracked an obviously fake laugh and pushed Thomas away from him, “You’re an ass. That only happened once and that was when we first met. Don’t you even dare try to ask me to buy you shit again.”

“Woah. Woah. Woaaaaaah. That was a joke Eren. Loosen up will you?” Thomas raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the brunette’s sudden aggressiveness. He hums Moves like Jaeger by Maroon 5 as a way to spite Eren whilst passing by him down the staircase.

The brunette shook his head, tying his hair into a bun carelessly and sprinting into his room without uttering another word.

Eren just wanted to study. He really did.

Instead, his roommates, all of them, mind you, were all partying in the lounge and the music was too loud and Eren was too annoyed.

They did manage to bring him out and make him stay in the kitchen where he mindlessly glared at anyone who came in. He sighed and tapped his pen restlessly amongst the insane amount of books on the table.

There was a knock.

His roommate, Floch, came in the kitchen with his girlfriend who Eren couldn’t even name with all the women he has brought into the apartment. She was hanging onto his arm and giggling. Floch’s eyes were red and his speech very slow and lazy. "Eren!" he said with a sly grin.

Eren raised an eyebrow, shooting him an irritated look. "What now Floch? Are you here to tell me to take a shot again?" The ginger-haired’s girlfriend giggled once again and kissed Floch’s cheek. Floch laughed and swatted her away, though he missed by a long shot. "Someone's at the door," a thumb pointing to the den. "wouldchumind ge'in it?" another giggle. The girl nodded sloshily. "Yesss! Erenieee get 'em door, please. Be a dearrrrr."

Eren frowned and stared at them menacingly, earning no reaction from the two as they were mad drunk. "You were just in the den," Floch’s eyes widened. "My lovey wovey-we was in the den?" His girlfriend’s mouth went into an O. "Di'nt notice tha'!"

Eren sighed and stood up. He miraculously got through the throng of bodies and to the front door. "Yes?" he called out exasperated, not knowing who was outside.

"Do you want cookies?"

Eren turned and looked to see a little raven-haired girl, a girl scout no less, a blonde-haired boy pulling on a trolley who looked significantly shorter than him, wearing rimmed glasses, and an overall appearance whom his “friends” would immediately label as a nerd they had to be a few feet away from if they saw him and lastly, a girl who looked very tired and very done with life.

Beautiful (h/c)-colored hair, her eyes looked like the starry night sky, twinkling as he catches her gaze and a smile that looked forced, but warm all the same.

A girl who was just absolutely fucking gorgeous.

Eren was captivated. His heart was beating like crazy and he could feel his ears turn red. He would make a fool of himself if he looked red as a tomato right now.

"Um," The girl peeked inside and grimaced, squeezing the hand that was her little sister's shoulder and catching Eren’s gaze. "Mikasa, I don't think these kinds of guys would want cookies."

“Unless they're pot cookies,” Eren almost said. Mikasa pouted and widened her eyes at Eren.

The older girl crouched down and frantically covered her little sister’s eyes. "Nopenopenope, Mi, don't pull that on him."

"But (Y/N)!"

(Y/N).

Her name was (Y/N).

Eren smiled sincerely (for the first time today) and leaned back inside to the drawer by the door to grab the extra cash he and his roommates put there for emergency pizza and stuff. "You know what? You're absolutely brilliant at selling cookies. I'll take one."

Mikasa smiled back at him cheekily and tugged her older sister’s hand. "See, (Y/N)?! He wants some! Go get 'em!”

The raven-haired girl then turned to the blonde teen, practically jumping up and down. “Armin look! We sold another one!"

“We did!” The boy who was apparently named Armin, clapped his hands together, then gave the little girl a high five. “You’re a natural at this Mikasa!”

(Y/N) looked at Eren, then Mikasa, and sighed. She grabbed a bag from the trolley Armin was dragging around and pulled out a box of cookies. Eren grabbed them slowly from her, their hands almost touching as he gave (Y/N) a small smile. The (h/c) girl blushed lightly, though not visible enough for the brunette to notice.

"Hope to see you again!" Eren called out when the siblings said their thank you's and bid farewell.

And, this time, even for the slightest moment, Eren’s serotonin levels were going straight through the roof. His heart was still beating loudly, almost in sync with the trash music his roommates were blaring on the speakers. and for a moment, even just for a moment.

He felt genuine happiness that he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

The three of you continue to walk animatedly, now that the coast was clear and the guy from earlier wasn’t within earshot, your blonde friend just had to break the silence.

Armin smiles, pushing his glasses up to the crook of his nose. “(Y/N), you did see how he looked at you right?” The blonde chuckles softly, catching his best friend off guard.

You blinked. “Him?” You try to stop yourself from smiling, blushing profusely. “Geez Armin, I don’t even know his name yet.”

“I’ll bet you 100 bucks that he goes to our Uni.”

“Even if he does, it’s not like we’ll talk to him or anything. Judging from the place he lives in and the people he was hanging out with, we’re in two completely different worlds.” You shook your head in denial, holding Mikasa’s hand, your interlocked arms swinging playfully. Armin gives you a knowing look in response.

Mikasa continued to wave back at the boy whom they had just sold cookies too. (Y/N) looked over her shoulder and smiled. “Wasn’t he nice (Y/N)?” Mikasa asks her older sister. (Y/N) returned her sister a small smile, “He was.”

"I hope we see him again!"

"I'm sure we will."

The day of Eren’s dreaded finals finally arrive.

He has prepared tirelessly for this. Hours upon hours of hard work. But, before he finally gets his well-deserved sleep, he has a few more hours to cram and absorb more knowledge for his exams.

So, what better way to do so than head straight to the library as soon as it opens at 6 AM?

This time, no one was going to bother him. No annoying roommates and no distractions.

Eren heads over to a table near the coffee and snack machines. He puts down his bag on a seat next to him, and begins to study once again. Looking through the course materials and the lessons that he still didn’t quite understand. Eren was so absorbed with studying and relying on his gut feeling that no other student in this university would think of going to the library at 6 AM on the day of finals… then he’s wrong. Very wrong.

“Sasha, should you even be eating mashed potato this early in the morning?” Armin asks the brunette worriedly, a huge tone of concern in his voice.

“Armin! Don’t chu worry! I ate heavy breakfast! Bacon, Eggs, and Toast! Did you not see me in the kitchen!?” She reassures her blonde friend, continuing to scoop up the mashed potato on a reusable cup.

“Liar.” Connie hissed, narrowing his eyes. “I was awake since 4 AM. Not once did I see you sneak into the kitchen until (Y/N) woke you up.”

“Atatata. Can we… stop with the negative vibes for a second?” Jean tries to become the mediator by holding his hands up against his two friends who were about to start an argument. “It’s finals week. We have to keep a clear mind, body and soul-“

“Jean, you know that’s BS.” You yawn widely, still practically half-asleep.

“Oh, come on! Can’t you just let me be positive just this once!? If we fail this exam I’m going to blame you!“

The five of you continue to talk mindlessly on the way to the library. Connie pushes the glass door open, very much excited to have this huge library all to yourselves.

Until…

There was someone already there.

Your eyes immediately come into contact with Eren’s. His radiant jade eyes staring into yours, mouth practically agape, his hands holding on to wooden chopsticks as the hot air of instant ramen breezes through his face.

“Oh?” Connie blinks. “Guess we aren’t the first ones here then.” He whistles.

“(Y/N)!” Armin nudges you in the arm in an attempt to tease you. “Guess your wish came true huh? We did see him again! By himself too!”

“W-what am I supposed to do exactly?” You turn to Armin, speaking in a hushed whisper.

“Say thank you to him! Offer him to go on a boba date or something!”

“You got the Sasha seal of approval (Y/N)! He’s hot!” Sasha motions you a thumbs up and you can’t help but feel yourself already wanting to die of embarrassment.

The four of them slightly push you towards his table. With your friends cornering you like this, there was no way of escaping this.

All you had to do was talk to him and properly thank him for buying cookies from your little sister.

That was it.

No need for any extra ad-libs or poor and bad attempts of flirtation.

Just thank him (Y/N).

You can do this.

You breathe a hefty sigh then approach his table with confidence. The brunette continues to look up at you whilst turning the page of his reviewer that he wasn’t even looking at.

“Hi again! I just wanted to thank you properly for helping my sister and I, out the other day. Mikasa really appreciated the gesture you did for her, and she couldn’t stop talking about you to our parents since we saw you. You see, none of the other girl scouts want to be paired up with my sister because they think she’s an emotionless and monotonous freak. They’re really mean to her but she really wants to continue being a girl scout so my friend and I accompany her whenever she has to sell cookies!”

“It’s N-no problem!” Eren quickly replies, running a hand through his hair. “Why would they say such horrible things to your sister like that? Judging from the way she acted in front of me, she was quite the opposite. In a positive way of course! Those kids are just assholes who are intimidated because another girl their age is seemingly better than them.”

You giggle in response. “Thank you. I’ll tell Mikasa that you said that!”

There was short silence for a few seconds until you realized that you forgot to say something.

“Ah! I’m (Y/N) (L/N) by the way!”

“Eren.” He smiles, reaching his hand out to you for you to shake. You grip his strong and calloused hand firmly, and Eren could feel his ears turning red again while you were about to blush as red as a tomato.

You hear your friends snickering in the background and you took this as a sign to go back to your table. “I guess, I’ll see you around campus?” You ask, tilting your head. For, you actually really wanted to see him again after this.

“Yea! I’ll be seeing you!” He grins widely, watching you leave where he was seated. His smile then envelops into a frown as soon as you went away then he goes back to studying.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” Connie whispers loudly, calling you over by waving his hand. Why was this dunce being so painfully obvious? “Ask him if he’s looking for an apartment or if he wants to live with us!”

“Already!?” You ask in disbelief, a bit shocked by what Connie had just said. He scoots to the left, as you take a seat between him and Sasha. “Guys, you’ve known him for like… 3 minutes. Only Armin and I actually interacted with him before this.”

“He has to pass the vibe check first.” Jean shrugs, sipping on an iced expresso. “But, yeah, he does seem alright from a few feet away.”

“Come on (Y/N)! Ask him!” Sasha nods approvingly. “It’s weird that he’s studying alone like this while we’re in another table trying to remain unaware that he looks lonely as hell.”

“UMmMM… maybe he wants to study alone because that’s the only way he can focus? That’s a thing that normal people do, Sasha.” You remark sarcastically, trying to think up of more reasons to not approach him again.

Armin clears his throat, “Look, (Y/N), it won’t hurt to try right? Besides, don’t you feel a tiny bit sorry for him? He does seem lonely and you do have a crush on him so… more ways to interact with him right?”

Your shoulders slump and you breathe a defeated sigh. “Okay okay fine.” You make your way to Eren’s table again but before you do, you turn to your friends. “By the way, I don’t really have a crush on him just yet. I just find him cute okay?”

“Yeah yeah.” They say in unison as you continue to walk back to the brunette’s table.

“Hi again Eren!” You wave and try your best not to fumble or look painfully obvious that you were infatuated by him. He looks up and you try your best not to smile like a weirdo.

“Hm?” He hums.

“Would you like to come over to our table and study with us?”

To be continued.

#shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk x reader #eren x reader #attack on titan x reader #eren jaeger x reader #aot x reader #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #eren jaeger x you #eren jaeger x y/n #eren x you #snk #aot

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bruhlsbees · 4 years ago

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garden of eden - preview || alex kerner x fem!reader

summary: alex kerner loses a bet to reader and reader thinks on her relationship with alex

pairing: alex kerner x fem!reader

warnings: cute moments between alex and reader, feet - not sexual,

word count: 1,649

a/n: this is the preview for my upcoming alex kerner fic, garden of eden! i hope you enjoy it and the fic! :) i will have chapter one posted sometime on tuesday!!

if you'd like to be on the tag list for this fic (or any fic) please send me a message with what account to tag and what fic you'd like to be tagged to!!

You had been gnawing away on the cherry stem for ten minutes now - twisting, tugging, and biting down to form a knot. Sucking on the stem, moving your tongue around in your mouth to guide the stem in between your teeth to loop, when you finally felt the loop be made, you shot up from the couch, letting out an excited screech before clapping, pulling your fingers to your mouth before pulling out the saliva coaxed cherry stem, shuffling in your spot with a cheesy happy dance, turning towards the couch that you had jumped up from.

“Cough it up, Kerner. I told you that I could do it!” You extended your hand out to your best friend, Alex Kerner, a proud smile on your face as you still held the cherry stem knot in between your fingers.

For the past half an hour, after watching an obscene clip on the television of some girl tying a cherry knot in her mouth, with just her mouth, you and Alex began to have a heated argument as to whether or not someone could tie a cherry stem into a knot, or if it was all a joke. When the two of you finally decided to try it, you rushed to your fridge and pulled out some cherries from the bag, pulling the stems before heading back to the couch. It took you ten painful minutes before you finally got the knot.

With a groan, Alex fell back into the couch, still chewing on his own cherry stem before shaking his head, reaching into his pocket to pull out his wallet and a crinkled five deutsche mark. When he begrudgingly began to hand the bill towards you, you went to snatch it, missing as he dropped his hand suddenly, causing you to stumble forward, a gasp escaping from your lips.

“No fair! Come on, Alex! I won that fair and square!” You launched forward, making another poor attempt to get your winnings before feeling him grab you by the waist, throwing you back on the couch beside him. With a laugh, Alex grinned cheekily, putting his sock-clad foot against your stomach to prevent you from trying to lunge at him again.

At first you were no match to his large foot, the weight pinning you just right into your couch that prevented you from moving. When you grabbed his ankle, trying to move his foot off of you, you only managed to slip it up, his foot connected the side of your face, “Oh, Alex! Get your foot off of me! God, it smells!”

Watching as you squirmed under his foot, Alex erupted in a string of laughs, holding his stomach as you swatted his foot away, “Well why did you put it there if you didn’t want it there?”

“I’m going to kill you! I’m seriously going to kill you.” Moving your face into his foot, you groaned before opening your mouth to bite the side of it, feeling him quickly rip his foot away from your mouth and off you, giving you the chance to make an attempt to get the money again. Pushing yourself up from the sinking cushions, you jumped forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him, literally, onto the floor with you, landing on him before pinning him down, snatching the bill from his hand.

Sinking back down onto his lap, you held the mark high before bringing it down, kissing it sweetly before waving it in his face teasing him, “Thanks for that! I’ll be sure to buy myself something nice with it.”

As you stuffed the bill in his pocket, you noticed him fake pouting, his head turned to the side, his dark brows bunched together. Rolling your eyes, you leaned forward, squeezing his face in your hands, putting on your best baby voice.

“Awe, is Alex upset he lost the bet? Is the poor baby pouting because he lost five marks? Does the baby need a hug? A kiss to make it better?”

You smirked when you saw him beginning to crack, feeling his mouth turn into a smile before you placed wet grandma-style kisses all over his face, hearing him groan as he pushed your face away from him, “Oh, get off!”

Falling back, your body now nestled in between his legs with your own on top of him, resting on either side of him, back pressed against the couch, you could only smile at the moment shared with him. Even after everything that happened with his mother falling into her coma, the end of the GDR, and him switching jobs - he still seemed to be the enthusiastic Alex you met when you were a teenager.

You must have been staring at him for some time now, deep in though, because you felt a flick to your nose that pulled you out of it, “Ow! What was that for?”

Falling back, propped on his elbow, Alex laughed and shook his head, “I asked you a question...although you seemed to be pretty spaced out with something else. Wanna share with the class?” He teased, shaking your foot in his hand obnoxiously before your rolled your eyes, pulling your foot from his grasp, moving it to drape over his stomach to the other side with your other foot - although you seemed to drop your leg more heavily on his stomach than you imagined, hearing a grunt come from him.

“Nothing important,” You explained casually before shrugging, “What’s up?”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you smiled at him back as he flashed his signature crooked toothy grin your way, “I asked if you were hungry. And if so, do you got anything here or do you wanna go out?”

Rolling your eyes, you moved off of him before standing up, making your way to your kitchen, “You always ask me if I’m hungry, which means you’re hungry and you don’t want to be the only one eating.” You stated, opening the fridge to look for what you had. It wasn’t that full, but you had enough to make something work.

Hearing him get up, you listened as he made his way into the kitchen as well, standing behind you as he reached over your, pulling open the freezer. “How old is that pizza?” When you opened the box, Alex shrugged and took it, nudging the freezer shut with the pizza box before turning to go back to the couch.

To anyone outside of your friend/family group, it looked as though you were both living in a perfect domestic relationship- but that was just it, you weren’t. Alex and you were painfully close, dancing in an unknown realm that left you sometimes confused. There were times that he treated you like a guy would treat a girlfriend and then there were other times he treated you like his older sister, Ariane. You weren’t as delicate as the other girls were - you punched back and knew how to wrestle him to the ground to get what you wanted. But it felt as though sometimes Alex took that as you being ‘one of the boys’ as you’ve heard many guys say at your job down at the club. Though, just because you were less delicate than most girls, did that mean you couldn’t be seen as a girl?

Your love for Alex was something you didn’t like to think about. When the two of you first met as teenagers, love was something simple. You told him over and over again that you loved him and hung onto him like he was your rock - because he was, but the older you got, the more you began to wonder if that love was really all that simple?

Shaking your head, as if trying to shake the thoughts from your mind, you reached to grab the bag of cherries, shutting the fridge door behind you as you went to sit back on the couch beside Alex, sinking in before popping a couple cherries in your mouth, chewing at them. You took the cup used for ashes when Alex came over to spit the seeds into, holding onto the cup with one hand while the other grabbed at the cherries.

You didn’t know how, but you got stuck watching some movie that was being played on one of the channels. It was quite boring, but must have held Alex’s attention as he didn’t seem bothered to change the channel. You, however, grew incredibly tired, your eyes heavy as your head lulled to the side. It didn’t take long before you fell against Alex, snoring slightly, the cup of cherry seeds still in one hand with the bag of cherries in your lap.

Glancing over to his right, Alex smiled at your sleeping form. Setting the empty pizza box on the ground, he moved the bag of cherries off your lap and on top of the box, taking the cup carefully from your hand to set back on the table beside you. Doing his best, he scooped you up in his arms, standing up to carry you into your room.

It didn’t take him long to get you into bed, not bothering with putting pajamas on you as you already had comfier clothes on. Pulling the blankets over you, Alex tucked the blankets tight around you to keep you secure, leaning forward to kiss your shoulder, “Sleep well.”

Pushing off the bed, Alex turned to leave, careful to not trip over anything you had laying around on the ground. He shut your door quietly, carefully making his way back to the couch before turning the television off, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the chair to ready the couch to sleep on. When he unfolded the blanket, curling up the best he could on the couch, it didn’t take long for him too to be taken by sleep.

#daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #daniel bruehl #garden of eden #alex kerner #alex kerner imagine #alex kerner smut #alex kerner x reader #alex kerner x you #goodbye lenin #good bye lenin

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mrpenguinpants · 4 years ago

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Lisa and Diluc: Book Bonding HCs

Ah..I remember getting this so long ago..and only now am I writing it. I am so sorry inquiring anon I hope you are still there;; But don’t worry too much^^ and I totally get the Lisa and Diluc ship. The manga gave them some moments and Lisa is so mysterious but I’m into it. I might have piggybacked off it hehe.

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Okay, today’s appreciation post goes to sweetstrawberrybabe. I’m going to see if I add people’s @ in the tag list then maybe tumblr will be okay with it. [WHY ARE YOU NOT OKAY WITH IT] Hopefully. Honestly, with you I don’t think it matters since you’re mach 20 speed and I can always count on you to pop up in my activity haha. But ty for the really fast and constant support and I love the aesthetic of your blog.

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[taglist] <- if you want to be added, please read this first.

@hanniejji @mikeysbike @unionwitch @musekala @twistedsunnshiii @stanzastic @akaasea @xoneaboveallx @adoring-ghost @asheseiler @childelover @dilucsz

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Lisa and Diluc: Book Bonding HCs

It first started when Jean had sent Lisa to investigate Diluc about the evil eye delusion his father had. He was in the garden at the time and it was her first time visiting this specific part of the Dawn Winery. She and Diluc were more on acquaintance terms, both of them working in their own way to protect and serve the City of Freedom, but not close enough to be considered close friends. It was a bit of a passing joke she made when she recommended him a gardening book specifically on cecilia flowers that was in a specific section in the library. That if he ever decided to switch career’s and become a florist she would have the book on hold.

As much of an intellectual Lisa was, she couldn’t peer into the future, so she was a bit surprised to see Diluc walk into the library right when it struck noon. His aloof nature only made him nod at her before he retreated to a corner to the library. Well, it didn’t matter to Lisa. Just so long as he was quiet and didn’t disturb anyone else then he could do what he wanted. He never took out a book out, just simply flipping through the collection Mondstadt had to see if anything peaked his interest. After a while of him loitering and scanning the pages, Lisa had enough of this awkward tension and recommended that if we was interested in cecilia flowers, it was on the bottom floor, right most corner.

From then on, it seemed to be almost a weekly ritual. Diluc would come in and Lisa would direct him to a different part of the library that she thought he might be interested in. First starting with things that the winery business man that Diluc was would be interested in. Different plants that could be added to distill wine or how potatoes could make something call vodka only seen in Snezhnaya. But then it turned into personal interests, Lisa was well aware of Diluc’s night activities so she recommended books written by Fyodor Dostoevsky. He simply sighs under his breath and mentioned he already read it before. She chuckled at that and said that Kaeya had mentioned he read it when he was young. She was simply wondering if he would humour her or not.

Lisa still keeps her charming persona and was never bothered by Diluc’s aloof personality and likewise, Diluc respects her but never understood why she only remains as the Favonius librarian. He’s seen the “cauldron” she made and that she only uses it for warming tea. Lisa catches on quick to his shifting attention and invites him for tea time. At first Diluc declines, he’s far to busy to be having “tea time” which cause Lisa to chuckle.

Lisa enjoys the small things in life. Even when she has to collect overdue books it’s a time for her to catch up with others and enjoy the slowness of the days. While her life is a nice and steady drawl, Diluc’s is always set to max with broken brakes. She always feels a tiny bit of pity whenever Diluc makes his weekly visits to see if anything new or interesting came in, which she’s always happy to provide, but she can’t help but feel this is his little escape. Even if Diluc’s stay is short it’s nice to see him wander about rather than staying cooped up in the tavern or working on what the winery needs.

Diluc began to find his weekly visits with Lisa slow but pleasant. Walking into the quiet but warm library early in the morning to see the ever present librarian sitting at the counter like a languid cat, yawning and giving him a small wave, mentioning that Sarah finally found the overdue book she was missing and if he was interested in reading it, before going back to her nap. She always offered for him to stay a bit and keep her company but even still, Diluc always declined.

Until one day, Diluc found himself with a free day and found himself back at the library. Lisa seems a bit surprised to see him on an off day but smiles charmingly and offers once again, if he would like to keep her company and have some tea together. To his surprise, he agrees.

It became a bit of a tradition for them both. Diluc would come in at least once a week, ask if she had any thing to recommend, she would point him to a section on the library, and they would have tea together until it was time for him to leave. During their tea time chats they always seem to talk about everything and nothing. It was fitting that Lisa was the librarian since she herself had a library of information and trivia locked tight in her mind but sometimes they just sat in silence and read. They still aren’t on the same page as close friends but they are definitely closer than acquaintances. But the day is too slow and too fast to worry about labels.

---

I FINISHED MY QUOTA!! I ended up just writing this at work on my phone so if there’s any typo’s that’s probably why. God, why do we live in a society that needs money. I want to go back to caveman times where we 1v1 for a dying corpse of an animal. Time to commit sleep [I’ll answer everyone tmr^^] and hopefully wake up at 6 so I can get a few hours head start on the next fics.

I don’t want to make these shorter than my usual posts because people have been waiting on them for a very very long time but holy jesus I might have to because I can’t keep up. I’m going to crash and burn one day and sleep the entire 24 hours. But we’re gonna try! Tomorrow’s 3 fics are on Diluc and Childe.

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buckyskorpion · 5 years ago

Text

11 hours - part six

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: so i was gonna leave this on ANOTHER doozy cliff hanger but i genuinely thought i would get lynched so i decided to just leave it at a baby cliffhanger. a lot happened in this chapter and a lot of seeds have been planted for future chapters..... so lemme know what you think hehe. predictions?? angry letters?? pitchforks??? lemme know!! i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

masterlist

“You’re very calm for someone with a gun to their head.”

Honestly, you had been thinking the same thing. Sure, your stomach feels like a snake pit and your hands are sweating and you don’t think you’ve ever been more aware of your own heart beat, but other than that - you don’t understand why you aren’t panicking more. There are three men standing in front of you, one behind, all with guns. They’re wearing matching leather jackets with an octo-head patch on the sleeve, and they all look very scary. Briefly, you wonder if Bucky has a jacket like this, with a patch on to match his family. It’s an irrelevant detail you can’t help but fixate on right now.

Bucky. Hopefully listening on the other end of the phone you have tucked in your back pocket which your kidnappers haven’t been bothered to check yet, thankfully. You flex your wrists against the zip ties holding you to a chair and ask, “Where am I?”

“You should know,” your stalker turned kidnapper says with a condescending sneer. “You followed me here.”

“The Lerna?” you clarify, for the sake of hopefully someone on the other end of your mobile picking it up. You glance around at the old-style bar; chipped wood and beer stains, a rickety pool table one of your stalker’s friends is using as an arm rest. You curl your nose up at it - a little proudly, you note it has nothing on Sam’s bar.

“Do you recognise the place?” your stalker asks. That throws you. You want to ask what he means by that, why you would recognise this gross bar you’ve never stepped foot in, but you clench your teeth and school your face.

Once your dad sat you down in a chair much like this one, in his office at the house you grew up in. You were eleven, maybe, and you didn’t quite understand why he was tying your hands to the back with a necktie but you went along with it. He did this, sometimes - would orchestrate some strange lesson when his nightmares got really bad, his ghosts chasing him inside the house until he saw enemies in lampshades and kitchen cabinets. To keep you safe, he would say, and then he sat opposite you and asked what you would do if anyone ever put you in this position against your will.

“Kroshka, they will use anything against you,” he had said, and you see that now with the way these men are looking at you for any weakness. But you didn’t understand then, you were a kid thinking your dad was spiralling again, so he had cast around until he found a beer bottle on the coffee table. “See, like this. When the label is flat it’s fine, but as soon as one little corner lifts you can’t help it - you have to peel it all the way off. Don’t give them any corners, kroshka.”

You blink, once. The man in front of you scowls when you don’t answer, presses forward into your space in a show of intimidation. You try not to flinch, but that fear you were missing before is starting to set in real fast. What did he mean, do you recognise it? And why the hell are you so prepared for a situation like this, almost as if your dad has been training you for it since you could remember?

“Fine,” your stalker says, his breath fanning over you with how he’s leaning into your space. “Maybe you can answer something else, about your boyfriend.”

“Dunno who you’re talking about,” you say. It’s not a lie - technically, you hadn’t had the ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ chat with Bucky yet. This man is not appreciative of your loopholes. He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, pressing his glock into your neck. You shiver, both at the pain and the cold of the metal. Through gritted teeth and mild hyperventilation, you say, “As a matter of fact, I dunno who you are either. That’s kinda weird, dontcha think?”

You can practically hear Bucky in your head telling you to shut up, but he’s not here right now. No corners, just like your dad said. Doesn’t mean you can’t try and find some corners of your own.

What you meant as a question to buy some time, with a bit of attitude on the side, sends your stalker reeling back from you. He’s confused, eyebrows drawn down low and his friends behind him look to each other with the same expression. Now, you’re confused as well. Everyone in the room stands (or sits, in your particular predicament) in a pure state of what the fuck is going on. It would be funny, if there wasn’t still a gun to the back of your head.

“You don’t know the patch?” the man asks, gesturing to the sleeve of his jacket. When you don’t respond he continues, slowly, reiterating his question from before but as a statement, “You don’t recognise this place.”

You have zero idea what’s going on, but whatever you’ve said seems have thrown your kidnappers for a bit of a loop, so you decide to roll with it. You say, and hope to god the man standing behind you doesn’t shoot you for it, “I’m starting to think you’ve lost control of this situation, pal.”

From the corner of the room behind you, a familiar husky-toned red head says, “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

Shots ring out, shattering the windows as one by one your stalker’s friends drop like dominos. Someone crouches behind you and cuts you lose with a knife, and you hear it clatter to the floor as they launch over the back of your chair feet first into your stalker. Natasha. The flash of her red hair over your shoulder as she sends him flying is unmistakable. You scramble from the chair, fumbling for the knife she dropped but your hand slides through something thick, wet. The man behind you with the gun lies dead, throat slit, his blood now all over your fingers. It mesmerises you in a sickening way, making your stomach turn and your vision go fuzzy.

You’d never seen a dead body before. Now they are all around you, the bar smelling like blood instead of beer and the sound of bullets pinging off glass the only noise other than Natasha grappling with your stalker. She’s so small compared to him but she has her thighs clenched around his throat and he gasps for breath, clawing at her legs. You watch, stunned, as he gets a grip on her and throws her off, sending her crashing into the wall with a groan.

She hits the floor and you see red - all you can think is that’s Bucky’s family and that man is walking towards her, his gun trained on her body as she tries to pull herself to her feet, so you stop thinking at all. You picture the back of your stalker's neck like the dartboard at Sam’s bar and you throw.

Bullseye. Just like your dad taught you.

The man drops, knife buried in his neck and haemorrhaging blood. He gurgles this awful, awful sound as he clutches at his throat, trying and failing to push the blood back in. Natasha looks from your still outstretched hand, trembling in place, to meet your gaze. You can’t begin to decipher her expression, nor do you want to. You feel like you’re going to throw up, or choke, or scream, or all three. The man you just stabbed in the neck groans in pain, eyes rolling, coughing blood from his mouth in thick clumps. You can’t feel your hands anymore.

The door bangs open and you flinch, stumbling back until you trip on the chair you had been tied to and fall to the floor in a crumple of limbs. It’s Bucky, eyes wild and larger than life with a rage you’ve never seen before. He has a huge sniper-rifle slung over his back as he strides into the bar, stepping right over the writhing body of your stalker.

“I’ll deal with you in a second, Rumlow,” he practically growls, kicking aside the man’s hand that tries to grab for him. You scramble to your feet, practically tripping over yourself to get to Bucky. Doesn’t it say something about you that you run towards the man responsible for the death all around you?

You crash into Bucky hard, the force of the impact knocking the breath right out of you and once it’s gone you can’t get it back. It feels like his arms encompass the entirety of you as he holds you so tight your feet leave the ground. His chest rumbles with words but you can’t hear him, your ears are ringing and your chest is tight because panic attack, you dumbass. You press your face into Bucky’s neck and hope that’s enough to escape the scene unfolding around you.

“Get her out of here, I’ll deal with this,” you hear Natasha say somewhere behind Bucky but you refuse to lift your head to see.

Bucky attempts to pull away from you to look at Natasha, you can feel him try and twist his head but the inarticulate whine that rips from your throat stills the both of you. It’s mildly embarrassing, the sound you’ve just made, but it’s out there now. Bucky shifts his grip so one big palm rubs soothing strokes up and down your spine and you feel yourself becoming boneless with every pass of his hand.

“I’m not fucking lettin’ him get away with this,” Bucky says, low, threatening - if you were this Rumlow guy bleeding out on the ground, you would be afraid.

“And he won’t,” Natasha says, and then like she has to remind Bucky of his own thoughts, “but you have other priorities right now. Get her out of here.”

You feel Bucky nod, his scratchy chin moving against the top of your head. He kisses your temple and holds the back of your skull with one big palm, pressing your face further into his neck. It means you don’t see the carnage of the bar when he moves to place an arm around your shoulder and steer you out the door, stumbling under his guidance on shaky, cotton-fuzzy legs. He’s hurrying you, but as gently as he can. Once you feel the bright burn of sunlight on your skin you pull back from Bucky’s neck, blinking in the now empty street and Bucky’s piercing gaze as he looks down at you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, his hand dropping from your skull to squeeze the side of your neck. You still feel like you’re sipping each breath through a straw but you nod. You can see in his eyes he needs you to be with him right now, to get out of here, so you try and blink away the fuzzies in the corners of your vision and focus on his face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and christ, now is not the time for that stinging pressure behind your eyes you hate so much. You hope Bucky understands - sorry for not listening to him, sorry for getting you both into this mess, sorry for not being strong when he needs you to be.

Bucky shakes his head vehemently, tugs you in harsh and strong by the grip he has on your neck to press a bruising kiss to your forehead. Your eyes flutter close at the fierce way he holds you, presses emotion into your skin like the tattoos littering his skin - a brand of your own, in the middle of this eerily empty street with the blood of strange men on both your hands. The thought makes you shake, so you twist your fingers in the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and breathe him in deep.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he says, then pulls away from you. He grabs one of your hands from out under his shirt and links your fingers, beginning to drag you down the street. Looking back over his shoulder, he says with a grimace, “We gotta go.”

He leads you to his bike, squeezed between a brick wall and a dumpster in a side alley a block away from The Lerna. It roars to life before you’ve properly swung yourself on the back, and you aren’t bothering with helmets this time as Bucky eases the bike out from it’s tight spot with unsettling ease. All you can do is hold on tight and close your eyes as Bucky leads you away, weaving through the city in nonsensical loops before you feel the air open up around you and the familiar sounds of Brooklyn.

Bucky takes you to Steve’s tattoo in Red Hook, the first time you’re been back there since that fateful run-in with Natasha. You’ve checked out completely by the time Bucky parks - he has to lift you off the back of the bike because your legs won’t work, and he all but carries you inside. Steve is quick to rid the shop of the two customers looking at designs out front as Bucky settles you on the couch by the tattoo beds. You sink into the faded red leather without feeling a thing. Distantly, you notice the kid who usually mans the tills looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you suppose you deserve that.

“Stevie, I think she’s in shock,” you hear Bucky say, and the childhood nickname makes you smile. You watch Bucky’s face crease up deep concern at the dreamy look on your face, so you suppose you should stop smiling like a crazy person. A giant blonde head swims into your view, just as concerned, and he drapes a blanket around your shoulders.

“Bucky,” you say, your eyebrows drawing down as you fumble for his hand. He squeezes your fingers and mumbles something to Steve who leaves you again, his voice mingling with the kid’s somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder but you can’t focus on that. All you can do is swim in the back of Bucky’s too-deep stare and say, “I killed him.”

“No, no,” he says, shifting closer between your thighs as he kneels on the floor in front of you. This would be funny to you in any other moment, something to tease him for as he takes both your hands in his and squeezes them together, silently imploring you to stay looking at him. He says, “That’s not on you, sweetheart, it ain’t. You didn’t kill him.”

You’re crying now, properly, which you suppose is a good sign because you don’t think people in shock can cry. You watch as something cracks in Bucky’s eyes as he watches you break apart, but you can’t stop now you’ve started. You say, “I did, I killed him. How do you do it? How do you just- I feel like my throat’s gonna close up. How do you live past this?”

Bucky’s face darkens, smoothing out to something stone cold and frightening. You don’t feel scared, though, as he leans into your space so close you almost feel cross-eyed trying to stay glued to the blue of his eyes. He searches your face for something and says, no room for argument, “You did not kill that bastard, you hear me?”

“But-“

“No,” he says, simply, and that’s that. “The only reason you were in that position is because of me, doll, so no. You didn’t kill him. It’s on me, and I live with that so you don’t have to. You got that? You don’t ever have to live with that.”

You don’t know how he makes you feel like he’s physically reached into your chest and pulled out your guilt through your throat, but he does. You can see it clenched tight in his fist, his eyes shuttering down dark as he shoves it between his own teeth to hold. It’s too soon for the feelings clawing at your ribcage but you feel them just the same, that cigarette burn he left on your heart aching so bad you could scream from it. You extract a hand from his to run down his cheek, along his jaw, cupping his face in your palm. He closes his eyes, shudders as though swallowing down the guilt for the both of you.

I love you for that, you think to the soft flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. I’ll love you forever for that.

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

When Natasha returns to the shop, and Sam bundles in not long after that, the four bikers sit around Steve’s prematurely closed tattoo shop and have a family meeting. You can’t help but feel like the kid who’s stayed up past their bedtime to try and hang with the adults, the words flying over their head and sleep pulling at their eyelids but they fight to stay awake anyway. Bucky pulls your head into his lap as he sits on the couch beside you, so you lie there and let him stroke your hair while they discuss what happened over the past two hours.

Two hours, and that’s all it’s taken for your whole world to spin on it’s axis. You’d learnt to throw knives at tree trunks with your dad as a fun, albeit unconventional after-school activity. And now you’ve buried a knife in someone’s neck, you’ve been kidnapped and tied to a chair and watched Bucky gun down men from a rooftop with his sniper rifle. He pulled the trigger with the same fingers he’s carding through your hair now, nails scratching at your scalp in a way that makes your toes tingle. How is that at all ok?

“We’ve started a turf war with Hydra, now,” Sam is saying, sitting backwards on a chair facing Bucky and spreading his hands out in a placating gesture as Bucky bristles. “It was unavoidable, alright, I’m just saying.”

“Not necessarily,” Natasha says. “Rumlow has had a vendetta against Bucky for years. He could’ve been acting alone.”

“It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” Steve says thoughtfully. He is pressing an icepack to Natasha’s back, already bruising from where this Rumlow guy threw her into the wall. She’s lifting up her t-shirt and you can see a glimpse of a back piece standing out stark against her pale skin. Giant, feathered wings and a talon, a mosaic piece of what looks like a large hawk spanning the length of her spine.

“When Pierce finds out it was us that shot up his bar, though,” Sam says, making meaningful eyebrow movements to the group. They all nod thoughtfully and fall into silence.

None of these names make much sense to you - Hydra, Pierce, even Rumlow who you’ve gathered by now was your stalker. Was, because he’s dead now, and the thought turns your mouth dry and rusted. You shift in discomfort, drawing Bucky’s attention down to you as he gives you a concerned once over. He had done a thorough analysis for any injuries, even after you’d assured him you were fine, but you can tell he’s still unconvinced.

Unfortunately for you, all your wounds appear to be mental. They’re getting deeper by the second.

“I keep thinking,” you say to Bucky, “why was he so surprised I didn’t know where I was? Or who they were?”

“Hydra is our biggest rival,” Bucky says, and huffs a laugh at your crinkly brow so he clarifies, “They’re another gang, one we’ve had a lot of run-ins with. Rumlow especially. He wasn’t our biggest fan.”

“So he expected you to have told me about him, and Hydra,” you say, the name unfamiliar on your tongue. He nods, and you have to ask, “Why didn’t you?”

Bucky frowns at that. “I already told you - the more you know, the more dangerous it is.”

“And I already told you, no secrets,” you say, frowning just as deep. A beat passes and Bucky doesn’t budge, just glares down at you like he can physically bore his opinion into your brain and make it yours. Exasperated, you say, “Bucky, it didn’t matter anyway - the danger found me. Telling me things like that isn’t going to make a difference.”

“It would’ve if you’d listened to me and not done the stupid thing,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows. He may have a point, but you aren’t going to back down that easily. Bucky knows you, he knows if you see a loose thread you’re going to pull it. The fact he thought you’d listen to him tell you what to do at all is laughable.

“This gang is your life,” you say, and you don’t bother to hide your frustration now, “They’re your family. I’m no safer not knowing what’s going on - I got stalked and kidnapped regardless. Clearly, it’s dangerous no matter what, so just tell me, Bucky. Whatever it is.”

Bucky stares at you for a long time. Steve, Natasha, Sam - they cease to exist in this room with you. Those first few weeks, when you refused to stay the night in Bucky’s bed and would only see him to fuck - you used to be scared of looking into those eyes for too long, for fear of getting lost. Now you dive head first, a part of you hoping you do get lost so you never have to find your way back out again.

Eventually, Bucky clenches his jaw tight and says, “You’re right.”

You blink, surprised. You hear Sam whisper to Steve, “did you record that?”, and honestly, you wanna ask the same thing. Except the way Bucky is look at you- dread curls thick and choking in your gut. You look up at Bucky and he seem so far away, out of reach even though you feel him all around you. He continues stroking your hair but it’s absentminded, his mind far away too.

You are drawn back to the tattoo shop by Sam saying, “I gotta say, Barnes, your girl is smart as hell. Keeping your phone on you and out-smarting Rumlow in a hostage situation? Pretty badass.”

Bucky smiles briefly down at you, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. You turn to Sam and say, “I got the impression out-smarting Rumlow isn’t really that hard.”

Everyone laughs at that, even Bucky, and it clears away some of the dread eating away at your stomach. But it’s still there, acidic and bubbling no matter what you do to smother it.

Eventually, they grow tired of talking in circles about Rumlow and Hydra and the possibility of the feds showing up (Bucky assures everyone the cops will find no rifling on the bullets and won’t be able to pin them to the crime scene, but Sam mutters heard that before and an argument erupts about some debacle in Bucharest so you tune out). Bucky takes you back to his apartment, tucked securely in his leather jacket in the best kind of shock blanket you could ever ask for.

For the first time, you noticed the tiny embroidered star on the sleeve of his jacket. You wonder if all Bucky’s friends have the same star on their jackets, because they’re not just friends, they’re a gang. One you feel suddenly, irrevocably intertwined with since they’re the only reason you aren’t sitting in a jail cell for murdering someone.

You feel jittery as you walk into Bucky’s apartment, almost nervous. It looks the same as this morning, the coffee cups you used for Steve and Bucky still in the sink and hoodie of his you’d worn last night draped over a chair. But everything is different, now. It’s all changed, there’s weird new shadows over everything long after Bucky turns on the light. You linger in the doorway to Bucky’s bedroom while he rummages around for sweats and jumpers, laying out a pair for you before he begins changing himself. He shucks off his t-shirt and you see his tattoo sleeve, the mottled scars hiding underneath, and your heart flies out of your throat before you can stop it.

“So do you guys have a fun, spooky name like Hydra or what?” you ask, closing your eyes with a grimace as soon as you ask the question. What are you, twelve? Bucky doesn’t answer and you’re too afraid to open your eyes too see the look on his face.

You’re startled when you feel him kiss your cheek, sensing his large frame towering over you and blocking out some of the soft bedroom light. You open your eyes to find him smiling down at you, laughing at you with his eyes as he says, “Not so spooky. Steve named us, he called us the Howling Commandos. The HC, for short.”

You crinkle your nose up at him and he flicks the tip with his ringed fingers. You say, “That’s very old-fashioned.”

“Nat teases him for it all the time,” he says, “She calls us her barbershop quartet.”

You smile, imagining Bucky in suspenders playing the accordion, and say, “Now that I like.”

The longer Bucky looks at you the more sober he becomes, mouth becoming pinched and jaw muscle ticking. He holds you soft by the biceps and walks you back until you hit the wall, still gentle, but bracketing you in now so all you can see is the weight of whatever complicated thing is running across Bucky’s face.

“You scared the fucking shit out of me today,” he says. He shifts, grips your jaw tight so his rings dig into your skin with none of the gentleness of before - he means this. “Never do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, twisting in his tight grip to press a kiss to his fingertips. He softens, allows you to pull him in flush against you by his waist, his bare skin so warm under your hands. “And, thank you. I don’t- I guess I’ve never had someone come save me before, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He kisses you, a rough press of chapped lips against yours and is gone again before you can react. Says, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Come back,” you say with a pout, and you have just enough time to see Bucky smirk down at you before he’s kissing you again. It’s just as fierce, almost painful, but the rough slide of it distracts from the burn in your chest and your racing thoughts like razorblades. You lick into his mouth, chasing away the ghosts nipping at your heels, and he presses you back into the wall with a thunk hard enough to leave a bruise on your tailbone tomorrow. You don’t care. It feels good to hurt in a way that’s physical.

The ease with which Bucky picks you up makes your head spin. It’s all you can do but pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw as he carries you to the bed, lips suddenly ripped from his skin as he dumps you on the covers. He is quick to follow, squashing you down with his tongue in your mouth before you can take another breath. This, you know. All the messy feelings and heartache and fearfearfear that beats in time with your heart, that maybe you’ll lose him or he’ll lose you and you came so close today, is unfamiliar to the both of you. But arching your back off the bed so he can take your shirt off, scrubbing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck as he peppers kisses across your tits with a trail of goosebumps left behind - this is how you know Bucky best.

He makes quick work of your clothes and you fumble with his jeans, laughing into his mouth as he bats your hand away to do it for you. Bucky bites your bottom lip in playful admonishment and you chase his mouth as he tries to pull away. He places one big palm on your clavicle and pushes down, holding you against the bed. He shakes his head at you with a smile.

“Stay,” he says like he would to a dog, grinning wide as you glare at him. But you do as you’re told as he leans over you to grab a condom with his left arm. Maybe you bend the rules a little to trail kisses up the bits of his outstretched forearm you can reach. Over a shadowy skull, the stem of a rose, what looks like military windings near the crook of his elbow and tiny handwritten letters that spell S N S. Sam Nat Steve, because Bucky might be a tough guy to most but he’s a giant sap deep down.

Bucky shudders at your touch, and it makes you wonder if the scarring under his tattoos is extra sensitive. Or maybe he is just sensitive to anyone touching him in such a vulnerable place. You flick your eyes up to watch him watch you, lip drawn between his teeth and a dent between his eyebrows you ache to soothe if he wasn’t still holding you down. You don’t stop, even though he looks physically pained with every brush of your lips against his skin. You trace the edges of another small wolf with your tongue, like the ones on his chestpiece, and watch as his eyes flutter closed when you get close to the paper-thin skin of his inner wrist.

That hits Bucky’s limit. Suddenly his hand on your chest slides up to your neck and he’s leaning over you, left arm braced by your head and his mouth swallowing yours. You groan against his lips at the rough drag of his hands down your sides, gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. He makes your brain go fuzzy, the only coherent thoughts being Bucky and touch me more. He seems to understand. His fingers find your clit, smoothing slow circles which spark embers in the pit of your stomach. Bucky’s mouth falls open as yours does, as if to breath in the whine he draws from you.

“Fuck, you always sound so good,” Bucky groans. He buries his face into the side of your neck, taking advantage of your thigh trapped between his legs to rut against you while he continues playing with your clit. Every time Bucky gets filthy with you it’s like the first time, shocking and almost embarrassing in the sexiest way possible. Heat floods your cheeks and makes you lightheaded, unable to stop the moan he draws from you. You’re rewarded by Bucky’s teeth in your neck, the sensitive spot just over your pulse point, and if you’re being honest you could come just from this.

Bucky’s cock growing harder against your thigh, as his hips shift in rhythm with the circles he draws on your clit, becomes too difficult to ignore. To gain his attention you twist and nip at the closest piece of skin you can find, Bucky’s ear, and he engulfs you in a kiss which steals the breath right out of you. You buck your hips, hoping to nonverbally convey the demand get in me right now, and Bucky doesn't need any more hints than that.

He fumbles with the condom for a second and you take the time to sit up on your elbows and look at him. Bucky is so beautiful, drawn in harsh lines and stark contrasts. Tan skin turned paler against the opaque black of his tattoos, colour swirling in-between and it should be jarring, but you think he just looks like art. Bitten red lips, startling blue eyes pinning you to the mattress as he catches you staring - such bright, primary colours because he is a statement piece, and one you could look at forever.

Bucky grins almost bashfully as you stare at him, leaning back over you to kiss you soft and sweet in a sharp juxtaposition to the rough tumble which got you here. Again, he sends your head spinning when the tender kiss is punctuated by the unexpected push of Bucky’s cock in your cunt. He bottoms out before you can blink, throwing your head back out of the kiss with an untamed groan - both pleasure and pain, in the good way. Bucky drags his teeth from your lips down your chin and neck, biting a mark into your collarbone to set the tone for the bruising pace he creates as he pounds into you.

He doesn’t do anything in halves, you think. You gaze up at him with an almost dopey smile while Bucky fucks the literal breath out of you. You lift your hips to meet him as he bottoms out with every thrust, watching in awe as his face creases up in ecstasy - it’s you who brings him there. He palms your tits like he can’t help himself, loses control in your pussy because you make him feel that good, and the thought makes you giddy. Drunk, almost, as you drag your nails down his chest and nearly come once again just from the moan you draw out of this brilliant, dangerous, gorgeous man.

“You take it so well, baby, fuck,” Bucky pants, eyebrows creasing as the pleasure gets almost painful in its build. You know the feeling. Bucky’s mouth is always your undoing, rolling your eyes back into your head and the sounds you’re making turning positively feral. He kisses you again, more a slam of mouths than anything finessed, and says, “Never gonna get over this, never gonna get over how good you feel.”

“Bucky, you gotta-“

“I gotta what, huh?” Bucky grins at the pleasure-addled panic he brings you too, not wanting to come too fast but also needing to let go before you actually explode. He knows exactly what he’s doing, balancing on one hand to thumb harshly at your clit as he says, “You want me to stop? I don’t think so, sweetheart, I think you wanna come on my cock just like this, wanna hear me tell you how good you are, how sweet you are for me all laid out like this-“

Everything whites out as you come, hard, all your muscles spasming like crazy with the orgasm that rips through you. Bucky’s voice is drowned out, but it doesn’t matter what he’s saying anymore, he’s made you feel like you’ll never catch your breath again. Bucky thunks his forehead against yours, collapsing on top of you as the fluttering clench of your cunt around his cock becomes too much. His thrusts turn sloppy, his breath hot and ragged across your face as you press lazy, barely-there kisses to his cheeks - all you can muster in your fucked-out haze.

Bucky comes with his eyes closed, eyelashes tangling with yours, and you cling to him with all four limbs as he shakes through his orgasm. The release was so needed for the both of you, the events of the last twenty-four hours frying your nerves to the point where it was either fight, cry, or fuck. It feels so good to have Bucky on top of you, inside you, all around you in every single sense and it warms your heart in a way you didn’t know was possible until now. Until Bucky.

Maybe that’s the afterglow talking, and you should stop. But you can’t help but press another kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and another, over his nose and across his still-closed eyelids until you reach his mouth and he can kiss you back just as soft. You hope he gets it. You hope he feels it too.

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

You go to see your dad, eventually. The chaos of yesterday kept you attached to Bucky’s hip - you showered together in the morning, and he allowed you to pretend it was just the water and not tears soaking your face. But he made you cuddle with him on the couch and fed you an omelette like you were incapable of feeding yourself, and maybe you were, because the reality of what happened in that shitty Manhattan bar was starting to eat away at your executive functions. It took all of your strength to convince Bucky you would be ok and that you’d come back to him as soon as you were done, but it was time to pull on a thread you’ve been ignoring for far too long.

It turns out, that paranoid over-questioning part of your brain doesn’t turn off even during a traumatic event. Your dad lets you in without a word, tugging you into a side hug as you both walk to the kitchen to make tea.

The house you grew up in has taken on a different light since the Lerna. The kitchen chairs aren’t the same, reminding you too much of ziptied wrists and a gun in your face. Why can you superimpose the memory of Rumlow holding you hostage to one you have of being eleven and tied to a chair by your father? You shouldn’t be able to do that.

He nudges your hip, jerking you out of your staring contest with the dining chairs, and offers you a mug of tea. You both sit at the table, either end, the fruit bowl a mediator between you. He looks tired, old, like he always has somehow in your memories from childhood. He’s still your dad, the same man who always been there because he’s all you’ve ever had. He loves you, you know does. Ya lyublyu tebya, luna. But he has always been the first to say your paranoid streak runs a mile deep, and once you find a thread-

Well. Everyone knows how that ends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” your dad asks, and it’s like he knows you aren’t here to ask for boy advice or moan about a case or your skyrocketing rent.

There’s a lot you want to talk about. Why did I learn to throw knives instead of joining the soccer team, like normal kids? Why did I learn how to survive an interrogation instead of going to sleepovers, like normal kids? Why did you train me to question everyone and everything in this world, but I’ve always blindly believed you? Like a normal kid would, you suppose, the only normal you’ve ever really gotten. Always believing your dad is the superhero of six-year-old dreams, someone who would never keep you in the dark.

“No,” you say, taking a sip of tea. It burns your tongue to numbness, but you can’t bring yourself to care. We had the secret language for only us - why did I never think you might have secrets from me as well? You grimace into your tea and say, “Not right now, I’m sorry.”

“Tayny budut presledovat tebya vechno, malysh,” he says. Secrets will haunt you forever, little one.

You don’t dare look up from your tea as you say, “Ya dumayu, ty by znal vse ob etom.” I guess you’d know all about that.

He gives you leftover curry in a carry bag when you leave. Kisses you on the cheek and lets you go, but you can feel him watching you the entire time it takes you to walk down the street and out of sight. As soon as you round the corner you retch into the nearest bush, a well-manicured rose which you silently apologise to as it gets covered in your bile.

This guilt isn’t something Bucky can save you from - it feels like it’s eating you alive. You had never, ever thought you would get to the point where you’d be leaving a bug stuck to the underside of your dad’s kitchen table, but you suppose you never thought you’d be stalked and kidnapped either. You wipe the your mouth with the back of your hand as your stomach finishes emptying itself of tea and betrayal, and try to tell yourself you won’t find anything, you're just being paranoid. But you know you will.

Maybe you always have, and that’s why you’ve been too scared to pull on the thread you’ve known has been dangling in the back of your mind since you were a kid. Just one secret you wanted to leave, one dark corner you didn’t want to shine a light into. That’s never been in your nature. You spit the foul, acidic taste from your mouth onto a poor, innocent rose bud and think with just as much bitterness as the bile coating your throat, that’s not who my dad raised me to be.

Part 7

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x reader fic #bucky barnes x reader fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #reader insert #reader insert fic #pov #pov fic #biker!bucky #biker!bucky fic #biker!bucky au #biker au #11 hours #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #brock rumlow

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zigtheeortega · 4 years ago

Text

thieves in the shadows

part one | read on ao3

pairing | mal x mc [but other pairings could be implied]

word count | 6.5k

warnings | this is a crime au, so there are quite a few warnings. violence, blood, knives, guns, police, criticisms of religion etc. my mc is a detective in this series.

tags | @raleighcarrera, @pixeljazzy, @natesewell, @choicesarehard, @jaxmatsuo, @pantcmime

author’s note | so for the last day of blades week, the lovely @pixelsandkink hosted a sleepover and one of the questions were “what type of au’s would you like to see?” and the idea of a crime au wormed its way into my brain and i haven’t been able to stop thinking about it! i tried to get the whole story done by epilogue day for @bladesappreciationweek but i only managed part one, so more’s to come – i really hope you like it !!! disclaimer: i had to make the names a bit more realistic since they’re human in this au, so tyril is ty, imtura is immy, and my mc zilyana is yana. another disclaimer: people hc imtura as black so she’s written as such in this fic!

•─────────────────•

bullets pelted the crates they were crouched behind, wood splintering in every direction. bodies were strewn across the warehouse, the unmistakable pools of blood streaking across the stone.

“raine! to your left!” immy yelled her way, barely sparing her a glance before unloading her clip, shell casings clinking against the ground.

the gun trembled in yana’s hands. she’d shot one before – practice at the gun range, glass bottles in a back alley – but never a live target.

before she could edge around the shield of crates to take her aim, the cold steel of the blade dug into the skin at the base of her throat.

“well, well,” the voice said. “you seem to be in a bit of a bind, detective nightbloom.”

––––

when she first got assigned to the case, she didn’t want anything to do with it. she was minding her business, just coming off of the high of the egovore case – she’d busted a druglord selling hallucinogenic laced opiates that’d killed a handful of teens in the area.

she turned the new case down initially, citing she needed a break, but in reality… she didn’t care to go undercover again. she’d been asked to do things she never wanted to do, like flirt with vicious criminals who could snap her in half without an ounce of remorse.

don’t get it twisted – she was meant to be a detective. it was in her blood.

but the things she was asked to do took a bit of a toll on her and she needed time to recuperate. she was exhausted, and quite frankly, wanted to be yana nightbloom for a couple of weeks before jumping into another identity.

however, when mayor valleros showed up to the station requesting to speak to her privately, she knew there was no getting out of it.

that night she curled up in bed, reviewing the sensitive case files as well as her new identity, hoping that she could wrap it up in a couple of months.

––––

the taxi dropped her off at the seedy motel on the outskirts of the city, just a couple blocks away from the auto shop.

she suited up in an outfit that “raine” would wear, tucking her gun into her belt, before making the trek.

the sun was low behind the old buildings, most of the strip abandoned or looted, graffiti covering nearly every inch of wall space. tents were scattered in empty lots, a handful of homeless people pushing their carts towards the tents as the last slivers of light dissipated.

all she knew about the area was that a man popped up a couple months prior, bought almost every plot, and set up shop.

he clearly bought the dying businesses so they would stay out of his way.

she’d memorized every inch of her file, committing her persona to memory as well as any details about this crew, which were surprisingly next to none.

mayor valleros couldn’t prove it, but he had a sneaking suspicion that the string of robberies targeting big businesses and millionaires was somehow connected to this rinky dink shop.

the garage was halfway open, the light coming from it trickling out onto the street. the trunk of an old convertible poked out, and she could hear the bass line of a soft rock song the closer she got.

the file she’d received was nearly bare – she was walking into the situation blind. from her knowledge, they were always open to recruits, but they turned away quite a lot of people. they had a serious vetting process and didn’t trust just anyone.

she probably had little to no chance of getting in, but she was gonna do her damnedest to earn their trust.

when she approached the car, she took a slow cautious step inside, hand firmly on hip, ready to pull her gun out at a moment's notice.

a quick cock of a handgun pulled her attention south.

the man rolled to a stop from underneath the car, flat on his back against the scooter, brow quirked, the barrel of his gun pointed up at her.

“and who might you be?”

“i could be asking you the same thing,” she said, hand still on her hip.

“toss the gun over.”

she sighed, tugging it out from her waistband, squatting slowly to place it on the ground, skitting it towards him. she stood up slowly, hands in front of her in surrender.

he snatched the gun, before pushing himself up till he was standing. he slid her gun into his waistband with one hand, keeping his other trained on her.

“gimme the blade in your boot, too.”

she tried keeping her composure – she always kept a pocket knife on her but she nearly forgot it was there. how the hell did he know?

“fuck me,” she cursed under her breath. “if you insist,” he grinned, then motioned his hand towards himself.

she dug it out of her shoe, tossing it over. “how could you tell?”

“lucky guess. didn’t really know if you had one,” he shrugged, pocketing the blade.

they stood in silence, sizing each other up. his eyes raked over her body, lingering on places she was glad she had covered in baggy clothing.

“so, you gonna tell me your name?”

“no.”

“have it your way, rando. you’re not getting past this garage unless you give me something. doesn’t bother me a bit.”

“you clearly seem bothered,” she muttered, shifting her weight to her other foot.

she probably shouldn’t have been so bold, but if he wanted to shoot her, he would’ve done it already.

“nope. i don’t have shit to do. i could do this all day,” he raised a single brow, the one with a slit shaved into it.

“raine,” she said, the one syllable begrudgingly making it past her lips.

“now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he cocked his head to the side.

“you’re not that smart if you think that’s anything more than my street name.”

“street name? what are you, a fed?” He laughed, motioning the barrel of the gun upwards. “show me your waist and back.” “didn’t know ty hired perverts as door greeters,” she rolled her eyes, tugging her shirt upwards, slowly rotating to show off her stomach and lower back, proving she wasn’t wearing a wire.

his brows furrowed as a loud, booming cackle sounded from the doorway.

“you’re just gonna let her talk to you like that, mal?” the tall woman laughed, crossing her arms when she came into view.

“why’d you just say my name like that? i had a whole thing going,” he all but groaned, running a hand over his face.

“eh, who gives a shit. not like she’s in a position to do much, anyway,” she shrugged, her biceps flexing with the motion. “plus, she clearly knows who ty is. she didn’t just waltz in here – armed, might i add – for nothing.”

“who sent you, raine?”

yana shook her head, already slipping into the new, abrasive personality, scrunching her face up in disgust. “i’m not telling you two bozos shit. bring me to ty.”

the woman closed the gap between them in a couple steps, towering over her. she was easily six foot (even taller if you counted the locs piled atop her head), tattoos riddling every exposed inch of her body, her menacing grin gleaming in the dim light. her hands fisted the fabric at yana’s neck, tugging her just high enough that the tips of her shoes brushed the concrete.

she leaned in, quirking a pierced brow. “bozos?”

yana’s resolve was weakening with every second she was dangled by the tall woman. mustering up the last bit of her strength, she furrowed her brows and looked her dead in the eye.

“yeah. you heard me. bozos.”

the woman howled with laughter, and set her down, tousling her hair. “i like this one. she’s fiery.”

“of course you would. you like ‘em when they talk back,” mal chuckled, lowering the barrel.

she sucked her teeth, shrugging. “the harder to tame, the better.”

“i’m not here for either of you.”

“raine, was it?” she ignored the dig, holding her hand out to yana instead. “immy. i’m kind of the brawn around here if you haven’t noticed.”

immy jabbed her thumb at mal, smirking. “he’s not the brains of the operation. don’t worry about that.”

“hey!” he said, holstering his gun. “you’re really gonna disrespect me like that in front of some rando?”

“damn right i will. right this way, raine,” immy said, offering her arm. yana eyed it, forcing a grimace.

“i highly suggest you take my arm so i don’t have to restrain you.”

yana laced her arm through immy’s, her taut muscle telling her everything she needed to know – she could not fight her way out of this one.

they weaved through the shop, making their way down a dim hallway towards a back room. the decor was modest, much like a bar you’d see on the edge of town where the patrons are always the same and everyone minds their business.

mal walked in front of them, approaching the big wooden door, rapping his knuckles on it a few times.

she was so wrapped in the adrenaline rush of it all that she hadn’t really noticed quite how attractive mal was. she’d dealt with attractive criminals before, but none that were as infuriating and arrogant as him. most of them minded their business and didn’t let those feelings surface, even if it was in a joking manner.

she guessed she was staring a bit too long – when she met his eyes, he winked.

“ayo, someone’s here to see you,” he yelled, leaning his hip against the door frame with a smirk.

“come in.”

“wow, bossman didn’t even hesitate,” immy said, seemingly impressed.

“maybe he knew she was coming,” mal mused before pushing the door open.

the room was large, the bookshelves lining the walls filled left to right, top to bottom with books. the black leather couches looked straight out of a casting call room, much to her distaste.

his desk was massive, seemingly a bit out of place with the rest of the more toned down decorations – long, polished mahogany with intricate carvings up and down the sides.

his posture was perfect, his fingers laced in a neutral pose. as they approached the seats facing his desk, he pushed his book to the side, slipping his glasses off and placing them on top of the cover.

“i’m assuming someone sent you,” he stated, rather than asked, expression unreadable.

“no one sent me. i don’t have a crew,” yana answered, trying to keep as calm as him.

“someone must have told you about our operation.”

“well, you’re not infamous by any means, but people are definitely talking,” she shrugged.

he stood, taking slow steps until he was at the front of the desk. he glanced at immy, then the chair, and before yana knew it, she was shoved down into a sitting position.

she tried to remain nonchalant as he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms neatly folded.

“so what do you think you know about us?” he asked with a small smile, bright blue eyes piercing.

“i know you’re ty, the head of the group. i don’t know much else,” she was being completely truthful with him, glad to drop the facade (albeit briefly).

he nodded. “that’s good. we want as little information out there as possible.”

he leaned down, long strands of hair falling in front of his shoulders, holding her gaze.

yana wasn’t one to squirm under pressure, but the way he was looking right through her, as if he was browsing the core of her being, she couldn’t help but ball her hands into fists to stop them from trembling.

“what’s your name?”

“raine,” she murmured, struggling to keep her face neutral.

his eyes subtly flitted around her face, probably trying to pick up on her microexpressions – she’d been trained in the art of facial expressions and lying, so she was thankful in that moment that she’d actually paid attention to the presentations.

he leaned back, looking at mal and immy. “she’s trustworthy.”

just like that? she kept her breathing even, trying not to visibly relax. she expected it’d be a bit harder than that.

“so, raine. what exactly do you want to do here?” he asked, walking around the desk to sit back in his seat.

“last time i worked with a crew, they cheated me out of most of my cut.”

ty nodded, eyes focusing in on her face again.

“i’m not here to make friends. i just want to make enough money to stay afloat,” she said bluntly, letting a bit of the truth shine through again.

he nodded again, putting his glasses back on, flipping through the book.

“we all pull our own weight here. we’re all expected to defend ourselves in any situation we’re in,” he said, voice low, scrawling notes in the margins of the book.

“can you shoot a gun?”

“yes.”

“can you wield a knife?”

“yes.”

“hand to hand combat?”

“yes.”

most of the training was because of the academy, but she’d been a scrappy teen – she’d got into plenty of fights and had always been able to hold her own.

mal plopped onto the seat next to her, leg strewn across the armrest, popping a stick of gum in his mouth. “she’s gonna need a little bit of training. immy and i got her.”

ty arched a brow at mal, seemingly in slight annoyance. “training?”

“oh yeah, she strolled in here with a gun and a knife and i took her out before she could cock it,” he laughed, shooting a wink her way.

immy laughed, too, but ty wasn’t nearly as amused. “she’ll need to be at Mal’s skill level at least by our next phase.”

“‘mal’s skill level’? what the hell does that mean?” mal asked, sitting up straight.

immy’s soft chuckles morphed into her friendly booming cackle that yana had been introduced to a couple minutes before.

“you’re clearly weaker than immy. no one’s touching her,” ty said simply, delving back into his work.

mal sighed, standing. “cut me some slack, boss. not my fault she’s taller and buffer than me.”

“yes, you should blame genetics.”

yana found herself rolling her lips together, failing to back a smile. ty caught her eye and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

for just a second, she felt comfortable with them, but she had to bury that thought and keep at the task at hand.

they were criminals, this was an investigation. no attachment, no complications.

“when nia gets here, ask her to go shopping for raine,” ty said, then resumed his work.

“you got it, boss,” immy said, pulling yana to her feet, leading her to the bookcase across the room.

she pulled a book back, revealing a keypad. she typed a long string of numbers and popped her thumb on the screen at the bottom, stepping back so that the bookcase could shift. a set of stairs appeared, leading downwards, most likely towards a basement of some sort.

“are you guys gonna kidnap me or something?”

immy grinned. “nope. all the good stuff is down here.”

the concrete staircase led to a long hallway, multiple doors on either side. “your room is the last one on the left, right after the gym.”

“gym?” “yeah, you think i could upkeep these guns without a routine?” immy joked, walking with her to the end of the hallway.

her room was surprisingly big. king sized bed, walk in closet, huge bathroom with a separate shower and tub – it was larger than her apartment.

“i’ll leave you to it,” she said, pointing towards the dresser against the wall. “there’s some spare clothes in there.”

and then she was alone.

the shower she took was quick – she even stuck a chair under the door handle just in case. she didn’t trust anyone here enough to take a long shower.

she tossed on the clothes, wrapping her long dark hair up in a towel. right about then she’d wished she’d planned things out a bit better. all of her case materials were back at the motel, and she desperately wanted to update the case files with what she’d learned.

ty, mal, immy, nia. ty, mal, immy, nia. she committed the names to memory, and the appearances of the former three, too.

a knock at the door took her out of her train of thought.

she answered it, surprised to see mal standing there in a loose fitting floral top, way different than the hoodie he’d worn when she first met him.

“here,” he said, handing her the gun and blade. “forgot to return these in the excitement of it all.”

“thanks,” she said, turning to put both on the side table near the door, leaving mal standing there.

“you gonna invite me in?” he asked, leaning against the door frame.

she shrugged, feigning nonchalance as he strode in, plopping on the edge of her bed, legs sprawled wide while he leaned back on his elbows.

“so… raine. ready for training?”

“yep.”

“not talking much? understandable. i should probably introduce myself, though. properly.”

she eyed him, crossing her arms.

“i’m mal. i own all of this,” he said, gesturing around him. “volari’s the last name. well, the last name i picked.”

she nodded, knowing that she couldn’t reveal any personal information unless directly asked, trying to calculate out how to skirt around questions without being suspicious.

“the shop’s a front. kind of our homebase, ya know?” he popped his gum, gaze flitting up and down from her loose fitting clothes to her face.

“why are you looking at me like that?”

“just trying to figure you out, raine,” he emphasized her fake name, a knowing grin spreading.

yana rolled her eyes, crossing the room to the mirror, tugging the towel off her hair. “there’s nothing to figure out.”

“yeah, sure,” he said, sarcasm lacing his tone. “meet me in the gym tomorrow at 5 a.m.”

“that’s super early,” she said, watching him through the mirror as she raked her damp hair into a bun.

“we’ve gotta fit in your first training before we open shop,” mal winked, standing up from the bed.

“oh.”

“‘night,” he said, giving a lazy salute, before tugging the door shut with the toe of his shoe, leaving her standing alone.

––––

she barely slept that night, unable to stop the unending rolodex of details flitting through her mind.

names, height, build, tattoos, notable scars, voice – anything that she’d recognize regardless of a bad dye job or style change.

she gave up after a while, getting up when the clock said 3 a.m. slipping her blade into her waistband, she headed to the gym, hoping that she could cardio her way into a short nap.

the gym was immaculate – top notch equipment neatly lined the walls with more than enough space throughout for a group of five.

after scanning the room, she opted for a treadmill, deciding that sprints were the best way to tire out both her body and mind.

each pump of her legs was more painful than the last, the aching burn flickering up her legs with every slam of her shoe against the belt.

keep going, keep going, keep going.

yana didn’t give up. never was a quitter, never would be a quitter.

sweat beaded across her back and forehead, her breathing in tandem with her strides.

when she crossed the mile line, she slowed her pace, opting for a light jog for as long as she could handle it (another mile or two).

the sound of a singular shoe squeaking had her grasping for her knife, ready to point it at the intruder. But before she could get a grip on it, another hand snatched it from her waistband, flicking the blade out, training the tip at the base of her neck.

mal grinned at her. “not bad.”

she panted, flyaway hairs sticking to every slick patch of skin. he used the tip of the blade to delicately flick a strand off her shoulder.

“reflexes could be a bit faster, though.”

he lowered the knife, tossing her a cool towel instead.

“it’s 3 a.m. and i wasn’t expecting anyone,” she grumbled, dragging the towel down her face to sop up the sweat.

“correction: it’s 4 a.m. and you should always expect the worst.”

“why are you here so early then?” she snapped, flinging the towel over her shoulder in exasperation.

“same reason you’re here. can’t sleep,” he shrugged, before reaching behind him to tug off his white tee.

she finally got a full look at him and she wasn’t disappointed.

tanned, muscled torso, riddled with scars and tattoos alike, peppered with hair all across his front. It was really fucking hard not to stare.

she averted her eyes as he did a couple warm up stretches, leaning and stretching and looking oh so gorgeous while he did it.

his right arm was covered, a full sleeve from shoulder to wrist. the other arm was a half sleeve, his forearm bare except for a small tattoo with daggers and blood drops.

she’d noticed his gold earrings when she’d met him, since it was one of the flashiest things about him.

but the singular nipple ring? that was new. and definitely something she didn’t think would stir something in her.

she strode across the gym, trying to put some distance between them, grabbing the small weights. yana squatted and lifted and squatted and lifted but nothing she did could distract her from the soft grunts coming from mal across the room.

he was on a fucking pull up bar, tugging himself upward, hair tied back, sweat beading on his brow.

one of the biggest undercover no-no’s was getting involved with anyone while on the case. Even if they’re surrounding the case – not even a main target – it was all but forbidden.

unless… it was for intel.

get a fucking grip, dude. she shook the thought away, all but spraying herself with a hose at the thought.

“it’s about that time,” he said, a while later.

she pushed through her last few crunches, shaking off the burn as she stood up.

“i fail to see why i need to be trained. i don’t even know what we’ll be doing,” she said nonchalantly, stretching her arms.

the easiest way for her to get intel was to pretend like she didn’t care. It worked with most male egos she came across – the second she acted like she’d rather be anywhere else, the man would all but spell out his diabolical plans with a diagram and a play-by-play.

“i think you’ll at least need to know how to defend yourself. never know what situations we’ll get into,” he said, vaguely, scrubbing his own towel across his chest and torso.

unfortunately, that told her nothing.

“alright, so first thing’s first, we’ll need to roll out these mats –”

immy slammed the door open, cutting off mal’s first order.

“nia brought the grub! get in here before i eat it all,” immy said, throwing a knowing look at yana.

she looked to mal, waiting for his direction.

“go ahead. i’m gonna finish up my workout. save me a plate, alright?” he asked, striding towards the weights.

yana slipped past her and into the hallway without a second glance, trying to look anywhere but the sly grin that stretched immy’s mouth.

“so what was going on in there?” immy asked, teasing.

“nothing. just training.”

“just training. suuuure,” she said with a laugh, clapping yana on the back, knocking the wind out of her.

they trudged up the stairs to the autoshop, yana’s legs crying out with each step. she was regretting the workout in that regard, but a tiny part of her brain was revelling in the time she spent with mal, mind reeling over each physical detail of him.

they made their way to the tiny kitchen (much smaller than the one underground), greeted with a few platters of breakfast food and a smiling woman.

“hi! i hear you’re the one who took over my bedroom,” nia grinned, giving a friendly wave. “it’s so nice to meet you.”

she cocked her head to the side, making sure to make a slight spectacle of almost not trusting nia’s friendliness – had to lean into the “raine” persona, right?

nia’s smile didn’t waver as she gestured at the food. “i thought i could give you a bit of a warm welcome. it was undoubtedly nicer than theirs, huh?”

ty chuckled under his breath, stepping away from the counter with a steaming mug of coffee. “you know us too well, nia.”

immy snorted, grabbing a plate and piling up the bacon and pancakes. “thanks, chief.”

nia laughed in response, handing a plate to yana, encouraging her to eat.

it was such a weird atmosphere. the night before was pretty tense – yana was tense. she was petrified of sleeping through the night for fear of someone coming in the room and offing her.

and to be greeted with platters of food and a chill atmosphere? madness.

it made her a bit nervous considering in her experience some of the most heinous crimes were committed by tight knit crews that considered each other family. she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of shit she’d gotten herself into.

she piled her plate with fruit and oatmeal, leaning against the wall as she popped a spoonful of cinnamon oatmeal in her mouth, chasing it with a sliced apple.

“glad to finally tip the scales. i didn’t think we’d be adding anyone to the crew, but i’m so happy you’re here,” nia said, taking a sip from her mug.

“i think immy’s woman enough for the both of us,” yana shrugged, shoveling another spoonful in her mouth.

“don’t tempt me, raine. i have no issue telling you exactly what i wanna do to you,” immy lifted a brow, licking the underside of her spoon very slowly, holding her gaze.

nia nearly choked on her tea, mumbling a soft “excuse me” as she grabbed a napkin to blot her mouth.

“flustering the nun. another tick off my bucket list,” immy cackled.

“former and i was training,” nia threw a pointed look at her, locking eyes with yana right after.

“you’re here with us now. that’s all that matters,” ty said, with a bit of finality, hushing the rest of the conversation.

mal burst into the room, drenched in sweat and half naked. “pancakes? oh fuck yeah. thanks nia.”

he piled the food on his plate, plopping down on the barstool at the counter. he glanced back at yana, then patted the seat next to him with a smirk. “i don’t bite.”

she rolled her eyes, rigid stance betraying the fluttering in her chest. she slid in next to him and ate silently, eyes trained on her food.

“so, boss, what’s on the agenda for today?” mal asked through a mouthful of food.

ty stared at him in disgust, setting his mug down to address the room. “we have a lot of planning to do. these next few jobs have to be absolutely seamless if we want to evade law enforcement.”

“what, you’re saying that the pigs caught wind of us?” immy asked, annoyance lacing her tone.

“no, not to my knowledge,” ty shook his head, a single wrinkle appearing between his thick brows. “but we won’t be able to keep this up for long.”

he strode over to the spread of food, grabbing a single grape, tossing it into his mouth. “each his has to count. there’s absolutely no room for mistakes.”

everyone nodded in agreeance.

“mal and immy, you’re with me. we’ll be planning escape routes, seeing if they match up with our physical map, scouting the areas – the grueling work. nia,” he said, glancing down at her. “you’ll take raine shopping. she’ll need a dress for the gala.”

he trained his gaze on yana, gaze penetrating right through her. she held her breath, hoping that nothing about the way she ate, sat, breathed tipped him off –

“get her a wig, too.”

––––

a power nap and a couple hours later, yana and nia were in nia’s car, driving towards the center of the city to the mall.

“i’ve never been to a gala before,” yana murmured honestly, watching the storefronts pass by, gradually getting more and more expensive.

“once you’ve been to one, you’ve been to them all,” nia shrugged, flicking her blinker before turning into the parking garage.

shopping was fairly painless. nia took her to her favorite store, forced her to try on a handful of dresses, and thankfully the second one fit (and was both of their favorites).

“this is too much,” yana said bluntly, trying to mask her eagerness to wear the floor length gown.

“no it’s perfect. you’ll fit in seamlessly,” she said, swiping her card. the cashier handed her the plastic covered gown, and they were out again.

“i have a few wigs back in my room that you can try on. i’m thinking a short blonde bob for you,” nia said, reaching out to gently push yana’s long dark strands over her shoulder.

nia was beautiful. her long red curls soaked up the sun and reflected the gold – she was clearly the best of them all with a heart big enough for everyone and then some.

her eyes were soft, smile even softer, with curves even softer than that.

there was something about nia that felt like home. yana brushed the thought away, redirecting her mind to the event.

“what am i supposed to do at the gala?”

“schmooze some rich people, make them think you’re high society, gain their trust, all of that,” she said simply, unlocking the car.

–––

after a quick wig fitting, nia flipped a hand mirror yana’s way, grinning widely. “you look gorgeous.”

“oh... that’s different.”

nia frowned. “different as in bad?”

“no, not bad,” she said, running her hand through the short blunt bob that didn’t even graze her shoulders. “just different. i’ve never been a blonde.”

“oh, you’ll be alright,” she reassured her, grabbing a mannequin head with a long blonde wig on it, pre-styled with curls and braids galore. “there’s always a first time for everything!”

when they emerged from their room, ready to head to the event in an unknown location (which made yana insanely nervous), the rest of the crew were neck deep in planning, mumbling amongst themselves.

“we’re out! be back in a few hours,” nia waved without a second glance, jingling the car keys as she went.

the three of them looked stunned when they laid eyes on yana. immy’s mouth upturned into a smirk and mal’s scarred eyebrow lifted – even ty looked a bit taken aback.

“you clean up well, raine,” immy nodded, gesturing to her gown.

“thanks,” she said, a bit uncomfortably.

as yana, she was flattered; as raine, she was bothered.

“uh, well, i’ll be back soon. bye.”

“wait,” mal called as she turned her back. “here.”

he slipped a blade and a thin leather strap into her hand, gently closing her fingers around it. “just in case.”

“is this –” she stopped, looking at the buckle and pouch. a thigh strap for the blade.

“yup. stay safe, raine,” he winked, returning to the table, which was covered in maps and loose papers.

–––

the gala was pretty boring.

maybe it was because she wasn’t exactly sure why she was there quite yet, so she couldn’t properly gather intel, but either way the attendees were bland.

nia blabbed on and on about mundane things with the men, laughing, twirling her hair, and gently resting a hand on a shoulder at the right time.

they were putty in her hands.

yana on the other hand was as charming as she could manage, trying to coax information out of the men who were two seconds away from getting handsy.

an hour and a half in, nia took the stage, which surprised her.

what shocked her even more was the fact that the gala was for charity. specifically nia’s charity.

she commanded the stage like she belonged there, and by the end of her speech about taking care of the people of their city, every socialite was scrambling to add an extra zero to their checks.

“this is your event? for your charity?” she whispered in nia’s ear between shaking hands and thanking the patrons.

“yeah! i’ll tell you more about it on the way back,” she said offhandedly, before leaning in to hug a woman covered in decadent jewels.

when they made it to the car, nia spilled immediately.

“so, i’m the face of the charity by day. it’s fairly new and pretty small,” nia started, keeping her eyes on the road.

“and you failed to mention your connection to it because…?”

“the crew thought i should wait to tell you.”

“i feel like i don’t have all of the pieces here, though.”

she sighed. “you don’t.”

yana raised a brow.

“i’m a former novitiate. a nun in training, if you will. i trained at a large church in the heart of the city, and my dream was to eventually head an orphanage and lead troubled youth to christ.”

“what changed?” she asked cautiously.

“my eyes were open to the corruption of the church before it was too late, thankfully. i couldn’t handle the greediness. it felt like every decision was driven by profit, not spirituality. their numbers were dollar amounts, not souls saved,” nia sighed, slowing to a stop at the red light, tugging the wig off her head. “each case was hand chosen for potential monetary gain. nothing was genuine.

“after leaving the church, i created the charity specifically to take care of homeless citizens, since we have a huge population of them. we’re focused on small victories like proper kitchens and distributing survival kits right now, but we’re working towards bigger things.”

“so… why was i involved tonight?” yana asked earnestly.

“because you’re a new face. a pretty face. virtually undetectable to these people. i can’t do all of it on my own, you know,” she smiled.

“so what does this have to do with the crew?”

“i’ll let them explain that to you,” nia said simply, ending the conversation.

––––

when they entered ty’s office, the rest of the crew were there, sitting around, drinking and chatting.

“there’re the pretty ladies,” immy slurred from her seat, holding up her nearly empty mug of beer.

“any news?” ty asked after taking a small sip of what looked like scotch.

“raine did awesome, just as i suspected,” nia beamed, throwing her arm around yana’s waist.

“that’s what i love to hear,” mal said from the seat next to immy, winking when yana caught his eye.

“i told her a bit about the gala, and my charity, but i thought i’d wait till we were all together to explain further.”

ty nodded. “that was the right move.”

“i’m all ears,” yana said, slipping into the open seat next to immy.

“you ladies earned a drink. let me grab you one before we get started. beer okay?” mal asked, jogging out the door towards the kitchen.

“beer’s fine,” yana called, slipping her heels off and rubbing her aching feet.

as soon as they both had their drinks, ty addressed her, launching into a full explanation.

“nia’s our best judge of character. i’d apologize that you weren’t kept in the loop until now, but you know how these things work. we can’t compromise the mission,” he said, stepping up from his desk to pace.

“nia is also our decoy, if you will. she’s the one who draws in the potential targets so we can gather information and plan. the rest of us are… not quite on good terms with the law,” he said, pausing his stride to look at yana.

immy laughed, throwing back the last of her beer. “you can say that again.”

“what’d you do?” yana asked, eyes darting between mal and ty.

“well, i’ve just done a lot of dirty work for people,” immy sighed, wincing. “and it backfired.”

“i’ll refrain from speaking about personal matters,” ty said, a hint of pain in his gaze.

“unlike the boss, i don’t mind telling you. i can’t remember a time where i wasn’t pissing off some cop. the list is endless,” mal grinned.

“you can’t just ask us and then not tell us what you’ve done,” immy complained, sliding her mug onto ty’s desk, quickly grabbing a coaster when ty’s gaze turned sharp.

yana shrugged. “i don’t know. i’ve always been a bit of a problem.”

it was true. growing up in foster care toughened her up pretty early. protecting her brother from bullies kept her in trouble.

they were never formally adopted, but they spent so much time in the same foster homes over time that kade just became her brother.

she got into the normal scrappy kid problems, stopping eventually when she’d racked up enough petty misdemeanors to potentially get time.

instead, she begrudgingly joined the force. she never liked being a cop, but she loved detective work.

it wasn’t her dream job, but it was the job that let her be whoever she wanted to be. yeah, sometimes she hated slipping into a different identity every couple of months (or years), but she couldn’t picture herself doing anything else. at least right then she couldn’t, as she sat amongst a crew that she’d infiltrated with no issue – she was playing them like a fiddle, and they had no clue.

“good thing we like to fix problems here,” mal said, eyeing her as he tipped his drink back.

nia laughed nervously, gripping her bottle tight. “okay, can we continue? please?”

“thank you, nia, as always, for keeping us on track,” ty said, nodding her way. “our operation is one that some would consider the… vigilante sort.”

“as in, you’re taking matters into your own hands?”

ty nodded again. “we’ve all experienced corruption in the city at different levels, and we’ve grown tired of sitting idly by while nothing gets done by the same officials who get reelected term after term while having no record of accomplishments.”

“and you think i’m a good fit here?” she didn’t know why she blurted that question out. it’s like every time she was on thin ice she ventured farther and farther, begging for it to crack.

“i saw it in your eyes, raine. you want to help people,” he said, holding her gaze. “this – our operation – can be how you do that.”

“i still don’t know what i’m getting myself into. i can’t decide anything without knowing,” she said, honest again.

“you’re going to have to decide.” his voice was firm, unwavering. he knew exactly what he was doing – every step of the past twenty four hours was a test, each interaction with each member converging to this moment.

she looked to each person in the room, from immy’s bright gaze, to nia’s warm inviting eyes, to mal’s sultry stare, to ty’s – his icy blue eyes were piercing. like the first time she met him, he was staring right through her as if he could see the essence of her being if he searched hard enough.

“i’m in.”

––––

#playchoices #bladesaw #mal volari #mal volari x mc #tyril starfury #nia ellarious #imtura tal kaelen #my fic #jade writes choices fics

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plethora-of-imagines · 4 years ago

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Victorian Stroll

AN: I’m going to be really busy with work this week but I’m hoping to post more fics too! If I don’t have time to write this week I will definitely be posting more this weekend. Some of these fics may not be up to my normal level of quality due to the fact that I desperately want to get to use all of my ideas before the Christmas season is over. In fact, chances are that many will have to come out after Christmas.

Word Count: 1365

Description: A nice winter stroll with the Master.

Tag List: @c-s-stars @queerconfusionthings @how-masterful @truthbehindthemysteries

Your laughter quietly joined the joyous cheers and screams of the children while the Master scowled. The path you were walking on was filled with children who would normally try to seem proper. At this moment they didn’t seem proper at all, they were instead making the most of the snow on this wintery Sunday. The wild snowball fight the children were engaged in was somewhat of a risk to the two of you, but the harmless sort of risk. Really the only risk to the two of you was that your persons could become snow-covered at any moment.

The Master had taken you on a trip to enjoy a winter stroll that seemed like it was out of a postcard. And it truly was. Even if he thought that the wildly playing children were ruining it. In your mind, they helped to add to the atmosphere of a picturesque winter scene.

The Master had insisted on the two of you properly dressing the part for your Victorian stroll. The Master’s deep blue- almost black- coat matched the color of your dress. He was dressed in a proper gentleman's outfit underneath with a small amount of flair that still makes him seem, powerful and forward-thinking compared to others. Not that anyone other than you would see that outfit. It was unlikely that the Master would be taking the long military-style coat off. His normal leather gloves may be slightly out of place but you doubted that anyone would be close enough to notice them either. A top hat completed his picture-perfect outfit. You were ridiculously tempted to playfully steal it off of his head.

You matched the Master with a small cape jacket with a high collar in the same color as his jacket and your dress. The moment that you were dressed up in your Victorian garb the Master had offered you the short cape, gently draping it around your shoulders. It had reached your elbows, short enough to allow for a full range of motion. The matching muffler had served as a substitute for gloves. You had worried that you wouldn’t be warm enough but now that you were outside your worries had been absolved. You should have never doubted that you would be warm enough. The Master would never have let you leave the TARDIS if he had thought that you would be too cold.

As you wandered closer to the playing children, you realized that there was no safe path through their playful fight if the two of you wanted to stay on the path. It was clear that the Master had no plans to try and survive their onslaught. Walking around the playing children to avoid getting pelted with snowballs required you to pull a hand out of your warm, fuzzy muffler. Doing so with some reluctance you lifted your long dark blue skirts and petticoats up high enough to not have them soaked by the snow. It was improper, but the children were hardly paying attention to you.

The Master made sure to assist you in maneuvering through the snowdrifts. Ensuring you remained steady on your feet with a guiding hand. Once you had traversed the snowy ground he lifted your cold hand to his lips. Pressing a warm kiss to your knuckles. His other hand soon joined in cupping your bitterly cold hand. Blowing warm air to help warm you up.

Once released, you returned your hand to its resting place inside the fluffy muff. But not before you pressed the muff in between the Master's arm and body in order to intertwine your arms.

You leaned your head against the Master’s arm as you continued on your way down the path again. Once past the children, there were few others on your stroll. Each couple you past seemed uncoordinated in comparison to the two of you. Their outfits far from coordinated. You supposed that it might be unusual to be wearing aesthetically matching outfits but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. You both always tried to match as often as you could.

You admired the snowy trees as the path you wandered became less populated. From the looks of it, the Master was leading you on an uncommonly used path into the forest. The population of trees growing denser each minute you traversed the winding path. The sounds of nature the only accompanying sound, you were both comfortable in the silence.

It wasn’t long before you reached a frozen pond with a single bench on the edge of the frozen water. Near the foot of the elegant bench were two pairs of ice stakes. You looked to the Master, silently begging for him to go skating with you.

“I’ll tie your skates, my dear. I already checked that the ice was safe before I brought us here.”

“You planned for this? Master,” you looked up at his face with soft, affectionate eyes, “that’s so sweet of you.”

“Speak nothing of it, my dear.”

His cheeks were slightly flushed. It seemed that your words had embarrassed him. He gestured to the bench and you obeyed his request. Sitting on the bench, you lifted your skirts up scandalously to the height of your upper calves. Allowing the Master access to the bows that secured your high winter boots. Letting the Master untie your winter boots to replace them with the skate. It was oddly intimate. His hands working diligently to remove your boots, slide the skates onto your feet, and properly tighten them. Once yours were done the Master took his place next to you, tying up his own skates.

With ease, the Master stood and offered his hand to you. You were envious of his balance on the uneven, snowy ground. Needing his help to stay upright with how unbalanced you were on the skate blades.

Stepping onto the ice you both glided together. A smile lighting up your face. It was so romantic to ice skate together on your own private pond. Well, private due to the fact that no one else was around to bother the two of you. It was romantic to skate side-by-side with the Master. Moving apart and then back to the other’s side in a steady rhythm. So far you had also managed to keep your voluminous skirts out of the way too!

The moment you thought that was a moment too soon. Stumbling as your skirt got in the way of your skating. Fortunately it was only a small stumble and you caught yourself before the Master needed to step in to save you. Crisis averted, you continued to skate peacefully for several minutes.

You were admiring the Master's graceful skating out of the corner of your eye. He skated masterfully. Or at least he did until your skirts - moved out of the way of your own feet- tripped him. Instinctively you reached out to grab and steady him.

This proved to be your own downfall, literally. You slid, falling down completely onto the ice. The Master losing the rest of his precarious balance only seconds later. Falling on top of you, pinning you to the ice.

His face was truly flushed now that he had found himself in a scandalous position.

"I sincerely apologize, my dear!" He sputtered.

He attempted to maneuver himself off of you. His panicked rush to stop pressing his weight into you proving to be a hindrance. Not allowing him to think about how to successfully remove himself from his current position.

You giggled. Giving in to your desires and pulling him down to meet your lips with his own in a passionate kiss. His shocked and bewildered expression was adorable.

"We've checked off quite a few romantic winter tropes today, haven't we Master?" You lovingly teased, joy and adoration clear in your tone.

His only answer was a quiet sputter. Still flustered to the point of speechlessness.

"I suppose we should head back to the TARDIS before someone stumbles across us being so improper. Don't you agree Master?"

“If that is what you would like, my dear. We can’t have you getting too cold from the chill of the ice, now can we?”

#the master x reader #delgado!master x reader

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chyrstis · 4 years ago

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WIP Thursday

Now that things have stabilized a tiny bit (or at least some of the stress has), I really wanted to see about taking part as a bit of a treat to myself, especially since @starsandskies was kind enough to send a tag my way yesterday (thank you! <3) I’m also really hoping to be more present as I start to figure out the right kind of work/life/fun balance I want to nail here.

Tagging: @writerofblocks @cobb-vanthss @amistrio @shallow-gravy @kerryseurodyne @jackiesarch @painterofhorizons @ma-sulevin @foofygoldfish @teamhawkeye @guileandgall @redroci @geronimo-11 @proudspires @faithchel @risenlucifer @tomexraider @unlikelynick @fluttyseed @sneaky-apostate @baeogorath @fadedjacket @princess-underthemountain @strafethesesinners @lilwritingraven @sapphicvalhallas @ofravensandgenesis and anyone else that’s interested, this is totally a free tag!

First, Hana’s no good very bad day continues in the Trap fic though future days are certainly going to give her a run for her money

---

“Good. This moment won’t happen again. Decision made?”

He nodded. That’s when he dragged her up, his grip tight on her upper arm, and Hana tried to find her footing fast. Needed it in case another opening came even with the two watching her, but nearly lost it when he made her face the door and pushed.

The woman easily caught her, standing her up straight as she gave her a quick once-over. Then slapped a bag over her head, tying it tight.

This was bad. Well and truly beyond fucked as Hana sucked in a breath, and jerked away at the first touch to her shoulder. The grip that closed around her arm was a vice as she was guided forward, however, and there was no dragging her feet here as she was pushed out of the room.

Voices came from her left. One to two as she moved across the floor, paired with laughter.

Sinner. Look at you!

Did they know who she was? They had to have known, seeing as she’d cycled through as many red flannel shirts as she could get her hands on, and never bothered to change that up once. If someone had a punch - or heaven forbid, a knife - she’d never be able to dodge it like this, and idly wondered if anyone was nursing a grudge strong enough to risk it.

Then she heard names. The man’s - Ben, Benji, both were used liberally - and the woman, which sounded like an Essie or Esther, almost. But they didn’t slow down. Just kept her moving, even when mention of the Herald sent a chill running down her spine.

“So much for running! Wait’ll John gets his hands on you, and tears you wide open-”

She twisted in the VIP’s grip to headbutt the heckler and actually made contact. Felt something crack and give, and that was satisfying. Even if it stung like a motherfucker, and she was nearly knocked flat for it. Still, the woman holding her kept her up. Even when Hana snarled and tried to fight it.

That got a laugh. More than one as the voices came closer now, bearing in on her.

---

Next, a little Faith and John conversation that I’d really like to add more to soon, maybe? This hit while I was fighting off a cold and failing, and I really couldn’t complain about a potential shot at some interaction between these two.

---

“She's warm. You should hear her laugh.”

“Laugh?”

John watched Faith smile as she remembered it. Saw that fondness settle over her as she tilted her head towards him, and extended her open palm.

“She worries a lot. Many do, but I could see that weight fade from her. How much happier she was, lighter, and the minute it happened, I didn't need to take her hand. She reached for it.”

John stared her outstretched hand down, and watched her fingers slowly close around air, nothing more.

“We all know that the bliss shows you what you want to see,” he replied, going back to his drink. “Are you sure you weren't suffering from a little wishful thinking yourself, dear sister?”

Faith frowned. “…Only a hair, but is it so awful to want that too? Peace for her and for us? If only you could only see how beautiful she was. Maybe next time I can show you?”

The glass stressed under his fingertips as he set it down with a clatter. “She'd be no better than a drunken idiot,” John snapped. “I want her lucid. Aware. To make choices for herself, and the more you expose her to it, the less she'll be able to come back from it. You know that.

“Joseph wants someone to reach her. To reach all of them. If your way doesn't work, mine might. It doesn't matter who gets to her first as long as she comes to us.”

“Willingly.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. She’ll choose,” Faith said, smiling once again. “She’ll make that choice and decide just who to give that smile to.”

---

And a little No Cult AU, b/c I’m missing it dearly. There’s a little tacked onto here from the previous section I posted a while back, but it’s really too much fun for me to want to chop it up any further.

---

“What are you-” Sighing deeply, John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Charlemagne, I can count the number of people I know on one hand that regularly deal in flammable items and explosives. People that I know personally, and would borderline even consider allowing within a foot of these things, given their past history.”

“Well, you’ve seriously gotta give me their info, ‘cause I could’ve sworn I had a handle on all of that shit in the county, and yeah, I don’t got a business card, or a phone number to call, but moving in when they know someone else’s got that down? That goes against common courtesy, man. Like, we’re breaking potential pyro bro codes left and right. You don’t just-”

“You! You are the person I know!” John shot, throwing both hands up as he gestured towards him. “You would be the one I’d hire! How you could even think otherwise is beyond me!”

The sound of a throat being cleared made both of their heads snap towards the front, and Sharky nearly did a double-take when it became clear who it was.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Joseph asked, looking between them.

“Joseph.” John paled, but slapped a smile onto his face in record time as he stood up straighter. “We weren’t-it’s fine. You weren’t interrupting anything, just business.”

The guy really had to be some kind of bible-based ninja or something, because he wasn’t standing right at the door, but within a few feet of the table they were by. Meaning he’d opened the door, closed it, walked well within viewing distance of either of them, listening as Sharky had struggled to put two and two together to make five, and John had all but-

Wait, hold up.

His thoughts skidded to a halt.

John wanted to hire him? Him, outside of this, whatever this was?

Looking his way, Sharky didn’t even give a damn that his mouth was hanging open, because holy shit, he’d said those exact words, and hadn’t taken them back or corrected them.

John was focused entirely on Joseph at this point, hands moving as he explained away, and didn’t dismiss him even at that point. Just kept on talking. So, Sharky kept on staring at him all while he kicked that fact around back and forth, and felt a smile start to creep onto his face.

#don't mind me #posting this probably way too late but it feels good to have something down and to post here again #and if I can sneak in some more work on any of these between slides this weekend I'll be absolutely thrilled

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alch3mic · 4 years ago

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in between. (drabble series)

chapter four (stitches.)

captain!sans x gender neutral reader. 3k+ word count.

please be advised for themes of anxiety, ideas of loss, depression, and self esteem.

* finally at the fourth chapter with our dear fellswap sans, captain! he also has no official fic yet but has his own tag here on my tumblr if you’d like to know more about him! thank you and i hope you enjoy!

A project.

That's all this was meant to be.

Something to keep him preoccupied in his free time, now that he seemed to have more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.

Somewhere to put his focus, instead of thinking about things.

Instead of stressing about things.

Instead of.. worrying about.. 'things'.

Like this.. 'thing'.. attached to him.

...

"ya can't just keep pacin' around bro."

Sure he could.

He could pace around as much as he wanted. It was his boat dammit, and he'd walk around it as he pleased, from the bow to the stern, topside and back.

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

No.

How could he? There was work to be done.

All his life he had filled himself with his work. It was all he knew.

Work.

Work

Work.

Work

From his time as a child, working to take care of his younger brother to ensure he was brought up properly to his time in the royal guard working hard every day to support them and make sure they both survived that horrid Underground. Even on the surface he worked and worked and worked, to regain his position as a monster worthy of fear and respect after the humans had stripped them of everything and leaving them to rot like strays on the street.

Every minute of every day he worked.

Most days he even dreamed of it.

Which is exactly why it was so difficult to sit still, even at your request.

"You really should just take it easy, Sans. Didn't Undyne say to not stress yourself out?"

She did, but it didn't matter.

He was in a constant state of being stressed.

Stressed was how he operated.

Stressed was all he knew.

His body could never give him the pleasure of just 'taking it easy', constantly buzzing, constantly wanting to be in motion. At times he envied his brother for being able to let things go and just kick back, but... that was exactly why he worked so hard wasn't it?

So that his brother could relax without a worry in that thick skull of his..?

Of course.. he knew Papyrus went through his own troubles.. it's just...

Gah.

This free time was now filling his head with unnecessary thoughts, even as he tried his best to busy himself by patrolling his own boat.

..Which was only adding to his stress...

"Lets try a hobby. What do you normally do for fun?"

Think of you.

Well..

He didn't have to now that you were here with him.

He could just spend time with you instead of daydreaming about it.

And he did.

You humored him by relaxing together topside with him and Papyrus, enjoying the salty breezes of the ocean and the warm summer rays. The two of you would chat in his bed for hours, laughing and telling stories of the past as you laid close. You'd help him, by offering an arm when he wore himself out or when he needed help doing something that required two hands. Everything from opening jars to preparing dinner or even tying his shoes.

It was..

Ah, dammit it was so humiliating.

..And also made him strangely happy?

He was.. happily humiliated?

..Humbled?

..Stars.

He never had anyone taken care of him before, so his pride was taking a major blow every time you offered to help. A part of him was glad you'd always ask first so he'd at least get to attempt at doing it by himself but.. it was also humiliating to give in. He was too stubborn for his own good, never having anyone extend a hand for him neither below ground or on the Surface.

Still you never seemed bothered.

You never batted an eye when he'd turn to you. Sometimes all it took was a look from him and you just knew, without having any words be spoke. Having that kind of connection was..

Incredible.

It had been something the both of you had obviously over the years, but only now it was showing itself in the mundane parts of your lives now that you were with him. Normally it had been when you locked eyes in a fight in the streets of Ebott, and he could see the whole encounter play out in his mind. How you'd swing, how he'd shoot. How you both would nearly hit each other both on purpose and on accident.

Like a dance with death only the two of you could perform.

And how beautifully you danced for him..

Now.. having that connection manifest positively, in quiet agreements and silent conversations that took only seconds to have, really drove home the fact that times have changed.

That he was no longer the skeleton he was before.

He had you now, which was different.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Though.. in truth you always had a part of soul with you even if you never realized it.

And he always had Papyrus by his side.

That could never change.

But now.. he also had..

That.

The 'thing'.

An arm.

That.. didn't belong to him.

It was attached, sure, but..

It was foreign.

Heavy.

A burden.

It was consequences of his actions taken form of something that use to be, but no longer was. Like a cruel symbol of mockery, forever attached to his own broken body. There was nothing but the tickling of a sensation of pain, like a phantom dancing across his bones, from a limb that was no longer there. The magic in his scapula hummed louder than the rest of his body, always catching his attention as it had been enhanced to support the weight of his new arm. It was irritating and constant, like a buzz he couldn't be rid of no matter how loud his thoughts were or tried to be.

Always there.

Always ringing in his skull.

It was driving him crazy, adding to the mounting stress.

"FOR FUN? EASY. TRAP MAKING. ANALYTICS. READING THE STOCKS AND NEWS."

"Well that's depressing."

"STAYING INFORMED IS IMPORTANT, DARLING."

"And so is your mental health, Sans. Ignoring this won't make it go away you know."

The metallic hand closed on a reflex when he felt your gaze upon it.

He didn't like it, despite how incredible Undyne's work was. She had studied him for weeks while he recovered in her intensive care, all so she could make an exact replica of his now missing arm. It looked just like the real thing only casted in asatollite, a type of metal found in the Underground that could conduct magic. No wires. No heavy plating. Just an arm, moved by his own magic.

An impressive feat really, but he felt no pride in this.

..Only shame.

As someone who had lived their life known for cutting it close time and time again, this was now all the proof someone needed that they could actually lay their hands on him. There was a chance that someone could hit and do some serious damage.

For some, that would be enough to push their determination over the edge.

The proof that he couldn't dodge forever.

And here it was, glinting under the soft afternoon sunlight that filtered into his quarters.

This... was his decline wasn't it?

..He could feel it in his bones.

Here marked the end of his reign of terror as Captain, the scarred skeleton who ruled the docks of Ebott City with an iron fist. Now that once unrelenting grip which strangled the life of rats out of the marine failed to even grasp a pen properly.

It stung in such a strange way that he almost didn't know how to describe it.

It was a unsightly fall from grace, paired with happiness and misery.

He was muddled with complicated feelings that really didn't have proper words, and so instead of spending his days thinking about it while lying in bed, he paced around his ship.

"Is there anything you've ever wanted to learn?"

He only learned what was necessary.

Languages to properly communicate with associates, skills like learning to shoot with a gun so that he could avoid having his magic traced back to him, and cooking so he could make sustainable meals when he and Papyrus had nothing..

They weren't things he did for fun, they were necessary.

What else could he learn that was necessary?

"HOW ABOUT TEACHING ME TO CUT A BULLET LIKE YOU DID BACK IN THE 'SISCO EXCHANGE."

"I'm not teaching you that."

"AND WHY'S THAT?"

"I don't need to make you any more dangerous than you already are you bonehead. I meant something fun! Like.. maybe a sport?"

"I THROW DARTS. I ALSO SHOOT."

"I.. Okay I guess that counts," you said, glancing to the wall of his quarters where the board was set up.

It's true it was a dart board hanging on the wall, but it was littered with photos of thugs and politicians, a dart neatly nailed through their head. It honestly looked like more of an omen of things to come rather than a hobby.

"Anything else?"

...

"I PLAYED THE VIOLIN FOR A SHORT WHILE."

"You did?"

"YES. BACK IN THE UNDERGROUND. I FOUND ONE IN THE DUMP AND TAUGHT MYSELF TO PLAY WHEN I DISCOVERED PAPYRUS LIKED THE WAY IT SOUNDED. IT WOULD HELP PUT HIM TO SLEEP ON SOME OF THE ROUGHER NIGHTS."

"Aww. Maybe you could think about picking it back up. I'd love to hear you play!"

He would, eventually.

For right now.. the task seemed so daunting now that he had..

...That.

"..But maybe not yet."

Another silent conversation, passed by only the glint in his eyesocket. Once again he was glad he didn't have to openly admit he might struggle with learning something like that again but.. a small pass of shame also washed over him. He'd love to play for you, to maybe even create his own music to reflect the feelings you gave him in his soul, but to move this metallic.. 'thing'.. to play would be..

He'd become frustrated, just like with everything else.

"AND WHAT DO YOU DO TO RELAX MY DEAR?"

"Me? I usually sew or knit."

Right. Costumes. That’s why you asked to have your own space in that free room on the ship. You had mentioned it once before, how you use to do costuming back in the day for plays and helped your father who worked as a tailor until...

Hm.

"YOU SELL YOUR PIECES DON'T YOU?"

"Just to a few people. I make dresses for Mr. Rose's granddaughter and Rumpelstiltskin still orders some pieces for his wife. I also send some more elaborate stuff the Prince's way every once in awhile and I even still get requests from Mama Bear even after they disappeared off into the forest. I think they might finally have a Baby Bear on the way because they asked about knitting a little blanket a few days ago."

...

He.. tried to not humor the thought of just sailing away from this city with you, like that lucky bastard did with his spouse when he took off into the woods. Of course he couldn't, he knew Papyrus would stay here with Happy and he'd never want to be far from his brother.

Still...

It was a tempting idea.

"I could always teach you. It's a pretty good skill to just learn how to hand stitch to mend clothing and it really isn't too complicated."

He relented ...of course.

Because he always did to you, with that smile on your face and the hum in your tone.

.....

Learning from you had been everything he hoped for, with you sitting close to him as you taught him how to thread a needle. You were patient with him as he struggled, his hand shaking as he did his best to will his magic to move. You were gentle as you taught him to stitch carefully and slowly, following along side as you guided him every step of the way.

...He'll never forget the way you laughed at his first pass though.

He had been so damn.. angry!

Really, you had the nerve to laugh even when he did his best!

You were the worst, which is why exactly he had to pin you down and tickle you until you couldn't breathe. At least he could use that wretched metal arm to press your hands above your head as you desperately tried to wrestle out of his hold until you were flushed and gasping for breath.

His next attempt was alone late at night, when even the stars on the deck above couldn't quell his thoughts. They ran wild in his head, stampeding and thrashing about.

At his failures.

At his mistakes.

At the humming in his shoulder and the arm that ached despite not being there. So he tried to not think about it as he quietly threaded the needle under the dim yellow lights in his quarters. The quiet creak and groan of the boat was his only accompaniment along your soft breathing from the bed as you peacefully slumbered away.

In and out.

He timed his stitches with your breaths, pushing the needle through the felt and then back again as he sewed the two pieces of scrap fabric together. It was strange how difficult this was, willing his fingers to move while simply pushing and pulling a needle. His jaw would tense as his hand shook at times and failed to grasp the needle, and then he'd hear you let out a sigh and he'd relax again.

In and out.

Until the stitch was done.

Until he hushed the wild thoughts in his head and put his stress to bed.

Until he could no longer deny himself your company and he'd fall back to your side, finally delving into the depths of sleep.

He spent many days and nights like this, a fire ignited in his soul to hear your praise the first time.

"Seems like your stitched are getting tighter. Nice work there, Cap."

That was all he needed.

Your words. Your smile. The exigent that reflected in your beautiful eyes. You were proud of him, and it made him work all the harder as he sat with you in the room you had taken for your sewing. This place had been your sanctuary, something he once avoided entering to at least give you a little room for yourself on the ship, but now he found reassurance in it as well.

The whir of your sewing machine had become a comfort, able to drown out the buzz in his head as he worked beside you. Soft colorful fabrics lined the shelves in the wall and a half finished dress would decorate a mannequin or two. The both of you would drink coffee and chit chat as he tried to get lost in the motions of hand stitching pieces of scrap fabric together.

He didn't want to constantly strain himself to move his arm.

He wanted it to be natural.

He wanted to use his hand without a second thought.

He wanted it to be like..

How it use to be.

But it could.. never really be like it use to be.

And he struggled and struggled and struggled.

In the weeks that had dragged by, both you and Papyrus had picked up small gigs to help patch the hole his injury was leaving.

Sans was... or had been.. the bread maker.

He always prided himself on providing by running the docks, able to keep his rather lavish lifestyle alive by delivering cargo from overseas to sellers like the Fell brothers and the other croons of this city, but the two of you had insisted on him resting, so his businesses and trades had all but halted.

You were still far off from ever putting a dent in his savings, but the two of you worked regardless to ease his stress.

..Because somehow, even having the back up funds prepared for events like this, didn't stop Sans from stressing.

The only part that annoyed him about it was that you had less time to teach him. You focused more on your commissions, so Sans would leave you in peace to your quiet room and stitch in his quarters.

He hadn't really decided what he wanted to work towards from stitching. It had simply become a tool to help train his fingers, so now that he could sew what was he suppose to do with the skill?

...

....

.....

It was a quiet afternoon in his quarters, the low hum of a forgotten radio on his desk as a deep voice rattled off the daily news mixed with a garble of static. Being so far out into the marine meant the reception wasn't good, but he could pick up key terms as the voice drawled on. Another murder on the west side, some more fights in the south and some re-election news. Not like it mattered who was in charge these days. The faces changed but at the end of the day these suits always lined their pockets with bloodied dollar bills. This city was rotted to it's core, just like it's people, and it'd stay that way until it was burned to the ground.

Sans' eyelights drifted down to the book in front of him.

'Stuffed Plushies For Beginners!'

The title almost felt condescending, just like the colorful pictures and simple wording that decorated each page. He still couldn't help but twist his frown deeper at the fact that you bought him a children's book of all things, paired with that sharp little grin of yours and that infectious laugher. It had been too much.. Which is why he snatched the damn thing out of your hands when you gave it to him.

"To help decide what you want to do with your new skill! Maybe you can finally make something instead of just stitching scraps together you dork."

He would never turn down a challenge, especially from you, and he was eager to have your approval again.

"AND WHAT EXATLY SHOULD I SEW?"

"Just pick something you're interested in and sew it. They have a lot of animals in there! You do at least like one kind of animal, don't you?"

Dogs, because they were loyal.

Cats, because they could fend for themselves.

Birds, because of their freedom.

But making something based of them didn't quite appeal to Sans.

'Basic Plushie Pattern.'

...

"hey bro, i wanted to ask- oh my stars."

"AH-!" Sans inhaled, squeezing the doll in his grasp and nearly tearing at it with his claws. "YOU-! WOULD YOU KNOCK!?"

"you actually made a plushie of them. wow," his brother hummed, "and here i thought your obsession couldn't get any wo-"

WHOOMPH.

The pillow made direct contact with Papyrus' face, earning a laugh from the taller skeleton. Sans barked out a few more insults as his brother continued to giggle, admiring what he had finished so far.

It.. looked like crap.

Some of the stitches were lopsided and others weren't uniform, but he wanted to see this through before his frustrations got the better of him. So with some encouragement from Papyrus he kept at it, finishing the body and then attaching the head.

"Pahahaha! Captain!"

"WHAT!?"

"You! Ehehe! You-! Of.. of me!"

"LOOK, JUST TELL ME IT'S TERRIBLE SO I CAN BE RID OF THE ACURSED THING ALRIGHT?"

"No! No. Absolutely not! I'm keeping this forever and you can never take it away from me!"

He gritted his teeth and attempted to wrestle the doll from your grasp but to no avail. You hugged it close and refused to relent, calling it precious and a testament to his efforts.

All of his hard work..

To a doll..

That looked like you.

"Are you going to make one of you?" you asked, letting out a few breaths as he finally gave up trying to grab the doll from your grasp.

"AND WHY WOULD I DO THAT?"

"Well I don't want them to be lonely."

...

How could he... ever argue with that.

So begrudgingly he sewed again, this time now more aware than ever of that 'thing' as it worked meticulously to create a replicate of itself. The doll's left arm, sewn together with a deep gray metallic fabric, now shared the same shame he did.

...

Strangely enough, it suited him.

...

"They look cute together."

"ONE ON THE RIGHT HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS."

"I still think he's pretty cute. He's trying his best, after all."

Well.. he certainly couldn't argue with that either.

#look at that!#we made it!#cap's is a lil' more fluffier than the others so i hope you guys enjoy it!#captain!sans #sans #undertale #fellswap #fellswap sans #undertale fic #yandere sans #long post #fic #fanfiction #drabble #anxiety tw #depression tw #alch!writes #inbetween!fic

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badartfriend · 3 years ago

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There is a sunny earnestness to Dawn Dorland, an un-self-conscious openness that endears her to some people and that others have found to be a little extra. Her friends call her a “feeler”: openhearted and eager, pressing to make connections with others even as, in many instances, she feels like an outsider. An essayist and aspiring novelist who has taught writing classes in Los Angeles, she is the sort of writer who, in one authorial mission statement, declares her faith in the power of fiction to “share truth,” to heal trauma, to build bridges. (“I’m compelled at funerals to shake hands with the dusty men who dig our graves,” she has written.) She is known for signing off her emails not with “All best” or “Sincerely,” but “Kindly.”

On June 24, 2015, a year after completing her M.F.A. in creative writing, Dorland did perhaps the kindest, most consequential thing she might ever do in her life. She donated one of her kidneys, and elected to do it in a slightly unusual and particularly altruistic way. As a so-called nondirected donation, her kidney was not meant for anyone in particular but instead was part of a donation chain, coordinated by surgeons to provide a kidney to a recipient who may otherwise have no other living donor. There was some risk with the procedure, of course, and a recovery to think about, and a one-kidney life to lead from that point forward. But in truth, Dorland, in her 30s at the time, had been wanting to do it for years. “As soon as I learned I could,” she told me recently, on the phone from her home in Los Angeles, where she and her husband were caring for their toddler son and elderly pit bull (and, in their spare time, volunteering at dog shelters and searching for adoptive families for feral cat litters). “It’s kind of like not overthinking love, you know?”

Several weeks before the surgery, Dorland decided to share her truth with others. She started a private Facebook group, inviting family and friends, including some fellow writers from GrubStreet, the Boston writing center where Dorland had spent many years learning her craft. After her surgery, she posted something to her group: a heartfelt letter she’d written to the final recipient of the surgical chain, whoever they may be.

Personally, my childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I didn’t have the opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. A positive outcome of my early life is empathy, that it opened a well of possibility between me and strangers. While perhaps many more people would be motivated to donate an organ to a friend or family member in need, to me, the suffering of strangers is just as real. … Throughout my preparation for becoming a donor … I focused a majority of my mental energy on imagining and celebrating you.

The procedure went well. By a stroke of luck, Dorland would even get to meet the recipient, an Orthodox Jewish man, and take photos with him and his family. In time, Dorland would start posting outside the private group to all of Facebook, celebrating her one-year “kidneyversary” and appearing as a UCLA Health Laker for a Day at the Staples Center to support live-organ donation. But just after the surgery, when she checked Facebook, Dorland noticed some people she’d invited into the group hadn’t seemed to react to any of her posts. On July 20, she wrote an email to one of them: a writer named Sonya Larson.

Larson and Dorland had met eight years earlier in Boston. They were just a few years apart in age, and for several years they ran in the same circles, hitting the same events, readings and workshops at the GrubStreet writing center. But in the years since Dorland left town, Larson had leveled up. Her short fiction was published, in Best American Short Stories and elsewhere; she took charge of GrubStreet’s annual Muse and the Marketplace literary conference, and as a mixed-race Asian American, she marshaled the group’s diversity efforts. She also joined a group of published writers that calls itself the Chunky Monkeys (a whimsical name, referring to breaking off little chunks of big projects to share with the other members). One of those writing-group members, Celeste Ng, who wrote “Little Fires Everywhere,” told me that she admires Larson’s ability to create “characters who have these big blind spots.” While they think they’re presenting themselves one way, they actually come across as something else entirely.

When it comes to literary success, the stakes can be pretty low — a fellowship or residency here, a short story published there. But it seemed as if Larson was having the sort of writing life that Dorland once dreamed of having. After many years, Dorland, still teaching, had yet to be published. But to an extent that she once had a writing community, GrubStreet was it. And Larson was, she believed, a close friend.

Over email, on July 21, 2015, Larson answered Dorland’s message with a chirpy reply — “How have you been, my dear?” Dorland replied with a rundown of her next writing residencies and workshops, and as casually as possible, asked: “I think you’re aware that I donated my kidney this summer. Right?”

Only then did Larson gush: “Ah, yes — I did see on Facebook that you donated your kidney. What a tremendous thing!”

Afterward, Dorland would wonder: If she really thought it was that great, why did she need reminding that it happened?

They wouldn’t cross paths again until the following spring — a brief hello at A.W.P., the annual writing conference, where the subject of Dorland’s kidney went unmentioned. A month later, at the GrubStreet Muse conference in Boston, Dorland sensed something had shifted — not just with Larson but with various GrubStreet eminences, old friends and mentors of hers who also happened to be members of Larson’s writing group, the Chunky Monkeys. Barely anyone brought up what she’d done, even though everyone must have known she’d done it. “It was a little bit like, if you’ve been at a funeral and nobody wanted to talk about it — it just was strange to me,” she said. “I left that conference with this question: Do writers not care about my kidney donation? Which kind of confused me, because I thought I was in a community of service-oriented people.”

It didn’t take long for a clue to surface. On June 24, 2016, a Facebook friend of Dorland’s named Tom Meek commented on one of Dorland’s posts.

Sonya read a cool story about giving out a kidney. You came to my mind and I wondered if you were the source of inspiration?

Still impressed you did this.

Dorland was confused. A year earlier, Larson could hardly be bothered to talk about it. Now, at Trident bookstore in Boston, she’d apparently read from a new short story about that very subject. Meek had tagged Larson in his comment, so Dorland thought that Larson must have seen it. She waited for Larson to chime in — to say, “Oh, yes, I’d meant to tell you, Dawn!” or something like that — but there was nothing. Why would Sonya write about it, she wondered, and not tell her?

Six days later, she decided to ask her. Much as she had a year earlier, she sent Larson a friendly email, including one pointed request: “Hey, I heard you wrote a kidney-donation story. Cool! Can I read it?”

‘I hope it doesn’t feel too weird for your gift to have inspired works of art.’

Ten days later, Larson wrote back saying that yes, she was working on a story “about a woman who receives a kidney, partially inspired by how my imagination took off after learning of your own tremendous donation.” In her writing, she spun out a scenario based not on Dorland, she said, but on something else — themes that have always fascinated her. “I hope it doesn’t feel too weird for your gift to have inspired works of art,” Larson wrote.

Dorland wrote back within hours. She admitted to being “a little surprised,” especially “since we’re friends and you hadn’t mentioned it.” The next day, Larson replied, her tone a bit removed, stressing that her story was “not about you or your particular gift, but about narrative possibilities I began thinking about.”

But Dorland pressed on. “It’s the interpersonal layer that feels off to me, Sonya. … You seemed not to be aware of my donation until I pointed it out. But if you had already kicked off your fictional project at this time, well, I think your behavior is a little deceptive. At least, weird.”

Larson’s answer this time was even cooler. “Before this email exchange,” she wrote, “I hadn’t considered that my individual vocal support (or absence of it) was of much significance.”

Which, though it was shrouded in politesse, was a different point altogether. Who, Larson seemed to be saying, said we were such good friends?

For many years now, Dorland has been working on a sprawling novel, “Econoline,” which interweaves a knowing, present-day perspective with vivid, sometimes brutal but often romantic remembrances of an itinerant rural childhood. The van in the title is, she writes in a recent draft, “blue as a Ty-D-Bowl tablet. Bumbling on the highway, bulky and off-kilter, a junebug in the wind.” The family in the narrative survives on “government flour, canned juice and beans” and “ruler-long bricks of lard” that the father calls “commodities.”

Dorland is not shy about explaining how her past has afforded her a degree of moral clarity that others might not come by so easily. She was raised in near poverty in rural Iowa. Her parents moved around a lot, she told me, and the whole family lived under a stigma. One small consolation was the way her mother modeled a certain perverse self-reliance, rejecting the judgments of others. Another is how her turbulent youth has served as a wellspring for much of her writing. She made her way out of Iowa with a scholarship to Scripps College in California, followed by divinity school at Harvard. Unsure of what to do next, she worked day jobs in advertising in Boston while dabbling in workshops at the GrubStreet writing center. When she noticed classmates cooing over Marilynne Robinson’s novel “Housekeeping,” she picked up a copy. After inhaling its story of an eccentric small-town upbringing told with sensitive, all-seeing narration, she knew she wanted to become a writer.

At GrubStreet, Dorland eventually became one of several “teaching scholars” at the Muse conference, leading workshops on such topics as “Truth and Taboo: Writing Past Shame.” Dorland credits two members of the Chunky Monkeys group, Adam Stumacher and Chris Castellani, with advising her. But in hindsight, much of her GrubStreet experience is tied up with her memories of Sonya Larson. She thinks they first met at a one-off writing workshop Larson taught, though Larson, for her part, says she doesn’t remember this. Everybody at GrubStreet knew Larson — she was one of the popular, ever-present people who worked there. On nights out with other Grubbies, Dorland remembers Larson getting personal, confiding about an engagement, the death of someone she knew and plans to apply to M.F.A. programs — though Larson now says she shared such things widely. When a job at GrubStreet opened up, Larson encouraged her to apply. Even when she didn’t get it, everyone was so gracious about it, including Larson, that she felt included all the same.

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Now, as she read these strained emails from Larson — about this story of a kidney donation; her kidney donation? — Dorland wondered if everyone at GrubStreet had been playing a different game, with rules she’d failed to grasp. On July 15, 2016, Dorland’s tone turned brittle, even wounded: “Here was a friend entrusting something to you, making herself vulnerable to you. At least, the conclusion I can draw from your responses is that I was mistaken to consider us the friends that I did.”

Larson didn’t answer right away. Three days later, Dorland took her frustrations to Facebook, in a blind item: “I discovered that a writer friend has based a short story on something momentous I did in my own life, without telling me or ever intending to tell me (another writer tipped me off).” Still nothing from Larson.

Dorland waited another day and then sent her another message both in a text and in an email: “I am still surprised that you didn’t care about my personal feelings. … I wish you’d given me the benefit of the doubt that I wouldn’t interfere.” Yet again, no response.

The next day, on July 20, she wrote again: “Am I correct that you do not want to make peace? Not hearing from you sends that message.”

Larson answered this time. “I see that you’re merely expressing real hurt, and for that I am truly sorry,” she wrote on July 21. But she also changed gears a little. “I myself have seen references to my own life in others’ fiction, and it certainly felt weird at first. But I maintain that they have a right to write about what they want — as do I, and as do you.”

Hurt feelings or not, Larson was articulating an ideal — a principle she felt she and all writers ought to live up to. “For me, honoring another’s artistic freedom is a gesture of friendship,” Larson wrote, “and of trust.”

Image

Sonya Larson in Massachussetts.Credit...Kholood Eid for The New York Times

Like Dawn Dorland, Sonya Larson understands life as an outsider. The daughter of a Chinese American mother and white father, she was brought up in a predominantly white, middle-class enclave in Minnesota, where being mixed-race sometimes confused her. “It took me a while to realize the things I was teased about were intertwined with my race,” she told me over the phone from Somerville, where she lived with her husband and baby daughter. Her dark hair, her slight build: In a short story called “Gabe Dove,” which was picked for the 2017 edition of Best American Short Stories, Larson’s protagonist is a second-generation Asian American woman named Chuntao, who is used to men putting their fingers around her wrist and remarking on how narrow it is, almost as if she were a toy, a doll, a plaything.

Larson’s path toward writing was more conventional than Dorland’s. She started earlier, after her first creative-writing class at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. When she graduated, in 2005, she moved to Boston and walked into GrubStreet to volunteer the next day. Right away, she became one of a handful of people who kept the place running. In her fiction, Larson began exploring the sensitive subject matter that had always fascinated her: racial dynamics, and people caught between cultures. In time, she moved beyond mere political commentary to revel in her characters’ flaws — like a more socially responsible Philip Roth, though every bit as happy to be profane and fun and provocative. Even as she allows readers to be one step ahead of her characters, to see how they’re going astray, her writing luxuriates in the seductive power that comes from living an unmoored life. “He described thick winding streams and lush mountain gorges,” the rudderless Chuntao narrates in “Gabe Dove,” “obviously thinking I’d enjoy this window into my ancestral country, but in truth, I wanted to slap him.”

Chuntao, or a character with that name, turns up in many of Larson’s stories, as a sort of a motif — a little different each time Larson deploys her. She appears again in “The Kindest,” the story that Larson had been reading from at the Trident bookstore in 2016. Here, Chuntao is married, with an alcohol problem. A car crash precipitates the need for a new organ, and her whole family is hoping the donation will serve as a wake-up call, a chance for Chuntao to redeem herself. That’s when the donor materializes. White, wealthy and entitled, the woman who gave Chuntao her kidney is not exactly an uncomplicated altruist: She is a stranger to her own impulses, unaware of how what she considers a selfless act also contains elements of intense, unbridled narcissism.

In early drafts of the story, the donor character’s name was Dawn. In later drafts, Larson ended up changing the name to Rose. While Dorland no doubt was an inspiration, Larson argues that in its finished form, her story moved far beyond anything Dorland herself had ever said or done. But in every iteration of “The Kindest,” the donor says she wants to meet Chuntao to celebrate, to commune — only she really wants something more, something ineffable, like acknowledgment, or gratitude, or recognition, or love.

Still, they’re not so different, Rose and Chuntao. “I think they both confuse love with worship,” Larson told me. “And they both see love as something they have to go get; it doesn’t already exist inside of them.” All through “The Kindest,” love or validation operates almost like a commodity — a precious elixir that heals all pain. “The thing about the dying,” Chuntao narrates toward the end, “is they command the deepest respect, respect like an underground river resonant with primordial sounds, the kind of respect that people steal from one another.”

They aren’t entirely equal, however. While Chuntao is the story’s flawed hero, Rose is more a subject of scrutiny — a specimen to be analyzed. The study of the hidden motives of privileged white people comes naturally to Larson. “When you’re mixed-race, as I am, people have a way of ‘confiding’ in you,” she once told an interviewer. What they say, often about race, can be at odds with how they really feel. In “The Kindest,” Chuntao sees through Rose from the start. She knows what Rose wants — to be a white savior — and she won’t give it to her. (“So she’s the kindest bitch on the planet?” she says to her husband.) By the end, we may no longer feel a need to change Chuntao. As one critic in the literary journal Ploughshares wrote when the story was published in 2017: “Something has got to be admired about someone who returns from the brink of death unchanged, steadfast in their imperfections.”

For some readers, “The Kindest” is a rope-a-dope. If you thought this story was about Chuntao’s redemption, you’re as complicit as Rose. This, of course, was entirely intentional. Just before she wrote “The Kindest,” Larson helped run a session on race in her graduate program that became strangely contentious. “Many of the writers who identified as white were quite literally seeing the racial dynamics of what we were discussing very differently from the people of color in the room,” she said. “It was as if we were just simply talking past one another, and it was scary.” At the time, she’d been fascinated by “the dress” — that internet meme with a photo some see as black and blue and others as white and gold. Nothing interests Larson more than a thing that can be seen differently by two people, and she saw now how no subject demonstrates that better than race. She wanted to write a story that was like a Rorschach test, one that might betray the reader’s own hidden biases.

When reflecting on Chuntao, Larson often comes back to the character’s autonomy, her nerve. “She resisted,” she told me. Chuntao refused to become subsumed by Rose’s narrative. “And I admire that. And I think that small acts of refusal like that are things that people of color — and writers of color — in this country have to bravely do all the time.”

Larson and Dorland have each taken and taught enough writing workshops to know that artists, almost by definition, borrow from life. They transform real people and events into something invented, because what is the great subject of art — the only subject, really — if not life itself? This was part of why Larson seemed so unmoved by Dorland’s complaints. Anyone can be inspired by anything. And if you don’t like it, why not write about it yourself?

But to Dorland, this was more than just material. She’d become a public voice in the campaign for live-organ donation, and she felt some responsibility for representing the subject in just the right way. The potential for saving lives, after all, matters more than any story. And yes, this was also her own life — the crystallization of the most important aspects of her personality, from the traumas of her childhood to the transcending of those traumas today. Her proudest moment, she told me, hadn’t been the surgery itself, but making it past the psychological and other clearances required to qualify as a donor. “I didn’t do it in order to heal. I did it because I had healed — I thought.”

The writing world seemed more suspicious to her now. At around the time of her kidney donation, there was another writer, a published novelist, who announced a new book with a protagonist who, in its description, sounded to her an awful lot like the one in “Econoline” — not long after she shared sections of her work in progress with him. That author’s book hasn’t been published, and so Dorland has no way of knowing if she’d really been wronged, but this only added to her sense that the guard rails had fallen off the profession. Beyond unhindered free expression, Dorland thought, shouldn’t there be some ethics? “What do you think we owe one another as writers in community?” she would wonder in an email, several months later, to The Times’s “Dear Sugars” advice podcast. (The show never responded.) “How does a writer like me, not suited to jadedness, learn to trust again after artistic betrayal?”

‘I’m thinking, When did I record my letter with a voice actor? Because this voice actor was reading me the paragraph about my childhood trauma.’

By summer’s end, she and Sonya had forged a fragile truce. “I value our relationship and I regret my part in these miscommunications and misunderstandings,” Larson wrote on Aug. 16, 2016. Not long after, Dorland Googled “kidney” and “Sonya Larson” and a link turned up.

The story was available on Audible — an audio version, put out by a small company called Plympton. Dorland’s dread returned. In July, Larson told her, “I’m still working on the story.” Now here it was, ready for purchase.

She went back and forth about it, but finally decided not to listen to “The Kindest.” When I asked her about it, she took her time parsing that decision. “What if I had listened,” she said, “and just got a bad feeling, and just felt exploited. What was I going to do with that? What was I going to do with those emotions? There was nothing I thought I could do.”

So she didn’t click. “I did what I thought was artistically and emotionally healthy,” she said. “And also, it’s kind of what she had asked me to do.”

Dorland could keep ‘‘The Kindest” out of her life for only so long. In August 2017, the print magazine American Short Fiction published the short story. She didn’t buy a copy. Then in June 2018, she saw that the magazine dropped its paywall for the story. The promo and opening essay on American Short Fiction’s home page had startled her: a photograph of Larson, side-by-side with a shot of the short-fiction titan Raymond Carver. The comparison does make a certain sense: In Carver’s story “Cathedral,” a blind man proves to have better powers of perception than a sighted one; in “The Kindest,” the white-savior kidney donor turns out to need as much salvation as the Asian American woman she helped. Still, seeing Larson anointed this way was, to say the least, destabilizing.

Then she started to read the story. She didn’t get far before stopping short. Early on, Rose, the donor, writes a letter to Chuntao, asking to meet her.

I myself know something of suffering, but from those experiences I’ve acquired both courage and perseverance. I’ve also learned to appreciate the hardship that others are going through, no matter how foreign. Whatever you’ve endured, remember that you are never alone. … As I prepared to make this donation, I drew strength from knowing that my recipient would get a second chance at life. I withstood the pain by imagining and rejoicing in YOU.

Here, to Dorland’s eye, was an echo of the letter she’d written to her own recipient — and posted on her private Facebook group — rejiggered and reworded, yet still, she believed, intrinsically hers. Dorland was amazed. It had been three years since she donated her kidney. Larson had all that time to launder the letter — to rewrite it drastically or remove it — and she hadn’t bothered.

She showed the story’s letter to her husband, Chris, who had until that point given Larson the benefit of the doubt.

“Oh,” he said.

Everything that happened two years earlier, during their email melée, now seemed like gaslighting. Larson had been so insistent that Dorland was being out of line — breaking the rules, playing the game wrong, needing something she shouldn’t even want. “Basically, she’d said, ‘I think you’re being a bad art friend,’” Dorland told me. That argument suddenly seemed flimsy. Sure, Larson had a right to self-expression — but with someone else’s words? Who was the bad art friend now?

Before she could decide what to do, there came another shock. A few days after reading “The Kindest,” Dorland learned that the story was the 2018 selection for One City One Story, a common-reads program sponsored by the Boston Book Festival. That summer, some 30,000 copies of “The Kindest” would be distributed free all around town. An entire major U.S. city would be reading about a kidney donation — with Sonya Larson as the author.

This was when Dawn Dorland decided to push back — first a little, and then a lot. This wasn’t about art anymore; not Larson’s anyway. It was about her art, her letter, her words, her life. She shopped for a legal opinion: Did Larson’s use of that letter violate copyright law? Even getting a lawyer to look into that one little question seemed too expensive. But that didn’t stop her from contacting American Short Fiction and the Boston Book Festival herself with a few choice questions: What was their policy on plagiarism? Did they know they were publishing something that used someone else’s words? She received vague assurances they’d get back to her.

While waiting, she also contacted GrubStreet’s leadership: What did this supposedly supportive, equitable community have to say about plagiarism? She emailed the Bread Loaf writing conference in Vermont, where Larson once had a scholarship: What would they do if one of their scholars was discovered to have plagiarized? On privacy grounds, Bread Loaf refused to say if “The Kindest” was part of Larson’s 2017 application. But Dorland found more groups with a connection to Larson to notify, including the Vermont Studio Center and the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics and Writers.

When the Boston Book Festival told her they would not share the final text of the story, Dorland went a step further. She emailed two editors at The Boston Globe — wouldn’t they like to know if the author of this summer’s citywide common-reads short story was a plagiarist? And she went ahead and hired a lawyer, Jeffrey Cohen, who agreed she had a claim — her words, her letter, someone else’s story. On July 3, 2018, Cohen sent the book festival a cease-and-desist letter, demanding they hold off on distributing “The Kindest” for the One City One Story program, or risk incurring damages of up to $150,000 under the Copyright Act.

From Larson’s point of view, this wasn’t just ludicrous, it was a stickup. Larson had found her own lawyer, James Gregorio, who on July 17 replied that Dorland’s actions constitute “harassment, defamation per se and tortious interference with business and contractual relations.” Despite whatever similarities exist between the letters, Larson’s lawyer believed there could be no claim against her because, among other reasons, these letters that donors write are basically a genre; they follow particular conventions that are impossible to claim as proprietary. In July, Dorland’s lawyer suggested settling with the book festival for $5,000 (plus an attribution at the bottom of the story, or perhaps a referral link to a kidney-donor site). Larson’s camp resisted talks when they learned that Dorland had contacted The Globe.

‘This is not about a white savior narrative. It’s about us and our sponsor and our board not being sued if we distribute the story.'

In reality, Larson was pretty vulnerable: an indemnification letter in her contract with the festival meant that if Dorland did sue, she would incur the costs. What no one had counted on was that Dorland, in late July, would stumble upon a striking new piece of evidence. Searching online for more mentions of “The Kindest,” she saw something available for purchase. At first this seemed to be a snippet of the Audible version of the story, created a year before the American Short Fiction version. But in fact, this was something far weirder: a recording of an even earlier iteration of the story. When Dorland listened to this version, she heard something very different — particularly the letter from the donor.

Dorland’s letter:

Larson’s audio version of the story:

My own childhood was marked by trauma and abuse; I wasn’t given an opportunity to form secure attachments with my family of origin. But in adulthood that experience provided a strong sense of empathy. While others might desire to give to a family member or friend, to me the suffering of strangers is just as real.

“I almost fell off my chair,” Dorland said. “I’m thinking, When did I record my letter with a voice actor? Because this voice actor was reading me the paragraph about my childhood trauma. To me it was just bizarre.” It confirmed, in her eyes, that Larson had known she had a problem: She had altered the letter after Dorland came to her with her objections in 2016.

Dorland’s lawyer increased her demand to $10,000 — an amount Dorland now says was to cover her legal bills, but that the other side clearly perceived as another provocation. She also contacted her old GrubStreet friends — members of the Chunky Monkeys whom she now suspected had known all about what Larson was doing. “Why didn’t either of you check in with me when you knew that Sonya’s kidney story was related to my life?” she emailed the group’s founders, Adam Stumacher and Jennifer De Leon. Stumacher responded, “I have understood from the start this is a work of fiction.” Larson’s friends were lining up behind her.

In mid-August, Dorland learned that Larson had made changes to “The Kindest” for the common-reads program. In this new version, every similar phrase in the donor’s letter was reworded. But there was something new: At the end of the letter, instead of closing with “Warmly,” Larson had switched it to “Kindly.”

With that one word — the signoff she uses in her emails — Dorland felt trolled. “She thought that it would go to press and be read by the city of Boston before I realized that she had jabbed me in the eye,” Dorland said. (Larson, for her part, told me that the change was meant as “a direct reference to the title; it’s really as simple as that.”) Dorland’s lawyer let the festival know she wasn’t satisfied — that she still considered the letter in the story to be a derivative work of her original. If the festival ran the story, she’d sue.

This had become Sonya Larson’s summer of hell. What had started with her reaching heights she’d never dreamed of — an entire major American city as her audience, reading a story she wrote, one with an important message about racial dynamics — was ending with her under siege, her entire career in jeopardy, and all for what she considered no reason at all: turning life into art, the way she thought that any writer does.

Larson had tried working the problem. When, in June, an executive from the book festival first came to her about Dorland, Larson offered to “happily” make changes to “The Kindest.” “I remember that letter, and jotted down phrases that I thought were compelling, though in the end I constructed the fictional letter to suit the character of Rose,” she wrote to the festival. “I admit, however, that I’m not sure what they are — I don’t have a copy of that letter.” There was a moment, toward the end of July, when it felt as if she would weather the storm. The festival seemed fine with the changes she made to the story. The Globe did publish something, but with little impact.

Then Dorland found that old audio version of the story online, and the weather changed completely. Larson tried to argue that this wasn’t evidence of plagiarism, but proof that she’d been trying to avoid plagiarism. Her lawyer told The Globe that Larson had asked the audio publisher to make changes to her story on July 15, 2016 — in the middle of her first tense back-and-forth with Dorland — because the text “includes a couple sentences that I’d excerpted from a real-life letter.” In truth, Larson had been frustrated by the situation. “She seemed to think that she had ownership over the topic of kidney donation,” Larson recalled in an email to the audio publisher in 2018. “It made me realize that she is very obsessive.”

It was then, in August 2018, facing this new onslaught of plagiarism claims, that Larson stopped playing defense. She wrote a statement to The Globe declaring that anyone who sympathized with Dorland’s claims afforded Dorland a certain privilege. “My piece is fiction,” she wrote. “It is not her story, and my letter is not her letter. And she shouldn’t want it to be. She shouldn’t want to be associated with my story’s portrayal and critique of white-savior dynamics. But her recent behavior, ironically, is exhibiting the very blindness I’m writing about, as she demands explicit identification in — and credit for — a writer of color’s work.”

Here was a new argument, for sure. Larson was accusing Dorland of perverting the true meaning of the story — making it all about her, and not race and privilege. Larson’s friend Celeste Ng agrees, at least in part, that the conflict seemed racially coded. “There’s very little emphasis on what this must be like for Sonya,” Ng told me, “and what it is like for writers of color, generally — to write a story and then be told by a white writer, ‘Actually, you owe that to me.’”

‘I feel instead of running the race herself, she’s standing on the sidelines and trying to disqualify everybody else based on minor technicalities.’

But Ng also says this wasn’t just about race; it was about art and friendship. Ng told me that Larson’s entire community believed Dorland needed to be stopped in her tracks — to keep an unreasonable writer from co-opting another writer’s work on account of just a few stray sentences, and destroying that writer’s reputation in the process. “This is not someone that I am particularly fond of,” Ng told me, “because she had been harassing my friend and a fellow writer. So we were quite exercised, I will say.”

Not that it mattered. Dorland would not stand down. And so, on Aug. 13, Deborah Porter, the executive director of the Boston Book Festival, told Larson that One City One Story was canceled for the year. “There is seemingly no end to this,” she wrote, “and we cannot afford to spend any more time or resources.” When the Chunky Monkeys’ co-founder, Jennifer De Leon, made a personal appeal, invoking the white-savior argument, the response from Porter was like the slamming of a door. “That story should never have been submitted to us in the first place,” Porter wrote. “This is not about a white savior narrative. It’s about us and our sponsor and our board not being sued if we distribute the story. You owe us an apology.”

Porter then emailed Larson, too. “It seems to me that we have grounds to sue you,” she wrote to Larson. “Kindly ask your friends not to write to us.”

Here, it would seem, is where the conflict ought to end — Larson in retreat, “The Kindest” canceled. But neither side was satisfied. Larson, her reputation hanging by a thread, needed assurances that Dorland would stop making her accusations. Dorland still wanted Larson to explicitly, publicly admit that her words were in Larson’s story. She couldn’t stop wondering — what if Larson published a short-story collection? Or even a novel that spun out of “The Kindest?” She’d be right back here again.

On Sept. 6, 2018, Dorland’s lawyer raised her demand to $15,000, and added a new demand that Larson promise to pay Dorland $180,000 should she ever violate the settlement terms (which included never publishing “The Kindest” again). Larson saw this as an even greater provocation; her lawyer replied three weeks later with a lengthy litany of allegedly defamatory claims that Dorland had made about Larson. Who, he was asking, was the real aggressor here? How could anyone believe that Dorland was the injured party? “It is a mystery exactly how Dorland was damaged,” Larson’s new lawyer, Andrew Epstein, wrote. “My client’s gross receipts from ‘The Kindest’ amounted to $425.”

To Dorland, all this felt intensely personal. Someone snatches her words, and then accuses her of defamation too? Standing down seemed impossible now: How could she admit to defaming someone, she thought, when she was telling the truth? She’d come too far, spent too much on legal fees to quit. “I was desperate to recoup that money,” Dorland told me. She reached out to an arbitration-and-mediation service in California. When Andrew Epstein didn’t respond to the mediator, she considered suing Larson in small-claims court.

On Dec. 26, Dorland emailed Epstein, asking if he was the right person to accept the papers when she filed a lawsuit. As it happened, Larson beat her to the courthouse. On Jan. 30, 2019, Dorland and her lawyer, Cohen, were both sued in federal court, accused of defamation and tortious interference — that is, spreading lies about Larson and trying to tank her career.

There’s a moment in Larson’s short story “Gabe Dove” — also pulled from real life — where Chuntao notices a white family picnicking on a lawn in a park and is awed to see that they’ve all peacefully fallen asleep. “I remember going to college and seeing people just dead asleep on the lawn or in the library,” Larson told me. “No fear that harm will come to you or that people will be suspicious of you. That’s a real privilege right there.”

Larson’s biggest frustration with Dorland’s accusations was that they stole attention away from everything she’d been trying to accomplish with this story. “You haven’t asked me one question about the source of inspiration in my story that has to do with alcoholism, that has to do with the Chinese American experience. It’s extremely selective and untrue to pin a source of a story on just one thing. And this is what fiction writers know.” To ask if her story is about Dorland is, Larson argues, not only completely beside the point, but ridiculous. “I have no idea what Dawn is thinking. I don’t, and that’s not my job to know. All I can tell you about is how it prompted my imagination.” That also, she said, is what artists do. “We get inspired by language, and we play with that language, and we add to it and we change it and we recontextualize it. And we transform it.”

When Larson discusses “The Kindest” now, the idea that it’s about a kidney donation at all seems almost irrelevant. If that hadn’t formed the story’s pretext, she believes, it would have been something else. “It’s like saying that ‘Moby Dick’ is a book about whales,” she said. As for owing Dorland a heads-up about the use of that donation, Larson becomes more indignant, stating that no artist has any such responsibility. “If I walk past my neighbor and he’s planting petunias in the garden, and I think, Oh, it would be really interesting to include a character in my story who is planting petunias in the garden, do I have to go inform him because he’s my neighbor, especially if I’m still trying to figure out what it is I want to say in the story? I just couldn’t disagree more.”

But this wasn’t a neighbor. This was, ostensibly, a friend.

“There are married writer couples who don’t let each other read each other’s work,” Larson said. “I have no obligation to tell anyone what I’m working on.”

By arguing what she did is standard practice, Larson is asking a more provocative question: If you find her guilty of infringement, who’s next? Is any writer safe? “I read Dawn’s letter and I found it interesting,” she told me. “I never copied the letter. I was interested in these words and phrases because they reminded me of the language used by white-savior figures. And I played with this language in early drafts of my story. Fiction writers do this constantly.”

This is the same point her friends argue when defending her to me. “You take a seed, right?” Adam Stumacher said. “And then that’s the starting point for a story. That’s not what the story is about.” This is where “The Kindest” shares something with “Cat Person,” the celebrated 2017 short story in The New Yorker by Kristen Roupenian that, in a recent essay in Slate, a woman named Alexis Nowicki claimed used elements of her life story. That piece prompted a round of outrage from Writer Twitter (“I have held every human I’ve ever met upside down by the ankles,” the author Lauren Groff vented, “and shaken every last detail that I can steal out of their pockets”).

“The Kindest,” however, contains something that “Cat Person” does not: an actual piece of text that even Larson says was inspired by Dorland’s original letter. At some point, Larson must have realized that was the story’s great legal vulnerability. Did she ever consider just pulling it out entirely?

“Yeah, that absolutely was an option,” Larson said. “We could have easily treated the same moment in that story using a phone call, or some other literary device.” But once she made those changes for One City One Story, she said, the festival had told her the story was fine as is. (That version of “The Kindest” ended up in print elsewhere, as part of an anthology published in 2019 by Ohio University’s Swallow Press.) All that was left, she believes, was a smear campaign. “It’s hard for me to see what the common denominator of all of her demands has been, aside from wanting to punish me in some way.”

Dorland filed a counterclaim against Larson on April 24, 2020, accusing Larson of violating the copyright of her letter and intentional infliction of emotional distress — sleeplessness, anxiety, depression, panic attacks, weight loss “and several incidents of self-harm.” Dorland says she’d had some bouts of slapping herself, which dissipated after therapy. (This wasn’t her first lawsuit claiming emotional distress. A few years earlier, Dorland filed papers in small-claims court against a Los Angeles writing workshop where she’d taught, accusing the workshop of mishandling a sexual-harassment report she had made against a student. After requesting several postponements, she withdrew the complaint.) As for her new complaint against Larson, the judge knocked out the emotional-distress claim this past February, but the question of whether “The Kindest” violates Dorland’s copyrighted letter remains in play.

The litigation crept along quietly until earlier this year, when the discovery phase uncorked something unexpected — a trove of documents that seemed to recast the conflict in an entirely new way. There, in black and white, were pages and pages of printed texts and emails between Larson and her writer friends, gossiping about Dorland and deriding everything about her — not just her claim of being appropriated but the way she talked publicly about her kidney donation.

“I’m now following Dawn Dorland’s kidney posts with creepy fascination,” Whitney Scharer, a GrubStreet co-worker and fellow Chunky Monkey, texted to Larson in October 2015 — the day after Larson sent her first draft of “The Kindest” to the group. Dorland had announced she’d be walking in the Rose Bowl parade, as an ambassador for nondirected organ donations. “I’m thrilled to be part of their public face,” Dorland wrote, throwing in a few hashtags: #domoreforeachother and #livingkidneydonation.

Larson replied: “Oh, my god. Right? The whole thing — though I try to ignore it — persists in making me uncomfortable. … I just can’t help but think that she is feeding off the whole thing. … Of course, I feel evil saying this and can’t really talk with anyone about it.”

“I don’t know,” Scharer wrote. “A hashtag seems to me like a cry for attention.”

“Right??” Larson wrote. “#domoreforeachother. Like, what am I supposed to do? DONATE MY ORGANS?”

Among her friends, Larson clearly explained the influence of Dorland’s letter. In January 2016, she texted two friends: “I think I’m DONE with the kidney story but I feel nervous about sending it out b/c it literally has sentences that I verbatim grabbed from Dawn’s letter on FB. I’ve tried to change it but I can’t seem to — that letter was just too damn good. I’m not sure what to do … feeling morally compromised/like a good artist but a shitty person.”

That summer, when Dorland emailed Larson with her complaints, Larson was updating the Chunky Monkeys regularly, and they were encouraging her to stand her ground. “This is all very excruciating,” Larson wrote on July 18, 2016. “I feel like I am becoming the protagonist in my own story: She wants something from me, something that she can show to lots of people, and I’m not giving it.”

“Maybe she was too busy waving from her floating thing at a Macy’s Day parade,” wrote Jennifer De Leon, “instead of, you know, writing and stuff.”

Others were more nuanced. “It’s totally OK for Dawn to be upset,” Celeste Ng wrote, “but it doesn’t mean that Sonya did anything wrong, or that she is responsible for fixing Dawn’s hurt feelings.”

“I can understand the anxiety,” Larson replied. “I just think she’s trying to control something that she doesn’t have the ability or right to control.”

“The first draft of the story really was a takedown of Dawn, wasn’t it?” Calvin Hennick wrote. “But Sonya didn’t publish that draft. … She created a new, better story that used Dawn’s Facebook messages as initial inspiration, but that was about a lot of big things, instead of being about the small thing of taking down Dawn Dorland.”

On Aug. 15, 2016 — a day before telling Dorland, “I value our relationship” — Larson wrote in a chat with Alison Murphy: “Dude, I could write pages and pages more about Dawn. Or at least about this particular narcissistic dynamic, especially as it relates to race. The woman is a gold mine!”

Later on, Larson was even more emboldened. “If she tries to come after me, I will FIGHT BACK!” she wrote Murphy in 2017. Murphy suggested renaming the story “Kindly, Dawn,” prompting Larson to reply, “HA HA HA.”

Dorland learned about the emails — a few hundred pages of them — from her new lawyer, Suzanne Elovecky, who read them first and warned her that they might be triggering. When she finally went through them, she saw what she meant. The Chunky Monkeys knew the donor in “The Kindest” was Dorland, and they were laughing at her. Everything she’d dreaded and feared about raising her voice — that so many writers she revered secretly dismissed and ostracized her; that absolutely no one except her own lawyers seemed to care that her words were sitting there, trapped inside someone else’s work of art; that a slew of people, supposedly her friends, might actually believe she’d donated an organ just for the likes — now seemed completely confirmed, with no way to sugarcoat it. “It’s like I became some sort of dark-matter mascot to all of them somehow,” she said.

But there also was something clarifying about it. Now more than ever, she believes that “The Kindest” was personal. “I think she wanted me to read her story,” Dorland said, “and for me and possibly no one else to recognize my letter.”

Larson, naturally, finds this outrageous. “Did I feel some criticism toward the way that Dawn was posting about her kidney donation?” she said. “Yes. But am I trying to write a takedown of Dawn? No. I don’t care about Dawn.” All the gossiping about Dorland, now made public, would seem to put Larson into a corner. But many of the writer friends quoted in those texts and emails (those who responded to requests for comment) say they still stand behind her; if they were ridiculing Dorland, it was all in the service of protecting their friend. “I’m very fortunate to have friends in my life who I’ve known for 10, 20, over 30 years,” Larson told me. “I do not, and have never, considered Dawn one of them.”

What about the texts where she says that Dorland is behaving just like her character? Here, Larson chose her words carefully. “Dawn might behave like the character in my story,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean that the character in my story is behaving like Dawn. I know she’s trying to work through every angle she can to say that I’ve done something wrong. I have not done anything wrong.”

In writing, plagiarism is a straight-up cardinal sin: If you copy, you’re wrong. But in the courts, copyright infringement is an evolving legal concept. The courts are continuously working out the moment when someone’s words cross over into property that can be protected; as with any intellectual property, the courts have to balance the protections of creators with a desire not to stifle innovation. One major help to Dorland, however, is the rights that the courts have given writers over their own unpublished letters, even after they’re sent to someone else. J.D. Salinger famously prevented personal letters from being quoted by a would-be biographer. They were his property, the courts said, not anyone else’s. Similarly, Dorland could argue that this letter, despite having made its way onto Facebook, qualifies.

Let’s say the courts agree that Dorland’s letter is protected. What then? Larson’s main defense may be that the most recent version of the letter in “The Kindest” — the one significantly reworded for the book festival — simply doesn’t include enough material from Dorland’s original to rise to the level of infringement. This argument is, curiously, helped by how Larson has always, when it has come down to it, acknowledged Dorland’s letter as an influence. The courts like it when you don’t hide what you’ve done, according to Daniel Novack, chairman of the New York State Bar Association’s committee on media law. “You don’t want her to be punished for being clear about where she got it from,” he said. “If anything, that helps people find the original work.”

Larson’s other strategy is to argue that by repurposing snippets of the letter in this story, it qualifies as “transformative use,” and could never be mistaken for the original. Arguing transformative use might require arguing that a phrase of Larson’s like “imagining and rejoicing in YOU” has a different inherent meaning from the phrase in Dorland’s letter “imagining and celebrating you.” While they are similar, Larson’s lawyer, Andrew Epstein, argues that the story overall is different, and makes the letter different. “It didn’t steal from the letter,” he told me, “but it added something new and it was a totally different narrative.”

Larson put it more bluntly to me: “Her letter, it wasn’t art! It was informational. It doesn’t have market value. It’s like language that we glean from menus, from tombstones, from tweets. And Dorland ought to know this. She’s taken writing workshops.”

Transformative use most often turns up in cases of commentary or satire, or with appropriation artists like Andy Warhol. The idea is not to have such strong copyright protections that people can’t innovate. While Larson may have a case, one potential wrinkle is a recent federal ruling, just earlier this year, against the Andy Warhol Foundation. An appeals court determined that Warhol’s use of a photograph by Lynn Goldsmith as the basis for his own work of art was not a distinctive enough transformation. Whether Larson’s letter is derivative, in the end, may be up to a jury to decide. Dorland’s lawyer, meanwhile, can point to that 2016 text message of Larson’s, when she says she tried to reword the letter but just couldn’t. (“That letter was just too damn good.”)

“The whole reason they want it in the first place is because it’s special,” Dorland told me. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t bother.”

If anything, the letter, for Dorland, has only grown more important over time. While Larson openly wonders why Dorland doesn’t just write about her donation her own way — “I feel instead of running the race herself, she’s standing on the sidelines and trying to disqualify everybody else based on minor technicalities,” Larson told me — Dorland sometimes muses, however improbably, that because vestiges of her letter remain in Larson’s story, Larson might actually take her to court and sue her for copyright infringement if she published any parts of the letter. It’s almost as if Dorland believes that Larson, by getting there first, has grabbed some of the best light, leaving nothing for her.

Last year, as the pandemic set in, Dorland attended three different online events that featured Larson as a panelist. The third one, in August, was a Cambridge Public Library event featuring many of the Chunky Monkeys, gathering online to discuss what makes for a good writing group. “I know virtually all of them,” Dorland said. “It was just like seeing friends.”

Larson, while on camera, learned that Dorland’s name was on the attendees list, and her heart leapt into her throat. Larson’s life had moved on in so many ways. She’d published another story. She and her husband had just had their baby. Now Larson was with her friends, talking about the importance of community. And there was Dorland, the woman who’d branded her a plagiarist, watching her. “It really just freaks me out,” Larson said. “At times I’ve felt kind of stalked.”

Dorland remembers that moment, too, seeing Larson’s face fall, convinced she was the reason. There was, for lack of a better word, a connection. When I asked how she felt in that moment, Dorland was slow to answer. It’s not as if she meant for it to happen, she said. Still, it struck her as telling.

“To me? It seemed like she had dropped the facade for a minute. I’m not saying that — I don’t want her to feel scared, because I’m not threatening. To me, it seemed like she knew she was full of shit, to put it bluntly — like, in terms of our dispute, that she was going to be found out.”

Then Dorland quickly circled back and rejected the premise of the question. There was nothing strange at all, Dorland said, about her watching three different events featuring Larson. She was watching, she said, to conduct due diligence for her ongoing case. And, she added, seeing Larson there seemed to be working for her as a sort of exposure therapy — to defuse the hurt she still feels, by making Larson something more real and less imagined, to diminish the space that she takes up in her mind, in her life.

“I think it saves me from villainizing Sonya,” she wrote me later, after our call. “I proceed in this experience as an artist and not an adversary, learning and absorbing everything, making use of it eventually.”

Robert Kolker is a writer based in Brooklyn, N.Y. In 2020, his book “Hidden Valley Road” became a selection of Oprah’s Book Club and a New York Times best seller. His last article for the magazine was about the legacy of Jan Baalsrud, the Norwegian World War II hero.

Correction: Oct. 6, 2021

An earlier version of this article misstated the GrubStreet writing center's action after Dorland's initial questions about potential plagiarism. It did reply; it's not the case that she received no response. The article also misstated Dorland’s thoughts on what could happen if she loses the court case. Dorland said she fears that Larson would be able to sue her for copyright infringement should she publish her letter to the end recipient of the kidney donation chain. It is not the case that she said she fears that Larson might be able to sue her for copyright infringement should she write anything about organ donation.

#emmie this for you

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freckledfangs · 4 years ago

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hesitations

pairing: mason x f!detective (amihan marasigan) rating: T (no smut, mostly because of subject matter) warnings: mentions of body image issues (nothing too detailed/explicit but it is mentioned)

summary: alternate rooftop scene where amihan reveals one of the reasons she’s keeping back from sleeping with mason (soft!m is present)

(tagging @oxjenayxo you said you wanted to be notified when it was up! ty!) ___ The rough stone of the roof is cold under Amihan’s palms. She wonders how this wasn’t too much for Mason - the biting frost of the night air. But then again, as he said the rooftop was quiet. And she too, can feel a comforting wave of peace fall upon her. Even if it were just that moment.

And also there was that, the comfortable silence she can have with him. One she found was hard to find with anyone else besides Tina. She can barely see anything past the hazy shadow of the trees (she should really wear her glasses more often), but the unknown of the dark doesn’t scare her. She glances at the proximity of her hands next to Mason’s. The temptation to move it closer is there. It’s always there, the want to be closer to him.

“So you can’t sleep?” Mason asks. It’s earnest with a hint of teasing. He wraps his arms around himself, pulling his leather coat tighter against him.

“Nope,” Amihan replies. It’s not till then she realizes that the panicked thudding in chest has slowed. The remnants of the nightmare are slowly, but surely leaving her mind.

“I can think of a few ways to tire you out,” he says, smirk audible.

Ahh there he is. Amihan chuckles. She pulls her knees against her chest, daring not to look at Mason or his gleaming eyes right now.

“Of course you do,” she returns in jest. She can feel the heat of his gaze and every time, it’s almost enough to make her give in.

“The offer is always there, sweetheart.”

The way he purrs “sweetheart” churns undeniable desire in her belly. She wonders how it’d sound against her ear while his hands are on her skin. She dares to look at him, not attempting to hide the flush on her cheeks. Even if she tried, he could always tell.

His gaze is intense, moonlight tracing the sharp angles of his gorgeous face. Sometimes it’s too much looking at him, Amihan thinks.

“Hm,” she says, pressing her cheek against her knee, “I bet you’ll take that offer right back once you really see me.”

Mason raises a brow, genuine confusion falling onto his face.

“What do you mean?”

His tone is surprisingly serious.

Amihan picks at the hem of her sweatpants. She assumed he would lead this into some joke, or another opportunity to flirt.

She wonders if he’s playing along or if he really means it. Surely he knows what she means, and she hopes he does, because the thought of having to say it out loud makes her skin crawl.

“You know what I mean,” she says as lightheartedly as possible, though she knows Mason is aware of how serious she is. She shifts in her position and turns back to look at the dark, seemingly never-ending shadows of the woods.

“I don’t,” Mason replies, without a hint of sarcasm or snark in his words.

Amihan sucks in her cheeks, sitting straight up. The raw edges of the skin by her fingernails look tempting now. She moves a hand to pick at it, before pulling her hoodie sleeve over her hand. No, not now. You’ve been doing well.

“Here’s the truth. Mason, I really want you,” Amihan begins, instead fiddling with the loose thread on her hoodie sleeve, “I really, really want you and it’s frightening to me. Because you’ve made it clear that you do too. But part of me believes you’re doing it as a joke or for a laugh. And another part believes that if I do give in you’ll change your mind.”

“Sweetheart,” he replies, “If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t be dragging it out this long. I wouldn’t have flirted with you to begin with.”

Amihan lets out a long exhale. Mason has never lied, has never been false about his intentions. Everything that’s happened has been proof of that - but why this, the fact that he wants her in that way was so hard to believe?

“That’s good to know,” she manages to say. She can’t look at him now. “But what if you don’t like what you see?”

Mason furrows his brows, once again, genuine confusion falling onto his face.

“I obviously like what I see-”

“Once we get intimate. What if you don’t like how I look then,” she quickly interjects, biting the inside of her cheek. She’s thought of those words forever, but saying them out loud feels like unearthing something deep and awful.

For once Mason is stunned silent.

“Why wouldn’t I like-”

“Because I’m ugly,” she interjects again, fearing a frustrated response from him. She’s relieved when it doesn’t come.

He pauses to say something, but not before Amihan can continue.

“And no, I’m not fishing for sympathy or whatever. It’s why I never bring this up.”

A torrent of tears trickles down her cheeks. Embarrassing.

She begind to stand up and leave. That was enough of that. That was not where she was hoping it’d go.

“Amihan.”

Mason has never said her name before - or at least, never from what she can remember. It’s enough to make her freeze in her steps.

“Embarrassing, I know,” she says, her back turned.

“No,” Mason says. She hears him get up.

“Well,” Amihan sniffs, wiping her face with her sleeve, “Tell me now if you no longer want anything to do with me.”

She feels his footsteps close in, the warmth of his presence coming nearer.

“It might sound disingenuous,” he says, “But I do, still want you. But if it’s something that makes you uncomfortable, I won’t push it anymore.”

Amihan sighs, pang stinging in her chest.

“But that’s just the thing, it doesn’t. I want nothing more than to…,” she trails off, “I just. I hate how I look. I hate how my body looks and I am so scared you will too.”

She finally turns to face him, blinking away tears. There’s a certain softness in his eyes she doesn’t think she’s ever seen. He shoves his hands in his pocket and looks at her.

“I have no idea if it means anything coming from me, but I won’t,” he assures, “You’re stunning.”

There’s a gentleness in his final words that make Amihan’s stomach leap. It frightens her too.

“I don’t believe it, but...thank you,” she replies.

“I’d like to make you believe it,” he smirks, “Even if it doesn’t involve...that.”

Amihan can’t help the smile it coaxes.

“So tell me now,” he says, more serious this time, “Would you like me to stop?”

Amihan rocks back and forth on her heels. She looks at his eyes, gleaming as always.

“No,” she answers, “But...it might take. A while.”

He runs a hand through his hair, chuckling.

“I have forever, sweetheart.”

The weight of his reply is heavier than she expected.

_____________

As Amihan walks away, the sound of her heartbeat grows faint, as does the feeling of peace that had enveloped Mason.

Suddenly, the crickets are too loud, the breeze too frosty, and the stone roof too rough beneath his skin. He pulls his jacket tighter against him. When he can no longer hear Amihan’s heartbeat, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, dampening the sensory overload.

He takes a long drag and exhales. He thinks about Amihan - something he finds himself doing often, almost all the time. He ignores the desire to just have her close.

What bothers him even more than the rattling of tree branches, was that Amihan had meant everything she said earlier. He knows what lies feel like, even half truths, but very few people have ever laid anything so raw and bare before him. His brows knot at the notion that Amihan finds herself ugly.

It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t understand why it bothers him.

Had anyone else said that about Amihan, a quick fist to the jaw would fix it. But what now that it’s Amihan herself? There’s a want in him to prove to her that what she believes is wrong. Because it’s wrong.

Amihan is beautiful.

And for a moment there, the fear of Amihan telling him to back off was too real. And the fear, maybe wasn’t from not being able to get intimate with her. Maybe the fear was from the idea of no longer being able to be around her.

The idea makes his head spin.

He takes another drag from the cigarette. He can see the sun peeking from the horizon. It’s almost time to crawl back to his room.

#twc #twc mason #agent mason #mason x detective #agent m #my fic #amihan marasigan #amihan x mason

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janedrakey131 · 4 years ago

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zukka hp au part 5

I’m so flattered people like this au. I didn’t think I’d be posting again so soon, but I had some more ideas last night. If you’d like to catch up:

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13

If you would like to join the tag list

My brief, very long, not at all fleshed out plan based roughly on what year Sokka is in and other associated events:

First year

Sokka’s first year is boring

He meets Zuko, makes some friends in his house, probably a bunch of OCs

He finds the kitchens on day 2

Hogwarts just hires people who like to cook, who cares whether they’re magical beings or humans or whatever, there’s all sorts of really cool kitchen magic though

He’s always asking questions in class and you can tell why he’s a Ravenclaw

He wants to learn about everything

And once he knows how to do more than shoot a few sparks, he’s going to start inventing

He’s going to do some truly awesome things with transfiguration and potions

And I can’t wait for him to start arithmancy

Like let me tell you, Sokka is a genius, and he’s probably going to be the only one who understands magical theory

This just ended up being a rant about Sokka, so moving on

Second year

The fun starts

Katara and Aang are finally here

Sokka doesn’t know Aang is the avatar

I’m very tempted to have both Katara and Aang be in Hufflepuff

And they run into Sokka in the kitchens

He does a double take, like who is this boy with my sister??

But Aang’s a sweet kid

So Sokka is immediately like we’re bros now, I don’t make the rules

Iroh starts working at Hogwarts (sorry, I changed my mind from herbology) as the potions professor

He comes in on the train with Zuko who just got banished (I actually...might change the specifics)

Sokka doesn’t know what to make of that

Azula is also skulking around annoying Zuzu

But I think she secretly cares a bit and threatens anyone that looks at his scar wrong, because Zuko helped her a lot with some stuff

I think she’s going to be in the same year as Katara and Aang? I’m not sure

I have plans for Azula

I think Mai and Ty Lee are going to be in Zuko’s year, but closer to Azula

Mai and Zuko will date at some point

I think Mai will end up with Ty Lee

But she and Zuko had a short relationship

I think it was more expected of them by their families that they date

But they’re good friends now

I’m not doing this betraying and cheating and hurting other characters to find out who you are thing

Everyone is having wholesome relationships that just don’t work out

(Sidenote, I’m changing things, and characters might end up a bit OOC for atla, and I’m really sorry, but this is just wish fulfillment for me)

Anyway, there’s a plot to find the avatar

The mini gaang (toph isn’t here yet) learn the prophecy (still working on it)

Third year

They find out about Sokka and Katara’s mom

I don’t think Hakoda really knows what happened either. I don’t think he was in the country at the time

I also have some ideas for the water tribe/fire nation beef, but I just made the realization that if I spell everything out in these posts, what’s the point of writing for Ao3 XD

But spoilers, it’s going to be pretty angsty

But I like happy endings, so I may find a way to fix it

Ish

I have this whole idea that if Suki or the Kyoshi are also werewolves, they have really cool rituals to respect and honor the moon spirit and that allows them the ability to turn into wolves whenever they want and not just the full moon

So other people can also be born as werewolves, but different groups have different ways of being a werewolf

Also, I believe I said Zuko starts following Suki around thinking she’s the avatar

And then Sokka decides to fake being the avatar (I completely forgot when I said this would happen, so I’m assuming it’s this year or the next)

This is about when Sokka’s letters to Hakoda start going on about Zuko’s everything even more

Fourth year

Zuko (Zuko’s fifth year) witnesses something unspeakable

Sokka is kidnapped

Zuko saves Sokka

That’s all the detail I have on this XD

But the unspeakable thing and the kidnapping are going to be this year’s mystery

Zuko, the idiot, still thinks Sokka is the avatar at this point

Aang is like no

But doesn’t bother to say he is

So Zuko thinks Katara is the avatar for a hot sec

But has some nonsense logic that there’s no need to stop following Sokka, because if he or his sister are the avatar, of the two, Sokka’s more likely to give something away

Which okay, Zuko, not actually terrible reasoning, except Sokka’s been leading you around by the nose for ages

There’s none of this the avatar rotates which element they can use

Because that’s predictable

And half the fun is that Zuko is trying his best, but has zero clues

Fifth year

This is the big question

I’m not sure what to do with this year

I hope Sokka can start inventing

I want him to make some cool shit

There won’t be an equivalent of the DA as far as I can see :( I can’t figure out how I’d structure that

I think it would be really cool to see them all learning how to use their elemental magic though

Toph and Zuko don’t really need the help

Katara and Aang have always had to deal with all the crap going on, so they haven’t had much time for it

I’m wondering if I should bring in Paku

Aang has it rough, because air magic users are really rare now

So I think he might work with Iroh, because he’s studied other styles of magic extensively

Sixth year

I think Mai had to figure out she was bi

I truly think Zuko doesn’t have time for gender

For like five years, he’s like DO YOU KNOW WHO THE AVATAR IS and if you don’t, he’s already forgotten who you are

So my headcanon is that he’s pan and when he and Sokka eventually get together, Sokka doesn’t know anything about his orientation and just knows he dated Mai, so he’s like “are you cool with me being a dude? Sorry, I just know you’ve dated Mai, so just checking haha?”

And Zuko’s so done with all the random crap he’s dealt with that he’s like “wow, you have a dick? Congratulations”

But then realizes Sokka’s actually concerned and talks it out

Anyway, everyone’s leveled up now, we’re all masters at elemental and non-elemental magic (seriously, Sokka could’ve sat for his NEWTs last year if he wanted to. He’s that far ahead and magic is that intuitive for him)

I have no idea what will happen this year lol

I kind of want an invasion of Hogwarts, I know I’ve been trying not to just blindly follow the books completely :/ So I guess we’ll see?

I’ll have to work on that

I’m such a sucker for the villain waits until the end of the school year to attack

Because it’s so dumb

Like I will find the avatar! *shakes fist* But education is important, kids

Like okay, Sozin

Maybe I can have Roku finally escape that mirror

I kind of want the past avatars to be spirits that anyone can interact with

But most people don’t know how

So the Kyoshi can interact with Avatar Kyoshi as well as other relevant spirits

Seventh year

????

The plot?? Who knows yet

I do know that Zuko’s graduated

And they’re all crying and like wtf do we do now

Because Sozin’s still around and they’ll miss him

And finally Zuko leaves

And he shows up as the assistant DADA professor and he’s like “Hi, Zuko here” and then he’s like “I mean, fuck, Professor Zuko, I mean, fuck...just call me Zuko. You guys all know me”

And the gaang is all like wtf Zuko, we thought we would only see you for breaks

And he’s like you really thought I’d leave you

The plan is that he’ll be an apprentice for a year or so and then take over as professor

Toph punches him so hard, Katara has to heal the bruise

I can guarantee a happy ending

I’ll do whatever angst on the way, but they’ll all be happy

I’m like 89% sure they’re all going to end up working at or around Hogwarts (why work for the government, when you can invest in teaching all these talented kids)

One more thing, there is going to be rep in this au. I know there’s at least one aro ace character. Multiple bi characters. One gay character. One pan character. One trans character that I know of, but I need to plan that out a bit more. Some of these orientations and identities, I can’t speak to personally. For instance, while I know a decent amount about the medical aspects of transitioning, I don’t think I’d be able to write the experience of gender dysphoria and give that its due right now. So unless it’s something I have first hand experience with, most of the individual emotions as part of figuring things out might happen off screen. That doesn’t mean I won’t bring up issues the characters may have had in the past, but any that I talk about, I’d have to do more research into first. Also, partly because this is mostly from Sokka and Zuko’s perspectives, we’re mostly going to be present for what other characters tell them about their experiences

I hope you continue to enjoy this au! Sorry, this got so insanely long. The next couple weeks are going to be a bit crazy for me, so I thought I’d write this up while I had the chance. I’ll be back soon though! If anyone has any suggestions or questions, please let me know :)

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13

If you would like to join the tag list

#zukka #hp au #part 5 #atla au #atla #zuko #aang #sokka #toph #katara #azula #sorry this is so long #next ones will be shorter #maybe #lgbt rep #next up is magical theory #i hope i can make this a fic

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shorkbrian · 4 years ago

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ASKS

Hello again, asks are compiled under the cut. Please block the tag #shorkbrian answers a lot of asks# If you’d prefer not to see these types of posts from me. If I haven’t answered your ask, it’s because I’m saving it for a thirst, drabble, or fic.

I don’t ignore asks, but sometimes getting around to them overwhelms me lol. pls accept my apologies lol k here we go

I am very glad, I legit was so scared that it was too long and that it’d be disappointing bc the smut wasn’t super IN YOUR FACE yknow? But man am I glad to hear that.

I’m looking directly @ you

Someone noticed omg!!! A lot of times I just put whatever song I played on repeat while writing that fit, but I have a *yandere* playlist that I listen to and it gets me going. Ty for noticing!!!

I’ve considered opening them permanently but I just... idek. I’d have to start deleting or ignoring the requests I don’t vibe with and Idk how to handle that lol. But thanks for the well wishes, hope your next few months treat you well friend!

Watermelon sugar why

Srsly you’re sweet but just wait until I start to really get going with all my nasty kinks okay, then you’ll be rethinking this strategy hunty lol!

I literally stalk @.vermiliren and @.kazooli and @.seita lol. Maybe when I get my blog more cleaned up, I’ll create a list of creators that I enjoy, along with fic recs. For now, here’s a link to my AO3 bookmarks which I read one like almost every single night bc I’m a horny gremlin.

I am the shark king. Sharks are my thing bro u don’t even know. I love them so much, they're dumb and big and beautiful and yeah I wish I was a mermaid who got to swim with them. Also I changed it bc I’m trying to make my blog more *professional* and all that so I can start being taken seriously askjakjdf

Compliments suck, if I'm being down and out honest. This does not bother me at all, I’m just unsure how to respond. I think I would prefer no comments, but I’m trying really really hard to just say “thank you!” and move on before I get uncomfortable. Having to fight with someone about how I perceive my self worth is exhausting, and especially so for the poor person that was just trying to say something nice and be nice to me.

They do make me quite uncomfortable my dear lad/lassie/lasso. Say what you wish in the tags tho ! I don’t really reply to those, so there’s no pressure on me to have to say something back. I do however, see all the tags ppl use and some of them make me laugh so hard cause they’re so spot on, and it makes my day. like “Mark me down as scared AND horny” and “Bakugou better be able to bench 165 cause imma throw my fatass in his mf lap” and it kills me.

I SCEREAMED AKDHGSYDGASJSD this is the only format I'll be taking asks in now, no compliments just a yes/no answer to if my works help u cum god bless

you used the /gen!!!!! IDK what these are called but the /S and /gen and /J save my life!!!!

Frick you’ve figured me out, I do try to put like a nail-in-the-coffin sentence at the end. A lot of times it never works right, but I cannot for the life of my figure out how to end a single post ever. If anyone knows hmu pls ty

(Also ps I checked out ur blog cause yans are my jam and it is very much Not garbage!!)

That’s very kind of you, but pls don’t stay up past midnight it’s bad for ur Brian you’ll make bad decisions bro trust me all of my stuff is written after midnight

You will lafff..... but I will tell anyways..... I was prescribed a “life coach” after I got out of the hospital, which was really just a poorly disguised softcore “make sure u don’t yeet urself” type of thing. He had me write down things I liked about myself, and when I returned the sheet of paper still blank, he wrote stuff down for me. Like five sentences of “My hair and skin are unique and special” “I like animals and enjoy being kind to them” “I am worthy of respect” etc etc. and I had to look in a mirror twice a day and say those sentences to help “boost my self worth”. It sucked so bad dude, and I like got upset about it every time it came up, until finally my therapist was like “... this aint doin this sad bitch no good” and my parents got designated for yeet watch instead.

I know, logically, that (the majority of) people are not purposefully taking time out of their day to make me feel bad. They're trying to be encouraging and loving, and I appreciate it so much. But like... what do I say? If I say thanks, it’s almost like acknowledging what they're saying as true, and I can’t live with myself thinking I’m more than I am. I’m sorry you’ve had experiences that make compliments difficult for you also, I understand bro and I hope that your future holds healing and peace for you.

Hopefully I won’t vent as much anymore lol, I’ll try to do that on my sideblog where I reblog really trigger-y memes akjdafhkjf. But thank you for your kind words bro, they’re appreciated and put in a nice lil jar.

Ah dw! This doesn’t sound like a jab. I think all of us r so sad n depressed and feel unworthy of love, so the fantasy of a Yan coming and forcing it on us and not leaving even when we lash out is just..... so attractive my heads gonna explode

me, thinking about kiri at any given moment like:

I have the next Hybrid! Kiri fic like lined up, but I’m so demotivated be I was SO CLOSE to finishing, and then wiped my computer like an IDITO

Waso, I’m taking horseback riding lessons bc my mom went:

and my grandpa told me that one of his horses was named Awaso and I immediately thot of u fun fact. But you’re so very kind, and I enjoy seeing you in my inbox. I’m never tired of u homie. You are loved and important, and it’s not an illusion. Even random strangers on the internet can feel soft towards you bro, and dats me, I’m the random stranger that likes u.

So I took Russian for a year, my dear friend, because I wanted to see if the language myth of “Russian is the hardest, Korean is the easiest” was true. I would say yes. So instead of like translating this and typing out a coherent response, I’ve resorted to google translate I’m so sorry but Виктор мог плюнуть мне в глаз, и я бы поблагодарил его. Also, the way Vitya is written in cryllic makes my heart swell it looks so cozy idek what I mean by that but it does? I treasure you man, hope to see you around in the new year and maybe??? we be good friends

Can any year be good when Kirishima Eijirou doesn’t exist?

cryface;;sad.jpg

I just imagine anyone who comes across my stuff, sitting at their computer shocked and slightly horrified, maybe turned on like

Daddy Aizawa makes me

Wait!! I have something to aid your troubles!!

ur welcome now u can be horny whenever you’d like

pls every time we talk about Kirishima I have to act surprised like

LISTEN BBYGORL I have had therapist Suga in the works since *checks notes* November. I am excited for it yeahhhhhh but sadly, I don’t think I will be continuing piano teacher Suga. The story is petered out in my mind, idk where it would go. Therapist sugarbird tho? We have some thots about this. Coming soon to theaters near you

#shorkbrian answers a lot of asks #pls block that tag if you don't want to see these kinds of posts #inbox was getting fulll #tysvm for continuing to support me

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padme-parker · 4 years ago

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Collide / Chapter 3

[a Star Wars x Avengers crossover]

Summary: You spend some quality time with Anakin, while also reminiscing about home.

Warnings: A few swear words, nothing else I can think of

Word Count: ~3.7k

A/N: this is a filler chapter, so it's all over the place. Bolded phrases are being spoken through the connection while Italicized phrases are your thoughts. !tags are open btw!

Song(s) of the chapter: Yellow by Coldplay, Mariposa by Peach Tree Rascals, and Fallingforyou by The 1975

read ch 2 here

“Look at the stars, look how they shine for you.” -Yellow by Coldplay

You were jolted awake by a loud noise, a speeder bolting past your window. It took you a second to recuperate and figure out where you were. Getting up and out of bed, you walked towards your closet changing into your jedi robes. Both of your undergarments and shirt had been white. Not a pearly white, but more like an ivory white, giving the clothes a slight worn look. The trousers they had given you was a light grey, the faintest hint of blue could be seen if you looked closely. But overall, your bottoms were more grey than blue. Throwing on the black robe, you made your way into the bathroom.

You were unsure what to do with your hair, should I leave it down? Tie it up? Give myself a padawan braid? Hold on, am I even a padawan? That was a question that the jedi council would be able to answer, but for now you were more focused on your hair. I guess I’ll tie my hair up. The jedi had been kind enough to supply you with some hair ties and a comb, along with a toothbrush and toothpaste. After tying your hair up, you grabbed your toothbrush and put a pea sized dollop of toothpaste onto it before brushing your teeth. You had just begun brushing your teeth when you were interrupted by a knock on your door. Left with no other choice than to open your door, you made your way over to it. Pushing the button, the door opened with a woosh.

“Good morning, Alyra. I trust that you slept alright?” Anakin’s eyes followed you as you made your way back to the bathroom, spitting out the toothpaste.

“Yes! The bed was more comfortable than I could ever imagine.” You might even have to smuggle one back home once you leave.

“Are you ready to leave for breakfast?” With a nod of your head, the two of you were off to the commons. The walk there was silent, but comfortable. The both of you appreciating the silence.

“Sorry, if the breakfast here isn’t as appealing as what you had at home. Everything here is bland and tasteless, just like some jedi” You let out a snicker.

“Yeah, well some food back at home isn’t that good either. I think I’ll be fine.” You reply, eyes scanning the food.

“I just hope you don’t have a weak stomach, for y’know, future missions.” After getting your food, you sit down at a barren table, Anakin taking his place next to you. Taking a look at the white, thick slop in your bowl, you decided to give it a taste. He watches as you put it in your mouth, your face scrunching up. You can hear Anakin laugh as you try to wash it down with your drink.

“Here, put some of this in it.” He hands you a light yellow liquid, it’s thick as you pour it out. You stir it around before trying it again. This time however, it has a slightly sweet taste to it.

“It’s certainly a lot better with the syrup, however I’ll probably get something else next time.” You say.

After finishing your meal, Anakin led you outside to the hangar where a two seat speeder was already warmed up and waiting for you. After jumping in and buckling up, Anakin sped off in the direction of the Market. You could feel the excitement pumping through your veins as your hair whipped around in every direction.

Quickly and effortlessly landing on the hangar, you watched as Anakin fiddled with the controls, shutting off the speeder.

“Welcome to CoCo town. Not exactly the lower levels, and not exactly the highest levels of Coruscant. Stay close to me, I don’t want you getting lost.” Walking forward, you were amazed by the buildings. The structures were very industrial-like, yet modern at the same time. Each having its own spunk and characteristics. Anakin directed you towards a small market.

“What do you need?” He asked, you listed off a few things as Anakin searched the aisles for them. Getting to the shampoo aisle, you grabbed a bottle off the shelf and took a sniff.

“As weird as it sounds, this scent reminds me of home.” The shampoo had smelt like strawberries, which was peculiar. You would have never guessed there was a similar smelling fruit on Coruscant, or any other planet for that matter. That must have been how Anakin smelt so similarly to strawberries and cinnamon. Or maybe it had been Padme’s scent that rubbed off on him.

“What’s your home like?” He pondered

“In a way, Coruscant is similar to my home. On Earth, you can find metropolitan areas with skyscrapers too. Except for the speeders, we don’t have the technology for that yet. Nor do I think we’re ready for it. People can’t even drive normally, there’d be chaos if we had flying cars all of a sudden. However, the one thing Coruscant lacks is greenery and nature. There’s an abundance of it at home. Quite frankly, I miss it. There’s no way I can explain my home without doing it justice. Just know that it’s beautiful. Maybe one day I can take you there, then you can decide if you think it’s pretty or not.” You continued to sniff all the shampoos, Anakin watched as you rambled, encaptured by your lips. After choosing your preferred scent, you put it in the basket that Anakin was carrying.

“Yes, hopefully one day I’ll be able to visit. I’ll be looking forward to it.” He commented, “What about your parents? They must be good people if they gave you a pretty name like Alyra.”

“Oh yeah… my parents are good people. I’m really glad they named me Alyra, and not some weird name like y/n…” You let out an awkward laugh, thinking about your family on Earth.

You had just recently joined the avengers, alongside Peter Parker. You were surprised at how young he was, but then again you were only 17, just two years older than him. What surprised you more was the fact that he was Spiderman. You couldn’t believe a mere 15 year old boy was swinging around Queens at night, saving people.

You were sat atop the Stark tower, watching the stars. It was something you found yourself doing often. Gazing, watching for something, someone. A sign of hope, that you weren’t alone. Ever since you were young, the stars and galaxies always amazed you. The prospect of other living beings amazed you. Who would’ve known that only 3 years later, you’d be standing in the very galaxy that you dreamed of.

You continued to gaze at the stars until you heard the soft landing of feet behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to know that it was Peter. He didn’t stay the night at the tower often, so you solemnly talked to him. But conversation came easily around the two of you.

“What’re you doing up and out so late at night, Y/N?” He asked

“I could ask you the same thing. But if you must know, I’m stargazing.” You turned to look at him as he removed his mask. He took a seat and joined you. Peter craned his head up, with his enhanced vision, he could easily see the stars. Although the light pollution still made it difficult for the both of you to see the universe in its full potential. It was quiet for a moment, before Peter broke the silence.

“Why?” His question was tentative, mysterious even.

“Why what?”

“Why do you like stargazing so much?” You were stumped, no one ever bothered to ask you this nor even care if you disappeared for hours. The one thing you had yet to get accustomed to was how much everyone in the tower cared. Before, you were transferred from foster home to foster home. Never really staying long enough to form special bonds with anyone.

“It… makes me calm, gives me tranquility. A sense of peace. It’s almost like everytime I look at the stars, I feel at home. Like I belong, and that I’m not alone.” You wanted to go on, but you didn’t know how to express your feelings. Peter let out a hum of agreement.

“Do you have a favorite constellation?” His tone was curious, as were his eyes.

You pulled out your phone, opening a night sky app. You searched for the constellation before showing it to him. “Look.” You handed your phone to him, careful to not change the positioning of your phone. Peter let out a quiet gasp of awe.

“The constellation is named Lyra. It contains the second brightest star in the northern hemisphere, Vega.” You continued to tell him about the constellation, it’s meaning of the name and back story. Soon this became a tradition for you and Peter. A couple of times a month, both of you gathered at the top of the Stark tower; accompanied by your blankets, snacks and drinks. Each time, you taught him about a new galaxy or constellation.

After the second month, Peter had started calling you Star, which the other members caught on to. Soon the Avengers and the public came to know you as Star. Bright and beautiful, yet dangerous and distant.

You let a smile creep onto your face as you thought of the memory. “When she was younger, my mother was enamored with the stars, and the universe in general. On Earth, there’s a constellation named Lyra. I’m not sure why she liked it, but she apparently liked it enough to name me after it.” You might’ve lied to him, but there was some truth in your lie.

You had finished shopping in a comfortable silence. Returning to the speeder, Anakin offered to carry the bags, which you gratefully accepted. As you approached the speeder, you were thrown off balance by a child running past you. You closed your eyes, anticipating to feel the hard ground at any second. However when the feeling didn’t come, you open your eyes in confusion. Only to find Anakin’s eyes peering into your own. His right arm firmly held your waist, you could feel his metal fingers through his glove. You watched his lips as he asked if you were alright, something that didn’t go unnoticed by him. You curtly nodded your head and he began to help you stand upright.

As the child’s mother reached you and Anakin, you could hear the apologies tumbling from her lips. You told her that it was alright. The mother's scolding could be heard as you walked towards the speeder, a comfortable silence filing the atmosphere once again.

This time, you decided to admire the architecture on the way back to the temple. The organized traffic still astonished you. Speeders whizzed past you, making your hair fly. From here, you could see the Jedi Temple in the temple district. The temple stuck out from the others, but wasn’t comparable to the skyscrapers you were passing. You’ve never experienced such beauty like Coruscant, you couldn’t wait to explore more of it. Perhaps even visit the senate building.

After arriving at the hangar, Anakin docked the speeder, making sure to turn it off before helping you out.

“I have to go, maybe I’ll see you for dinner?” Your question was timid. You’d only know Anakin for a couple of days, but it felt like years.

“Yes, I’ll make sure to invite Obi-wan.”

“Alright, I’ll see you then.” You gave him a wave before walking away. You felt your cheeks heat up as a smile grazed your lips. You still couldn’t believe you were hanging out with THE Anakin Skywalker.

You knew you shouldn’t have felt the butterflies in your stomach.

Or the tingles when he touched your hand.

Nor the rush you felt when you were around him.

This isn’t right, you thought to yourself. He’s married to Padme for crying out loud, expecting twins. But you couldn’t help yourself, before you knew it, you were falling hard. And you didn’t know why.

After putting away your belongings, you began to aimlessly wander the halls looking for Master Yoda and Master Windu. You had questions, and they had the answers.

“Master Yoda, Master Windu! May I speak to you in private?” You caught the two just as they exited the council chamber.

��Questions you have.” Master Yoda said.

“Yes, and I’m hoping you can answer them.”

“Come. Discuss inside, we will.” You followed the two into the council room, standing in the middle as they sat down.

“I would like some clarification. I know I am training in the ways of the Jedi, but will I become a Padawan? Or will my learning only pertain to physical training?” You queried.

“Padawan, you are not. Jedi, you are not. A learner, simply you are. Teach you the ways of the force, we will. Train you, we will.” At least the Jedi code didn’t apply to you. But considering the fact that all of your peers are Jedi, it was going to be hard.

“The way I see it, there is just no reason for you to fully train in the ways of the Jedi. After you have completed your mission, you will return back to your home planet. As you said, we also don’t have the time to completely train you, so you will only be taught fundamental information and techniques.” Master Windu said.

“What about…. lightsabers? Can I make one?” You raised one eyebrow. The question was ludicrous, but you just had to ask them.

“Yes you can, how else are you going to complete your mission on Titan?” Oh right, you completely forgot about that.

“Yes of course, how silly of me to forget. What about missions?”

“Missions won’t be a necessity, however we will send you on a few to accompany Obi-wan and Anakin. It’s vital that you work together as a team.” You let out a nod. “If that is all Miss. Alyra, you may leave. I need to discuss something with Master Yoda.” You quickly left the room, not wanting to get caught up in their business.

The two Jedi Masters waited for the doors to fully close before resuming their conversation.

You awake from you nap disoriented, the loud knocking on your door was incessant. You throw on your black robe before opening it, “Are you ready?” You nod and Anakin takes the lead. Instead of taking you to the cantina, he takes you to the hangar.

“Where are we going?” You asked.

“It’s a surprise.” He replied. “We will be meeting Obi-wan there.”

You got into the speeder, it was the same one from earlier in the day. He went as fast as he could, you drifted into a daydream. Yo you wanna see some real speed bitch? I’ll show you some real speed. You let out a giggle thinking about the tiktok, Anakin turns to you, “what’s so funny?”

“Umm.. nothing. If I tried to explain it, you wouldn’t understand.” You replied. He lets out a hum, before turning his gaze back to the traffic.

After landing, you find yourself in front of Dex’s Diner. Once you entered, the two of you looked for Obi-wan, until Anakin spotted him and led you over.

“Alyra, nice to see you again.” Obi-wan says as you take your seat, flashing him a brief smile.

“Have you ordered yet?” The strawberry blonde shakes his head, “No, Anakin. I was waiting for you.” He hands you a menu, hoping to find something you remotely recognized. It isn’t long before a female droid comes to take the tables order, Obi-wan and Anakin go first, giving you more time to decide. The droid finally looks at you, awaiting your response. “I’ll have a nerf burger and a photon fizzle please.” She nods her head, taking your order before taking the menus and giving the orders to Dex.

“You know, you never told me how you know Anakin.” Shit, well he can’t know about the real plan nor my slightly edited plan. What the hell do I tell him? Wait- can they hear my thoughts? I really hope they can’t.

“Before I came here… I was told the name and description of someone I should befriend within the Jedi temple. That he’d help me accomplish my mission, and of course that person was Anakin.” You said.

Why did you lie to him? Anakin’s voice reverberates in your nearly quiet mind.

Anakin, there is obviously a connection between us. I don’t know why. But don’t you think that if we told him about it, that he would tell the Council? We both know that attachments aren’t allowed.

First off, how do you know that? Second, I never said anything about forming an attachment with you. You roll your eyes.

George Lucas told me.

Of course.

The connection ended briefly as food was set down on the table. Wow, that was fast. The conversation continues as you eat your food. The burger really reminded you of a cheeseburger back at home, while the photon fizzle reminded you of boba tea. Except it was a fizzy liquid, instead of your usually milky black tea.

“Tomorrow, you start your training. We are going to assess your skills, along with weaknesses to try to strengthen them.” Obi-wan says. You give him a nod and return to your food.

Not much of a talker are you? His voice is raspy, sending tingles down your body.

Nope, I’m more of an observer.

Anakin pushes you to the ground, straddling your waist as you struggle to catch your breath. He holds the end of a wooden staff against your neck. “Again.” Obi-wan calls as he observes the two of you. Today was your first day of training, safe to say that it wasn’t going well.

I swear, I’m a good fighter. This time, it was you who initiated the conversation.

Oh yeah? Why don’t you show me. Flirting. He was totally flirting.

Fine. But don’t cry when I kick your ass.

This time, you're more focused. You watch Anakin’s moves, anticipating his strike. He charges, his staff clutched tightly as he runs towards you. Using the force, you call upon your staff, the very same one that Anakin had knocked out of your grasp earlier. Just as he’s about to strike, you block it, the clap of the two sticks meeting echoes. You back up, making yourself vulnerable to another attack.

Anakin charges again, you step to the side while simultaneously swinging your staff, jabbing it into his ribs. Since you didn’t have a lightsaber yet, it was only fair that they trained you with a weapon similar to it. The staff was heavy and dense, but it felt weightless in your hands. The two of you continue to duel until he knocks the staff out of your hands again. Frustrated you punch him in the ribs, precisely the spot you had hit earlier. He doubles over, grasping his waist. You waste no time in jumping up, one of your legs wrapped around his neck while the other was wrapped around his upper body. Using your weight, you force the two of you to the ground, his arm between your legs, locked into place by your arms.

If I were you, I’d tap out.

No way, sweetheart. Oh yeah, he’s definitely flirting now.

He tries to release himself from your grasp, but your grip only tightens until he can no longer move.

What’d I say? There’s a smirk on your lips as you see his free hand tap on the floor, signalling that the match was over.

“Good, Alyra. However we’re going to need to work more on skills regarding lightsabers and usage of the force. Your physical combat skills are superb. I think that’s all the training we’ll be doing today. I think you’ve bruised not only Anakin’s ribs, but also his ego.” Obi-wan says, a chuckle leaving his mouth. Anakin rolls his eyes, muttering “Oh shut up.”

Obi-wan goes to leave as Anakin and you stay behind to clean the training room.

“You know, you’re a pretty good fighter. Where’d you learn?” He asks

“Oh….um thanks. Just like this galaxy, my planet needs protection from corrupt individuals too. We try to be peacekeepers, but I think you know peace isn’t always an option.” You take a second to pause, putting the staff back in it’s correct place. “The woman who trains me, she’s extraordinary. Well technically I have two extraordinary women training me. One in physical combat and the other to help with my telekinetic powers. Or what you guys call the force. I’ve been training for a couple of years now, whereas other members of my team have been training for longer.” You explain to him.

“It must be hard, being here. You don’t really know anybody here, you don’t have any family with you. You’ve got the burden of the universe resting on your shoulders.” He says.

It must be hard for you too, Anakin. You’ve got the burden of bringing balance to the force resting on your shoulders.

“Yeah, well…. sacrifices have to be made sometime in order to save the greater population. I’m sure you know that.” You look around the room once more before deciding to leave. “See you later, Anakin.”

“See you tomorrow, Alyra.” He responds.

As you return to your quarters, you can’t help the sinking feeling in your stomach. Earlier you were energized, ready for a fight. Even now, you still feel some sparks of it flowing through you. However, the bad was outweighing the good. You couldn’t help but feel guilty yet also saddened. Anakin’s future was going to be a dark and rough one, you knew it to be true. He’s going to be put through so much pain and anguish, all because of stupid Palpatine and his stupid plans. Many people were going to perish if you didn’t try to at least help him.

Entering your quarters, there was only one thought going through your mind.

“Your destiny can change, just as quickly as the love in one’s heart can fade. Nothing is set in stone.”

#anakin #anakin sykwalker #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanfic #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin skywalker series #obi wan kenobi #Avengers #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars x avengers

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nose-bandaid · 4 years ago

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Strawberry Kisses (and Ferris Wheel Views)

Wooseok x (gender neutral) Reader | non idol AU fluff fluff fluff ! | 3.5k words

synopsis: you’ve finally returned from your trip aboard, and what’s one of the first things you’re going to do? go to the amusement park with your best friend of course! scary roller coasters, funnel cakes, silly pictures, and ferris wheel views, with wooseok by your side, how could this day not end well?

a/n: honestly just a fic with a bunch of cliches, but it’s still cute though... at least i think so. i wrote this with a blurry mind i’m so sorry lol, but i hope you enjoy !

=====

“Slow down for a bit, would you?” You panted, desperately trying to catch up to the man running far ahead of you, a happy bounce evident in every step he took. “My legs can’t catch up.” You sighed as you slowed to a stop, basically talking to yourself at this point. Wooseok took note of your absence by his side and ceased his gleeful skipping to look back at you who had resumed your tired trudging. When you finally caught up, you pouted a little at him for running off like that, but he simply laughed and ruffled your hair.

“Sorry, I just have so much energy after missing my best friend for so long — are you not excited to go on more rides?” He asked, falling into step with you as the two of you continued walking.

You and Wooseok were out at the local amusement park to celebrate your return from a trip overseas for a small job offer. You had a blast over there and it was a great opportunity for you to not only flex your skills, but to also learn new things for future jobs. Though as anyone else would, you also spent a great deal of those days missing your friends back home, especially Wooseok. Video calls and text messages couldn’t compete with actually getting to hang out with your best friend in person.

“Please, I was only gone for two months. And of course I’m excited, but we’ve been walking around for hours now, aren’t you just the slightest bit tired? I could go for some snacks right now.” You replied as you neared the next section of the park. Wooseok’s eyes lit up at the mention of food and nodded enthusiastically.

“Ooh! How about some funnel cakes then?” He pointed at the colourful stand to your left. There was a short line curving around it and a small family occupying one of the tables. In comparison to the neighbouring stalls, it was fairly empty and a good idea. Once you agreed, he grabbed your hand and dragged you along with him to get in line yourselves. At that action, your heart fluttered a bit and your ears were undoubtedly redder than the strawberries that decorated the funnel cake being advertised.

You had known Wooseok since middle school, starting from when you transferred to his school and was promptly placed in the seat right behind him. Even back then, it obvious that he was a tall boy who was bound to continue on growing in the future, so it ticked you off a little that the teacher somehow managed to overlook that factor when deciding on the seating arrangement. It took a few weeks of cursing him and his height silently, along with missing the occasional set of notes on the board before you worked up the courage to ask him to switch seats with you, after getting the teacher’s permission. Your initial spite melted away when you realized that he was actually a very sweet kid, contrasting to his intimidating appearance. The two of you quickly became good friends, up to the point where you guys were barely be seen without the other by their side.

As time passed, you had developed a crush on him, and that little secret snowballed into a giant mess of feelings by the time you both entered high school. To put it frankly, you were in love with your best friend and you had no idea what to do about it. Sure, you also wavered between others and you dated a little along the way in hopes of getting over Wooseok, but your heart kept returning to the same place until you couldn’t deny your feelings for him anymore. Now that you two were both in university, your clashing schedules and side jobs made it harder to meet up like this. You were most definitely disappointed to be losing precious time with one of your favourite people, however a small part of you was also glad that you’ve finally been given a chance to calm your heart down. From what your friends have noted, your crush on Wooseok was honestly quite obvious and they were surprised that he hadn’t noticed by now. Which at the moment, is something that you’re fine with leaving it as is — you couldn’t bear to see his reaction if he ever found out.

You felt a nudge on your shoulder and you looked up at the person in question, watching him point his head towards the direction of the menu. “Have any idea on what you want? I’ll pay, it’s my treat for your return.”

You fiddled with your ears, trying to hide how nervous you felt as you tried to think through the options. “Uhmm.. honestly, I’m not so sure.” You admitted after a short while. All of the options just seemed too appealing and narrowing them down to just one was nearly impossible.

“Ok then how about we just share one? And save our stomachs for later. The strawberry one seems popular here, let’s get that.”

“S-sure! Let’s do that. I’ll go get us a seat.”

And with that, you quickly left him on his own and made a beeline towards the furthest table available, looking at nothing but the ground as you did. If you had made any progress in hiding the blush that was spreading to your cheeks, it was definitely done in vain, because now your whole face burned.

We’ve always been sharing food together, why is it bothering me so much now? You whined to yourself. All you wanted was to spend a fun day with your best friend before you both had to go back to classes, but the tangled feelings inside your chest refused to let you enjoy it with peace. You mind ran wild, thinking of all the scenarios that could possibly play out on that day and worrying about unintentionally making your feelings for him way too obvious. You shook your head in an attempt to clear your mind of all those thoughts, but nothing seemed to work, and you sighed in defeat.

When Wooseok joined you at the seat, your worries melted away when you saw just how cute the dessert was. The syrup decorated the ice cream with the shape of a cat’s face with two strawberry slices making the ears, along with a bunch of other small decorations scattered here and there. It was, to put it simply, adorable, and looking at it made you feel like a kid again.

“You like it? It was supposed to be flowers or something ‘cause of the promotions, but I asked them to make it into a cat instead.” He laughed.

“Like it? I love it! I’m glad the cat lover in you jumped out because this is so cute.” You gushed, taking some photos as you did.

Wooseok simply smirked at your reaction and began to cut into the cake, killing the cat in the process, much to your dismay. “Here.” The fork in front of your face caught your attention and he signaled for you to take a bite. “You try it first and let me know if it’s good.”

“Are you sacrificing me or something?” You countered, accepting the offer anyways. The sweet flavour brought a smile to your face and you cut off a small piece to feed him in return.

“It’s really good, here —“ Your words were cut short when you noticed Wooseok’s quiet laughter behind the hand covering his mouth. Putting the fork down, you looked at him in bewilderment, not catching onto what he found so funny.

“Sorry,” he stifled another giggle, “It’s just — it’s just that you got some whipped cream on your nose.”

You sighed. “That’s what you’re laughing so hard about?”

“Hey, it’s really cute.” He defended.

Before you could reach out for a napkin, he stopped you and pulled out his phone.

“Wait, stay like that for a second, I need a picture of this.”

You pouted as he snapped his picture and fiddled with his phone for a bit before he finally accepted the food.

“Oh! You’re right, that is really good.” He agreed, taking another bite (and also stabbing the now disfigured cat a second time).

You finished the cake in no time, and spent the next few hours going on more thrilling rides, looking at the animals in the small zoo they had, watching Wooseok almost fall into the tiger cage after trying to peer too closely at the sleeping creature, and then grabbing another small snack to fill the infinite void in your stomachs. By the time the sun started to set, both of you were clearly tired from the long day of fun you shared.

“Hey,” you tapped Wooseok’s shoulder. He looked up from the shoe he was tying and followed your fingers which were pointing on the ferris wheel nearby. “Let’s go on one last ride and then call it a day. The sunset’s going to look really nice from way up there wouldn’t it?” You suggested excitedly. When he stood up to look at the towering ride with you, you noticed that there was a flash of panic in his eyes and wondered if he was against the idea.

“Is there something wrong with that? We don’t have to go.” You offered. His face seemed so lost that you worried he had something against ferris wheels.

“Oh... no... It’s just that Yuto said something stupid about ferris wheels the other day, it’s no big deal, I’m cool with going.” He awkwardly gestured for you to lead the way and you dropped the topic for his sake. As you waited in line you felt your phone ping in your back pocket and pulled it out to read a message from Kino.

[ chat with: Kino♡ ]

Kino♡: out on a date with Wooseok?

y/n: ??? how did you know i was with him?

y/n: and it’s not a date, we’re just hanging out at the amusement park>:(

Kino♡: mhmm that’s what they all say:)

Kino♡: he posted a picture of you being a messy eater as usual, it was pretty cute btw

Kino♡: he tagged me as the strawberry at the top:)

Kino♡: what are you guys up to now?

y/n: you’re kidding me, he posted that one out of all the pictures we took today?

y/n: we’re waiting in line for the ferris wheel rn

Kino♡: oh? is this what i think it is?

y/n: if you’re thinking that we’re going to ride the ferris wheel then you’re correct

Kino♡: no i mean like

Kino♡: is it confession time for our dear y/n??

y/n: what the heck kino we’ve already discussed this, i’m not telling him about that EVER ok. end of story.

Kino♡: are you not aware that kissing at the top of the ferris wheel is like a thing?

y/n: umm no...? bro i just wanted to ride the ferris wheel that’s it

Kino♡: i’m sighing right now y/n, i really am

Kino♡: Wooseok probably knows of it, he’s watched anime with Yuto before

y/n: oh so that’s what he was talking about earlier...

y/n: Yuto watches those kinds of anime???

Kino♡: Yuto watches a lot of things.

y/n: i —

Kino♡: anyways;) i really do think you should go through with the confession though, if you’re up to it

Kino ♡: i can guarantee you with all of my heart that it will turn out well

Kino ♡: one sec

y/n: and how are you so sure?

y/n: Kino?

y/n: hello?

After a few moments, it was clear that Kino wasn’t going to reply anytime soon and you tucked your phone away once again, sighing.

I was doing perfectly fine without those thoughts man… why did he have to get me thinking about this again?

You glanced at Wooseok, who was looking up at the carriages and shifting side to side almost nervously. You couldn’t help but wonder to yourself… Was Kino being serious? He wouldn’t lie about these kinds of things right? That wasn’t like him.

“Wooseok,” your voice brought him out of his daydream and his head whipped towards yours. “Are you excited?” You tried to play it off as a casual question and did your best to keep an oblivious expression as you waited for his answer. His eyes stared into yours and then lingered at your lips for a moment, long enough for you to notice.

“Yeah, I am. Can’t wait to finally sit on a ride where you won’t be screaming your head off.” He chuckled and patted your head.

“As if you weren’t screaming as well. Who was the one who almost stood up at one of the drops in the last ride? Was it not the one and only Jung Wooseok?” You scoffed back playfully, but your mind was going into overdrive trying to figure him out. It was almost as if Kino’s hint was true… but he’s also acting way too casual if that’s the case.

You spent the rest of the time waiting in silence.

By the time you finally boarded the carriage, the sun was almost gone, but its colourful hues still streaked the sky beautifully and painted Wooseok’s face in gold as he took a seat in front of you. Before your chat with Kino, you were delighted to be able to view the park from above, but now, there was an unbearable sense of awkwardness between you two. The carriage started and instead of pointing out all the rides you’ve been on and food stalls you’ve visited together, both of you sat in silence, minus the few comments made by the other about the view. As you got closer and closer to the top of the wheel, your stomach sank into a pit of nervousness — you were a mess. You initially had no intentions of confessing to him that day, or ever, really. But now you suddenly felt the responsibility of making a move or else you’d miss the one of the only chances you’ll ever get to confess.

The peak of the ferris wheel arrived and you held your breath in preparation for the moment, but the carriage simply moved past it and made its way back to the bottom.

Right. It stops at the top on the second round.

You didn’t know if you should’ve felt glad that you had more time to think of at least some coherent words to say to him, or if you should’ve been upset by the fact that you now had even more time to overthink things. You heard the soft ping! from your phone and took a peek at the messages.

[ chat with: Yuto ]

Yuto: Kino wanted me to tell you that I second the idea of confessing

Yuto: I don’t know, he wanted me to tell you this because I’m apparently the closest to Wooseok

Yuto: But I do agree, you should go for it

Yuto: Have you not seen the way he acts around you?

[ chat with: Kino♡]

Kino♡: i just know things~~

Kino♡: did yuto message you? does that make it a little more reassuring?

Kino♡: whatever you decide to do, we’re cheering for you ! ♡

Kino ♡ sent a sticker

You pulled yourself away from your phone, not bothering to reply to the boys and sighed a little too loudly for your liking, as it caught Wooseok’s attention.

“Hey, you’ve been acting weirdly, what’s up?” He gently asked, trying to make eye contact with you, but you refused to look his way. “Y/n?” Concerned laced his voice as he poked your shoulder, trying to coax a response from you.

The carriage jerked to a stop. You took a deep breath and pieced together your tangled thoughts. “Well… it’s just that…” you paused.

Kino and Yuto have confidence in you… you can do it! You reassured yourself before looking up at Wooseok.

“I like you, yeah? Like… I like you like you. Which may or may not be a crush I’ve had since high school but that’s not really important. And I know we’ve been friends for so long and it’s probably awkward for me to say this all out of the blue but I really felt like I should tell you this…” You knew you were rambling, but the words just kept on spilling out of your mouth, trying to fill up the silence when he didn’t reply. “And I don’t want to ruin our friendship just know that, so if you don’t feel the same way then you could just, you know, forget that all of this happened and we’ll go back to normal. That’s totally fine you cause you mean a lot more to me than some stupid feelings that are getting in the way. But, it would be really nice if we could, perhaps, go out sometime…?” You didn’t mean for it to end with a question, but you couldn’t ignore the extremely awkward atmosphere. He still hasn’t said a single word and the burning panic in that was eating you inside out.

Wooseok stared back at you with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. Then he took off his cap and ran his hand through his hair, a shocked expression splayed out on his face. If it weren’t for the current situation, you would’ve thought that he’d just won a game or the lottery, from the way his eyes fluttered around frantically, in search for some validation that this was, in fact, happening. Though you weren’t quite sure whether this was a happy event or not for your friend.

“Woah, wait is this like, for real? You’re not joking right?” His voice sounded hopeful and you felt your heart ease just the tiniest bit at that.

“What? No, I would never joke about this, you know that.”

“Well,” He scoffed a little at the way he was acting. “If that’s the case then like… wow.”

“... Wow?” Your heart sank back to its rock bottom. Was that all he had to say?

He nodded and reached out to pull your hands into his. “Yes, wow. I like you, like you too. For a while now. I never knew you felt the same way.” He confessed, gently rubbing your hands with his long fingers. His voice grew quieter. “I never thought that this would actually happen between us, I don’t think I would’ve ever had the courage to bring it up myself.”

“So… what happens now? What does this make us then?” You took your chances and prayed quietly that he wouldn’t just drop the subject and move on.

“Hmm, well, if I like you, and you like me, then that means you would be up to being my girlfriend right?”

You giggled at his answer and pulled his hands closer to your body. “Yes, of course that means I would like to be your girlfriend, dummy.” The carriage stuttered a little and then began moving once again.

Wooseok let out a contained shout and covered his face with his hands, trying to keep his happiness in check. “I would hug you right now if I could. I am so — this is so —” He smiled and let out a groan before shuffling from his seat to the empty spot on your right, tilting the carriage a bit with the shift of weight. “Here, you get a side hug in the meanwhile.” He leaned into your shoulder and wrapped one arm around you.

You laughed at his cute reaction and gladly accepted it. “Thank you, but they said to keep the carriage balanced, so you should probably go back to your seat before we either fall off and die, or the worker yells at us.” As much as you wanted to have him by your side like this forever, you gently nudged him to get him to move, but he refused.

“Nah, I want to stay here a bit longer, I’ll move before we reach the bottom, they won’t catch me.” He replied cheekily, lacing his hand back into yours. The carriage made its stop at the very top and you both gazed out at the sliver of light that was sinking into the horizon.

“Hey,” Wooseok started softly, “Can I kiss you?”

“Huh?” Even though Kino had, in a way, prepared you for this, your jaw still dropped at his question and you were at a loss for words.

Like heck yeah you could kiss me, You thought to yourself, but there’s no way I would be able to say that in a cool way... think y/n, think!

“I — I mean like on the cheek maybe?” He added nervously.

“Ah… yes, yes you can.” You managed, and tilted your head a little. In a flash, his lips softly planted a kiss on your heated cheeks and you couldn’t stop the smile that made its way onto your face as you buried it into your hands. Judging from the way Wooseok was giggling a little, you suspected that he was smiling just as much.

“Thank you.” He whispered

“For what, the kiss?”

“No, just thank you. For everything.”

You hummed happily at his reasoning and tapped his hand lightly. “Anything for my favourite boy, I guess. But you should probably go back to your seat or else you’ll actually get yelled at.”

Looking out the window, Wooseok quickly realized just how close to the ground you guys were and practically jumped back into his original seat, trying to act casual when the worker gave him a dirty look while you were let out. The two of you laughed off the encounter as you made your way towards the exit, sharing stories about all the close calls you both experienced when it came to almost exposing your feelings to the other.

“You know, Yuto and Kino kept on trying to get me to confess to you, and I was really going to do it once. We had this whole thing prepared and I was all dressed and everything but I was weak and backed out last minute. They were so disappointed in me. I even had to watch like 5 seasons of some sappy anime with Yuto to prepare myself for it, but I don’t really know if that was even helpful or necessary.” He laughed as he finished telling you another story.

Ah so they knew... that’s why they had so much confidence in me.

You recounted to Wooseok some of your own stories involving Yuto and Kino as well, and the two of you connected the dots to see how those two were sneakily masterminding a plan to make you into a couple ever since the beginning. The whole time, he held your hand tightly in his and you walked the slightest bit closer to his side, shoulder brushing against his arm every so often, but both of you didn’t mind. As childish and giddy you both must’ve been, it were the little actions such as those, that reinforced the feelings you shared on the ferris wheel.

=====

bonus:

[ chat with: Yuto ]

Yuto: Hello y/n

Yuto: Kino is panicking because you didn’t reply to him

Yuto: He thinks he worried you too much and he’s actually about to cry please message him back I don’t know if I can comfort him for that much longer

Yuto: There’s too many typos in his messages how am I supposed to help him...

=====

i’ve recently found myself in some wooseok loving hours and honestly, that is fine by me. he is so intriguing.

~ tiny

#pentagon #ptg #pentagon imagine #pentagon scenario #pentagon wooseok #wooseok #jung wooseok #kino #pentagon kino #yuto #pentagon yuto #amusement park #ferris wheel #funnel cakes!!!#tiny #nose-bandaid

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purplehairedwonder · 4 years ago

Text

Hearts With(out) Chains Chapter 3

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen (eventual Lawlu) Words: 3597 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Violet, Donquixote Doflamingo, Baby 5, Trebol, Diamante Note: I’m taking my turn at the Corazon!Law AU because my brain won’t leave me alone until this is written down. Tags will be updated as the chapters come out.

The story title is based on the Ellie Goulding song “Hearts Without Chains.”

Summary: Law is reclaimed by the Family when he’s 17 and, with Doflamingo holding the lives of his crew as collateral for his good behavior, eventually becomes the third Corazon. Years later, trapped by his impossible situation, Law can’t help but resent Monkey D. Luffy for offering a glimpse of something he’s repeatedly had ripped away from him: hope.

Previous chapters: Prologue | 1 | 2