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helpinghanikan · 3 years

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Sleeping arrangements

Avengers (and Matt Murdock x Reader)

Sum: It's late and the bed is so nice. It's time to sleep and to bring your heroes along with you. (Fluffy little snippets of sleepy time with the Avengers)

Steve Rogers:

It’s the last train home and only one thing in this world is warm. The wall of Steve Rogers your head rested against was beating softly through the jacket and shirt he wore. Keeping your arms around his center to keep any of the heat from getting away. His own arm protects around your shoulders, keeping you in and gibing his hand something to do instead.

He could’ve driven, he should’ve driven, instead he wanted to take the train. He wanted to walk around like he did years and years before, but this time with your hands intertwined.

Although far away the train has started to shake the earth. Taking you out of the almost sleeping world and back into this cold one. The change in worlds brings out a yawn and lets the cold back in. It’s been a long day. With your eyes closed and clothes heavier than they could ever be Steve was the only thing keeping you up. His chin rests on your head after a while, thumb rubbing over your shoulder as the train finally pulled to a stop.

Inside it was the same story but in a seated position. Guided into his lap and landing with a groan as it was just so much work. The practically empty strain allowed your legs to stretched straight out over the seats.

Steve could stay awake longer than most, but he was tired. He was cold and annoyed and really wished he had driven instead of taking this stupid train. He took his frustration out on squeezing you tight, holding on as if you were liable to fall right out of the seat if he let go. At least it was warmer inside the train.

Tony Stark:

Someone staying up late, not getting enough sleep, and making exhaustion their personality trait is funny for maybe week. But After days of trying to coax him to come to bed, to try something other than just giving up on sleep or even talking to a doctor it gets concerning. After weeks of these same issues, it becomes frustrating.

Everyone, from Pepper to Peter have done their fair share of lecturing. Happy has gone out of his way in helping you get the dumbass to appointments. All of which he has walked right out because, unfortunately, he was still an adult who could make his own decisions.

It’s only after using the nuclear word that he pays attention.

“Anthony,” You say just before he leaves the room.

Although speaking to his back he does stop. His shoulders have tensed under the t-shirt and he’s listening in.

There’s an audio book’s worth of things you could say about this issue. But it would all be a repeat that he’s heard before, from many different mouths. Instead, you kept it simple, not even bothering to turn on the light.

“You didn’t even try.” It comes out from a tired partner just wanting the best for him. Yet Tony walks away from the advice, again.

Thor:

Power doesn’t stop for sleep. It’s still in the air when he’s laying sideways towards the window. Because of the whole nighttime thing it’s hard to tell if clouds are actually coming in or darkening. Maybe you’re just insane but Mr. Weatherman didn’t say anything about rain tonight, right?

It was a jolt that really woke you up. Looking over your shoulder at the expanse of muscular back. Thor movements were always a bit too…loud for this world. Whether running through a fight or moving in his sleep it calls attention to everyone. He doesn’t mean to, but it does wake you up enough to see your glass is dryer as a bone.

As if reading your mind, the rain has come down. It could almost be described as torrential how hard it was all coming down. Matching the dramatics of rain, a lightning strike coming straight down into some poor tree.

This wasn’t the first time Thor had a nightmare. Asgardians just seemed to be humans 2.0, making Thor just as a victim to horror as we humans are. At the same time, he was still another worldly being, translating to giving him a few feet when waking him up.

Another strike of lightening and another tree is taken out of this world. Without the lights on that blast was your only moment of lightening. The rest of the journey made to Thor’s side of the bed was done in darkness and pounding rain. Following the outlined Asgardian until reaching his shoulder. A gentle hand on his should does nothing. A little shake and a whispered “Thor,” finally does the trick.

The two strikes of lightening outside somehow reached his eyes. For the briefest of seconds blue, cracking energy is directed right at you. Stopping just as quickly as they appeared, replaced with Thor’s regular blue eyes that blink a few times.

“What is it?” he asks.

There’s no point in telling him the truth about his nightmares and their effect. Then again, there’s no point in lying either. Instead, it’s better to distract. “It’s still super early. Back to bed.” You say instead, kissing with until he takes the hit and holds you.

Bucky Barnes:

Sleep is a luxury that isn’t worth chasing. With the pillows and sheets there were nightmares and enemies that could sense his weakness. Trying to get at least six hours and all that guarantees is waking up sweaty and a call to doc, making sure to get everything back in order before you could ever notice.

Instead, he takes walks. Maps out the city at night, the changes and differences that happened without him. He recognizes the buildings, the structures and bricks that were too strong to be a victim to time.

Most of the time he does this alone. Watching a show about nothing until you were asleep before starting his walk. But there were times you catch him, calling out to him like the neighborhood cat trying to get away. Getting on your own shoes and jacket quickly. Then enforcing the handholding during the little adventure.

It’s only when passing by something important that words are shared. “One of my buddies worked here when this place was a mechanic. Broke his leg just before the draft, I still think it was on purpose.” He’d say then never bring it up again.

These walks are always shorter than most. After two times Bucky learned when to make the loop back home with you. When your building comes back into view the handholding has gotten sweaty. The walking had slowed to a crawl and you were dragging him down by the arm. Even less talking was done after getting through the door; just landing face down onto the bed without bothering about the shoes.

These kind of walks were Bucky’ favorite.

Natasha Romanoff:

The bed was used almost exclusively for sleeping. As the couch was both comfy and expensive. And, as Nat puts it, “Should we do it with the lights off too? Under the covers like grandparents?” Although it was probably another reason to use the overpriced couch more often.

Like any good, and overworked, soldier Nat could sleep anywhere. When a mission is done, and there’s nothing to worry about, a shower and a nap is the best in the world.

“I smell nice,” She says walking into the living after the shower. Steam still behind her, hair wrapped up and a sweater purposefully bought to be several sizes too big.

She stretches and lays over you like a cat. Resting as close as possible so you, too, can smell the expensive shampoo she uses. Making sure that the body wash isn’t ignored either as that, too, was expensive.

“Might as well spend this pay on something,” She says when asked about the prices.

Although she asks what you’re up to she won’t be awake for the answer. Already teetering into sleep land when you answer.

Natasha was as athletic as she was heavy. Only sometimes managing to carry her bridal style and most of the time having to walk/guide her into the bedroom. Either letting her drop onto the bed with the same weight you had carried in, or she holds fast and takes you down with her.

Just like a cat, Natasha gets to decide cuddle time.

T’challa:

Although the mattress was new, the bed’s size was traditional, and passed on through generations of rulers. Forget California king bed, A Wakanda king bed was that and a half. Ten feet length, twelve feet tall. Combined with blankets, pillows and more it was easy to disappear into the thing. But it was also easy to get lost in it all.

In the middle of the night, in the very center of this ocean of bed, you can reach out forever. Finding pillows (both the decorative and the usable kind), smaller blankets or stuffed animals that have managed to be added. But it’s a tiresome journey, one that doesn’t seem to have an end even as you stretched to pointed toes and fingers.

It’s only after touching body heat that you can relax. Finally finding your king that turns to your touch. Making his own journey through sheets and bedding. Using you as the trail into his love. Neither of you thinking about the absolute nightmare it will be to make this bed tomorrow.

Pietro Maximoff:

For most of his life Pietro is moving. Be it running or just running his mouth, he’s not the kind of guy to sit still. Unfortunately, this also applies to sleeping.

“He’s been sleep walking since we were children,” Wanda once said. “Our father once found him crying in a puddle. He had slipped and woken up in the street. He’ll deny crying, though.”

As an adult Pietro doesn’t actively get up and walk around anymore. The man made up of strong and lean muscle still moves quite a bit. Waking up from freezing feet finding yours or because he’s sat upright in bed again. Using soft, but firm, pressure to get him to lay back down or to guide him back to his side of the bed. If you weren’t careful his arms would find you, almost dragging you back to his side of the bed.

He'd deny it in the morning. Smiling with barely open eyes as you’re still pressed against him. No matter how much you’re going to insist this was his fault he’d still mock you. Nuzzling in since you insist on cuddling so much.

Peter Parker:

There’s a time limit next when sitting next to Peter. You have ten minutes before his head finds your shoulder. If you don’t shrug or lean away he’ll stay there, slowly leaning in until he’s all settled.

Although not completely asleep he does rest. If your hands are held in those moments you could probably feel his pulse slow down as his breathing slows. Maybe his eyes manage to stay open, but his eyes do get heavy. Someone could say his name, and he’d respond, but it be from his throat. An annoyed groan directed to whoever was ruining this moment. Even if it was usually a teacher or adult.

It’s only when traveling, and you’re sitting for a while, that he completely falls asleep. Progressing past just leaning his head and adding his arms. If you allow him, putting an arm around your back and the other over your center. With your own arm over his back, he sleeps in a position that, although sweet, always left a pain in his neck. Something he’d complain about until you ask if he want’s you to rub his shoulders.

Stephen Strange:

During aura projection Stephen’s body is dead weight. No muscles or bone working with the individual trying to help them. It’s just taken over by gravity and his entire weight wants to be on the floor. Sleep does the same thing.

Short of a bucket of water to his face he won’t wake up. Part of his experience in med school was taking every bit of use sleep could give him. Which leads to sleeping fast, and sleeping hard, usually opened mouth. No snoring yet, but the moment he does there’s an open target for shutting him up.

Matt Murdock:

It’s a mixture of meditation and caffeine that he is still functioning. Too busy, much too busy, as a lawyer for the two of you to share a bed most of the time. Making any comments you have about his sleep schedule mute.

Watching him doesn’t change give any information either. Coffee in the morning, some deep breathing and self-centering in the between moments at work, and sleep ins on days off were all you could gather. Between that it’s easier to just assume he’s fine.

Just laugh at his “not like I need to rest my eyes,” jokes and move on.

Carol Danvers:

After going through every time change known to man, alien and beyond Carol has developed a very specific still. Carol Danvers, woman with the power of a star and to sleep literally anywhere at any time. Be it a cleared-out corner of some ship, an open floor that keeps her hidden from passersby or on your lap. The latter being her personal favorite.

Like a massive golden retriever, she wants to be in the middle of your lap. Close as possible with a arm holding around your shoulder and the other on her toy, or phone. A being of wiry muscle and heat keeping you pinned to the couch. Most of the time she’s out ten minutes into the movie, most of the time the remotes’ out of reach, and most of the time you gotta go pee.

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leon-scott-kennedy · 3 years

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So Covert, I Hardly Knew Him

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Part V: Evacuate

Files flashed past on the screen, the download stalled at 94%. Close, but not quite. Leon needed a few more minutes, but Ada hadn’t followed him back to the lab. He cursed and glanced back at the screen just as new info flitted across the screen, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.

“No...” Leon choked. “That’s not- No-”

A shrieking alarm blared, the grating sound echoing through the cursed halls. Surprisingly, the emergency light over the busted door flashed red in a steady pulse of danger.

Leon growled. “Fucking Ada. That’s my move.”

“All personnel, please evacuate the facility,” a soothing voice instructed to an empty wasteland of death, destruction, and decay. “Unauthorized access has been detected. The facility will self-destruct in 7 minutes.”

For a moment, Leon stood mesmerized by the comforting flicker of familiarity of the ridiculousness of his emanate death until Ada sprinted past the door at full speed. Not even a cursory glance in his direction. Typical.

“7 minutes? What’s wrong with the standard 10?” Leon said. Breaking from his stupor, he spun back to the screen. The computer had progressed a few percent. “Come on. Come on!”

If the information gleaned could be trusted, then Leon’s unscathed escape had jumped the priority queue. The situation now proved to be more significant than initially assumed. Wilson’s betrayal had been one thing, but this? Even the tiny fraction of information Leon learned threatened the entire foundation of democracy that his government was built on.

DOWNLOAD COMPLETE

“... self destruct in 4 minutes...”

“Fuck.” Leon none too gently snagged the drive out of the port, shoved it into the front zippered pocket of his leather jacket, and sprinted for the door, fumbling with his phone. He nearly dropped the phone, but he managed to tap a few commands and slip it back into his jacket while at a full run. “That elevator better be working.”

An enraged roar echoed through the halls. Leon’s heart stuttered in his chest. Dark hallways. The stench of decay. Screams and moans of the living and dead. Racoon City. That terrifying roar never left Leon’s nightmares.

“Oh fuck,” Leon wheezed. “Not again.”

Leon raced after the retreating mercenary, not daring to look behind him as he retraced their steps through the maze of corridors until he hit the main juncture. The lights above the elevator door slowly and steadily blinked down. Ada stood beside the door, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at the lights like she alone had the power to speed them along.

“What did you do!” Leon skidded to a stop beside the elevator and jabbed at the up button in righteous fury until Ada smacked the back of his hand like a child.

“So quick to lay blame,” Adad said, but her attention wasn’t on Leon. It was back down the hall they’d fled.

Another roar echoed through the building. This time closer.

“God damn it, Ada!” Leon followed her stare to the end of the hall. In the shadows, a lumbering, hulking outline of one of the Tyrants from containment, fully animated and extremely pissed off. “Oh, what the hell.”

Leon jabbed frantically at the elevator button as if he could magically speed up its descent with his urgency, and this time, Ada didn’t stop him. The elevator dinged. Only one of the doors slid open and barely enough for them to squeeze through, but they both scrambled into the lift. Ada immediately darted right, but Leon nearly fell through the massive hole cut in the bottom of the elevator car. He flailed for a moment, arms windmilling before he caught his balance and collapsed into the side of the elevator and abused the close door button. Ada’s backdoor wasn’t quite a mystery anymore.

The Tyrant sprint down the hall, growing alarmingly closer at an increasingly worrying rate. The door started to slide closed, but the Tyrant was close enough for the pulse of its deformed heart to be visible through the shrinking gap in the door. The elevator shuddered and jerked into motion, smoothly rising.

The grating tear of the metal doors below being ripped open echoed through the shaft. Both Leon and Ada peered down through the gaping hole in the floor at the Tyrant clawing its way after them, then at the tiny lights above the door that blinked with each sub-level. At this rate, they weren’t going to make it.

“Self-destruct in 2 minutes.”

The elevator jerked violently, knocking Leon back into the wall as the gears and motor ground against the force pulling them down. Suddenly, the car dropped several inches, and the emergency brakes screeched to a halt, locking them in place. Metal creaked and strained. Together, Leon and Ada pried open the elevator door to find the car about four feet short of the main floor.

Leon eyed the short wall of concrete. “I really don’t fancy getting cut in half.”

“Would you prefer the alternative?” Ada holstered her handgun and stepped up.

A crack echoed through the shaft. A quick glance down at the Tyrant climbing the elevator shaft was enough to have Leon drop to his knee and boost Ada up through the shrinking gap. One last look down, Leon hoisted himself up over the ledge with minimal help from Ada seconds before the elevator car shuddered and slipped another few inches. A large deformed hand grasped through the hole, pulling the car further down.

Relief at avoiding being cut in half by seconds is brief because Leon was up and running, sprinting after Ada in the darkness. He caught up to her halfway across the factory floor, grabbed her arm, and urged her faster as the timer ticked down.

Ada was first to scramble up the rubble that blocked the door.

“6 -5 -4 -3 -”

Leon hauled himself up through the narrow gap, again grateful he’d never been one to hit the gym, and threw himself out of the factory, tackling Ada to the ground as a deep rumbling boom erupted behind them. The heat of the explosion ripped across him. He tugged his leather jacket up over their heads to shield them best he can from the bits of debris that rained down.

As the smoke cleared, Leon noticed they weren’t alone. A string of troops armed with assault rifles stared them down from the treeline.

“We’ve got company.”

The team was well organized. Guns held tight at the ready like they expected Leon and Ada to suddenly rush them, the men approached in close formation.

Leon slowly climbed to his feet, silently drawing his weapon and strategically placing his body between the advancing men and Ada. The men wore no identifying markers. Just simple black tactical combat gear, helmets, and goggles.

“Drop your weapons,” a man yelled. He stood at the center of the group, the only clue that he held any position of power in the small militia, and more alarming, he had no accent. No discernible accent. Just American.

“Fuck,” Leon cursed under his breath, and then louder, “we don’t want any trouble.” But he wasn’t stupid enough to drop his weapon. So instead, he let it hang loosely from his thumb as he slowly raised his hands in surrender.

A sharp pain shot through the base of Leon’s skull. He clutched the back of his neck and spun just in time to watch Ada lower an empty syringe. “Ada.”

The betrayal wasn’t what shocked him. He knew Ada would try to take the data from him. He knew her priorities, but what he didn’t expect was for her to casually step over him as he staggered and fell, his vision growing foggy with every passing second.

Momentarily, Ada paused to dig through his pockets for the thumb drive. Once again, he found himself at the mercy of Ada Wong. His vision swam. Ada was already on the move before he could even form a protest or think of fighting her off.

“Thank you, Ms. Wong,” the masked commander said. “Your help has been invaluable.”

“The money?” Ada asked. She continued casually past the armed troops towards the tree line. The whirl of a chopper overhead broke the eerie stillness of the forest.

“Already transferred. I’d ask you for the research files.”

Ada didn’t break stride as a harness dropped from the chopper above. “Consider it my bonus,” she said.

Leon clawed at the ground, trying to climb to his feet, to follow her, but his body felt heavy, his muscles vaguely cooperative. “I was the job.”

Ada looped her arm through the harness and tugged, testing the integrity. “It’s just business, Leon.”

Two men grabbed Leon under the arms and hauled him upright. His legs gave out. “It always is,” he slurred, head drooping.

“Have fun, boys.” Ada waved cheekily as the chopper lifted her into the air.

The last thing Leon saw was Ada Wong dangling from a helicopter over the treetops as he struggled feebly against two armed men. They wrestled him to the ground far too quickly and pinned him so whatever concoction Ada had injected could take full effect. He could only hope it was a sedative because a replay of Spain wasn’t high on his list of priorities; the eggs hatching, the constriction of organs, the loss of control as his nerve system was hijacked. Regrettably, he didn’t find out because the butt of a rifle smacked him in the back of the head.

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meterokinesis · 3 years

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How It Feels to Have a Heartbeat

Read it on AO3!

Part of the ATLA Big Bang 2020! I’ll be rbing art for this fic as well.

Summary: From the time he was a child, Sokka has seen ghosts. After years of dejection, he's learned to keep his observations to himself. This works fine until their mother is killed at the hands of a Fire Nation soldier and Sokka begins to see Kya everywhere, always lingering next to Katara. After being thrust into the Avatar's mission, Sokka must grapple with his abilities on a large scale.

(Or, five times Sokka saw ghosts and one time he didn't.)

Sokka was three years old the first time he saw a ghost.

His grandfather, his father’s father that is, had died a few weeks before. Sokka’s parents had explained that he was now in the Spirit World, where he would watch over them. That didn’t explain why Ataatattiaq lingered by their doorway the day after he was buried, but Sokka noticed how he followed Dad around during his first few days as chief, and how he smiled at Hakoda’s good work. Two weeks later Attatattiaq was gone, but Sokka still felt him in the way Dad smiled and performed his duties as chief. He felt his grandfather in the pride Hakota had for his children too.

________________

The ghosts didn’t stop after that.

Sokka became used to seeing them, and by the time he was ten it wasn’t unusual to occasionally see the spirits of the recently passed spending a few extra days with their loved ones before they moved on to the Spirit World. He’d even worked out general rules for how they acted:

1) They can’t wander around however they want. They have to be attached to someone or something—like a loved one or their most prized possession. 2) They can’t speak. Or at least, they can’t speak to Sokka. 3) They can touch things, but the physical world won’t feel it. 4) They’ll stay as long as they need to, and no longer.

Sokka never told anyone about the ghosts because he didn’t need to. Gram Gram handled all the spiritual goings-on in the Southern Water Tribe, and she always told him to stop making up stories. So he did. It was more fun to have a secret, anyway.

________________

Everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked.

Well, to be more precise, everything changed when the Fire Nation killed his mom.

He remembered the grey, sooty snow that littered the pristine white hills of the South Pole. He remembered how Katara cried when she told him and Dad. He remembered running home, only to be kept outside to take care of Katara while his father tended to their mother. He remembered Hakoda telling them that Kya was gone. Not dead, gone. And he remembered the chill in the air as they buried her, the only casualty. And he remembered seeing her again.

The night Sokka buried his mother, he tossed and turned. The polar leopard pelt he slept on was made of needles, irritating him with every movement. Too exhausted to sleep, he opened his eyes to a faint blue glow emanating from the corner of the room.

Sokka moved his head just slightly, the figure quickly coming into sight. There was Kya, hand sweeping over Katara’s hair the way she used to when they were toddlers and refused to go to sleep. She looked at his sister with this mixture of indescribable warmth and love and sacrifice, the kind Gram Gram would tell stories about on the coldest nights of the year. Kya didn’t look up, though Sokka stayed awake until dawn began to break. The entire night he watched her while she watched Katara, their own quiet vigil.

Kya wasn’t there every day, but Sokka got used to her presence. She watched as Katara learned to sew, her face never losing its eternal pride—even when Katara dropped a stitch. She smiled as Katara progressed in her waterbending. She held her daughter when Hakoda left for the war. Sokka swore he even saw her cry the first time Katara healed someone.

She never looked at Sokka, but that was okay. Katara needed it more.

________________

When Sokka and Katara found Aang, she kept her distance. Instead of staying a few feet away from Katara, she now hovered on the edges of Sokka’s vision, a barely-visible gleam of blue. That should have been the first clue that something was wrong with Aang, an early hint to exile him before he got them all killed.

Sokka should have known that danger follows the Avatar wherever he goes.

Kya flickered in front of Sokka, her edges fuzzy in a way he’d never seen them before. Katara was nowhere to be seen.

Sokka pushed himself to a standing position, trying to approach his mother. In five years, this was the first time she’d ever reached out for him, the first time she’d looked away from Katara. Kya pointed, and in the distance Sokka saw the outline of the abandoned Fire Nation battleship.

He was running before the flare even fired.

When Katara and Aang came back, he had already made up his mind. Get the Air Nomad out of his tribe, make sure Katara was okay, and prepare for war. As he banished Aang, he saw Kya run her hand over Katara’s hair just like always. She didn’t glance his way.

When the Fire Nation attacked for the second time, Sokka was sure of one thing: he would defend his tribe or die trying. His war paint was smooth and wet on his face, a feeling he by now knew all too well, but he refused to let it show. Fifteen was probably too young to die, but it was worth it for Katara. He would protect her, just like he always had.

He understood Kya. Though he and Katara fought on an almost daily basis, he couldn’t imagine letting someone hurt her. At least, not while he was alive.

________________

As Sokka clung to Aang—the Avatar’s—giant sky bison, he tried to hold his head high. He had done it, or at least part of it. Katara was safe, the village was safe, and now Katara could become a waterbending master—just as Mom had wanted it. He tried to ignore how Kya sat in the corner of Appa’s saddle, the deepest sadness he’d ever seen in her blue eyes. He’d done the best he could.

Maybe one day he’d be able to explain it to her.

________________

The Southern Air Temple was a graveyard.

This wasn’t a surprise, of course. No one had seen Airbenders in a century, and any who had managed to survive the Fire Nation’s attacks were clever enough to know that living at an Air Temple was a death wish. But Aang still believed, so Sokka said nothing.

As Appa set down at the temple, all Sokka could see were ghosts. Old men, young boys, those with arrows and those without. They milled about, playing games and pulling pranks. One, an arrowless boy who looked about Katara’s age, played hide and seek with a group of younger kids. They were all so young.

Sokka watched the game unfold, and after about ten minutes a pattern seemed to emerge. The boys would play for a few minutes, then reset. They always went to the same hiding spots, and the same kids were always found. These children—ghosts, they were ghosts—were trapped in an endless loop of playtime. An eternity of childhood. Sokka couldn’t remember what that felt like.

He watched in silence for another few moments, wondering what it was like to grow up playing for fun and not for war. Sokka had known since the day he was born that one day he’d be a warrior. It was inevitable, a fact of the universe. The sky was blue, polar orcas ate turtle seals, and Sokka was made for battle. It was nice, in a way, knowing what your path was from birth. Then the Avatar had to screw it all up.

The day went on. Aang and Sokka played airball. Sokka got thrown into a wall. He and Katara argued over whether to tell Aang about the Fire Nation helmet. Sokka got buried in snow. The usual.

Sokka shook the snow off him for the fourth time that week and followed Aang and Katara toward the temple. The ghosts were denser here, and older as well. Where the younger boys had no arrows, these ghosts did. They were dressed in monk clothes as well, and many sported beards. They milled around, a few pulling off to the side to speak in small groups. Sokka did his best to avoid them, but as they got closer to the sanctuary, it was impossible. A few spirits passed through Sokka, and though he didn’t feel anything, he shivered.

Aang opened the sanctuary, and the crush of spirits was gone. There was nothing, except for Aang and the soft glow he gave off. This was almost worse than the overwhelming crowd, sort of like the second after coming inside while a snowstorm rages. After feeling everything, it was disorienting to feel nothing at all. Sokka lingered near the door, half in the quiet and half out of it. A foot in both worlds, just like him.

When Aang finished talking with his past lives, Sokka was the first one outside. Aang gave off an uncomfortable sort of glow, as if his spirit multiplied and divided itself when the occasion arose. He waxed and waned like the moon, and Sokka didn’t know what to do with that. Aang didn’t fit into the rules, didn’t fit into his plan. He liked the kid, sure, but something about him felt wrong.

His stomach clawed at itself, and for the third time that day Sokka remembered how little he’d had to eat. Unlike Aang, not everyone could live on plants alone.

WHRRRRRR.

Sokka glanced at Aang for confirmation, but deep down he knew. The Fire Nation had tracked them, and they had the disadvantage. He reached back and his fingers closed on his club, ready to attack. He’d join these spirits of people long-dead, wandering through cold empty halls.

Instead, an animal hopped out.

“How about we eat it?” Sokka blurted out, his stomach rumbling in agreement. Aang glared at him, then picked across the temple, following the rodent—was it a rodent? Or maybe a monkey?—down a stone path. Maybe they could eat it later.

The lemur—he had decided it was a lemur—was constantly just out of reach, and quick, light-footed Aang reached the destination first.

“Hey, did you find th-” Sokka started as the structure came into view, but cut himself off.

By the time Sokka stepped into the tent, Aang was on the floor, a spirit gently rubbing circles on his back. A spirit that looked a lot like the statue near the entrance.

“Hey buddy,” Sokka said, voice hushed, “I was kidding about eating the lemur.” Aang didn’t respond, and only then did the various masses cluttered near the walls begin to take shape. Specifically, they were pieces of Fire Nation armor. Broadly, they were tokens of death. He reached out to touch Aang, maybe to comfort him the way he used to comfort Katara.

Instead, Aang began to rise, his eyes and tattoos a blinding white. Sokka gasped and reeled backward, the cold packed dirt leaving scuffs on his palms. The wind picked up, whipping Sokka around like a rag doll. Aang was both living and not, a ghost in a human’s body and a person with a spirit’s abilities. He was hard to look at, and even harder to breathe around. For a twelve year old, his soul felt centuries old. Maybe it was the Avatar thing, but part of it just felt like Aang.

Sokka clung to the stone tiles of the temple, scrabbling for a secure hold. If he really wanted to, Aang could throw him off the mountain without a second thought. But he wouldn’t… right?

Katara materialized in the corner of Sokka’s vision, her arm thrown over her face as a shield against the wind. She screamed something inaudible to him, but when he opened his mouth to respond it was as if the breath was stolen from his lungs.

Everything went black at the edges as Sokka tried to regain oxygen, sputtering and coughing as he gripped the stone tiles.

Katara pulled at the back of his shirt, using him as a tether. In his ear, she screamed, “What’s happening?”

“He found out Gyatso died,” Sokka yelled back, pushing himself up on wobbly legs. Blindly, he fumbled for Katara’s hand, the way that Southern Water Tribe kids had been taught to do in times of danger. When things were rough, grab a buddy. Sokka was lucky enough to have a built-in one.

“Aang!” Katara began, shouting over the howl of the wind. “This isn’t you!”

Aang glowed in response, but did not speak.

“I know how you must feel. I lost my mother to the Fire Nation. But just because you lose a part of your family doesn’t mean you lose all of it! Sokka and you and I are our own family now. But you have to calm down, it’s not safe!”

Sokka bit back a retort about how both of them lost a mother, instead holding Katara up as the wind tore at her hair.

The glow dimmed as Aang sank back to the ground and the windstorm quieted. After a minute or two, it was just the three of them. Katara stumbled toward Aang to wrap him in a hug, and Sokka followed a second later. He hesitated on the edge of the group before deciding to clap Aang on the shoulder the way he’d seen the men in his village do.

“Aang?” Sokka croaked, his voice still raw. “Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean they aren’t still with us. They’re looking down at us, somewhere. Gyatso is probably so proud of you.”

Aang nodded silently, then forced himself to his feet. Katara followed close behind, ready to catch him if he should fall. Sokka lingered for a second, and he was rewarded with the blue spectre of Monk Gyatso blinking into reality beside him.

Gyatso gazed after Aang and Katara in silence, a soft smile on his face. Then, he turned to Sokka and gave a shallow bow, which Sokka quickly returned. Gyatso winked, and then he was gone, the only trace of him a light breeze ruffling Sokka’s hair.

Sokka grinned to himself, then sprinted after the others.

“Hey, so are we going to get something to eat or what?”

________________

Something about Yue was special.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty, because Suki had been pretty too.Yue was ethereal, the kind of girl people wrote poems about. Something about her drew him in, but he couldn’t name what. Yue seemed to contain multitudes, an ocean so deep that Sokka would never reach the bottom. But he was fine with drowning while he tried.

Yue seemed most at home under the moonlight. It made her brighter somehow, like she shined from the inside out. Sokka had never known someone like that, as far as he knew, but she seemed familiar.

The Northern Water Tribe wasn’t anything close to what Sokka had expected. Katara fumed whenever she came home from healing lessons, and Kya glared at Pakku when he came close, as if he had somehow slighted her. Maybe he had—Sokka didn’t pretend to know anything about ghost rivalries.

Speaking of rivalries, he hated how the boys in the village looked at Yue, like she was a piece of seal jerky or something. He heard Hahn talking about the power he’d have once they were married, about how pretty she was. Those things were true, of course, but she was so much more than that. She was funny, and kind, and smarter than anyone gave her credit for. It took everything in him not to tell her so each time he saw her.

Quick jokes turned to conversations turned to secret meetings. On nights when the village was silent and the moon was bright, the pair sat under the stars and talked about everything they could think of. Yue, while isolated, had been taught by the finest tutors. She was a master of philosophy and storytelling, and once confessed to Sokka that if she wasn’t a princess—if she wasn’t bound by duty to be nothing more than a pretty doll made of snow and glass—that she would have liked to see the world, to perhaps go to the mythic spirit library. In return, Sokka shared his adventures, recounting battles and run-ins with the Fire Nation. Most of all, he told her about home.

On one such night, he finally confessed, something he had never done before.

“I have something to tell you, but you have to keep it a secret,” he blurted out in the middle of a discussion about snow rat legends.

Yue leveled him a look, her gaze probably kinder than he deserved.

“Who will I tell? My mother? Hahn? The moon?” It was a jest, but she was earnest. Her gloved hand crept over top of his, holding it in place. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

Sokka nodded, swallowing hard. “This is going to sound strange, maybe even like I’m lying, but I’m not. This is the truth, I swear on my Gram Gram’s grave. Well, she’s not dead yet but you get the point…” he rambled.

“I see ghosts. Or spirits, I guess you could call them? Either way, I see them. A lot. Like my mom. And my grandfather, for a little while. And all the Airbenders. They don’t talk or anything, but they’re there. And I know it doesn’t make sense because y’know, science, but I’m not crazy an-”

“Sokka.” She cut him off, leaning in. “I believe you.”

He blinked back, startled. Then he blinked again.

“You do?”

“I do.” She relaxed back against the hard-packed snow wall of the building behind them. “There are much stranger things in this world than a boy who sees spirits. Maybe that’s how you found Avatar Aang—your spiritual connection.”

This was not how he had expected this conversation to go by any means. Screaming or horror he had prepared for, but not Yue’s easy fascination.

She was still talking, but he hadn’t caught most of it.

“I’m sorry, what?” He asked meekly, trying to feign a smile.

“Tell me about them!” She responded, her face bright. “I want to hear all about the spirits you’ve seen.”

“Ah.” Suddenly his mouth was drier than the desert, like he had just drunk seawater. “Well, the first one was my granddad. He disappeared after a few weeks, after my dad took over as chief. Then there were a few more, like people who went out for hunts and didn’t come back. I’d see them wandering through the village and realize that they’d died out there. Those ones were particularly sad, because I didn’t really understand death yet. I was a little kid, y’know? It took a few times before I started to recognize who was a homecoming warrior and who was just a ghost.” Yue nodded sagely, patting his hand comfortingly.

“Then my mom was killed when I was ten. Katara took it pretty hard, she was the one to find her. Mom hangs around more often than not, keeping an eye on her. She doesn’t really interact with me, just Katara. I think that’s fine. We can both protect her.” He peeled his gaze from their intertwined fingers up towards Yue’s face. The way she looked at him made his heart ache. Her other hand came up to cup his face, and in this barren, frigid place she was so incredibly warm.

He leaned forward, expecting a kiss, but she remained where she was.

“You are spectacular, Sokka. I cannot wait to see who you become.”

A second confession caught in his throat, but it died as he took in the way she looked at him. Instead, he smiled. This could be enough.

“Thank you, Princess.” That’s right, Princess. Not only that, but a princess who was betrothed to someone else.

Yet still, that night when he crawled into his camp roll, he couldn’t help but smile. What had once been a shadowy weight on his shoulders was now a gentle secret held between Sokka, Yue, and the moon.

________________

The clandestine meetings had only grown from there. They rode on Appa and went on long walks, ever the picture of North-South friendship. But at night, they’d sneak out to the walls of the city to have the things never afforded to them. Sokka’s childhood, or at least his adolescence, had been built on war games and paranoia. Yue’s had been similarly solitary. As the only daughter of the chief, her experiences with her peers had been limited to formal dinners and suitors vying for her hand.

In a way, things had only gotten better since Sokka told her about his spirit-sight. They were bound by something neither could explain and did not particularly care to attempt to.

Occasionally, these meetings resulted in acting as juvenile as possible, other times they’d sit and have serious discussions until the sun began to rise over the horizon. This was both of those.

Sokka shushed Yue’s giggles as he dropped a snowball off the top of the wall, ducking back down as it landed on the head of the sleeping guard below. A glove slapped over his mouth did a valiant effort of suppressing his laughter, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her doing the same. Could Hahn do this, make her laugh like she had never seen joy before? He doubted it. He doubted Hahn would ever do anything that would make him worthy of Yue’s attention, much less her hand in marriage.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” she murmured, the mirth gone from her voice.

“Like what?” Sokka asked incredulously, but deep down he knew.

“Like you love me,” she said simply, her gaze not wavering.

Sokka’s heart plummeted to his stomach, but gallantly he responded in a wobbly voice, “And what if I do?”

Yue smiled as if that was the saddest thing she had ever heard.

“I’m betrothed to Hahn, Sokka. I need to do this, for my people. It’s my duty, just as protecting your tribe is yours.”

Once, Sokka had watched as an ice shelf plummeted into the sea after a particularly warm summer. It had been the loudest sound he’d ever heard, a gut-wrenching, booming, cracking noise. Now, the sound of his heart splintering had beaten it out.

“You’re not marrying your people, you’re marrying Hahn. Hahn, who doesn’t care about you at all. Not the way I do.” He grasped her hands tight, holding on for dear life. “No, Sokka. This is how it has to be,” she said wetly, and it was only then that he realized she was crying. “You have to let me go.”

He nodded numbly and released her hands, but did not stand. She looked at him through tear-tipped eyelashes, and a beat of hesitation filled the air. Yue leaned in and placed a single kiss on his cheek, then rose from their secluded spot and walked into the night. Sokka sat there, slumped against the wall. He wondered if broken hearts had ghosts too.

________________

The achingly quiet peace of the Northern Water Tribe didn’t last long, but he hadn’t been naive enough to think it would. It seemed as if no matter what, the Fire Nation would always come through to destroy it all again.

He butted heads with Hahn, to no one’s surprise, so Chief Arnook had assigned him as Yue’s bodyguard. It took everything in him to tamp down the little flutter his heart had made. She had made it clear that no matter how she felt, she would marry Hahn. And Sokka had to deal with that, the way he had dealt with all of the other little heartbreaks.

Grey snow fell over the Tribe like an omen of doom. Fear twisted in Sokka’s gut, and it took everything in him not to immediately abscond with Yue to somewhere that the Fire Nation would never reach, if such a place existed. But that wasn’t his job, and it wasn’t what Yue wanted.

The next day flew by in a flurry of movement. The Fire Nation attacked, then stopped, then began again. Katara and Aang were struggling to hone their waterbending in time for battle. The Northern Water Tribe troops clearly knew as little about their enemy as the Fire Nation knew about them, and Sokka, ever the strategist, could not see an outcome where they would make it out alive.

It all came down to Yue, as many things did. The Spirit Oasis was beautiful, a spot of tropical warmth in the arctic desert. Unfortunately, the sheer energy of it was overwhelming. There was so much there, a quality Sokka couldn’t hope to quantify. It was like how the iceberg felt, magnified by a hundred. It seemed that Kya agreed, because she lingered outside with him. His mother’s blue-ish figure remained just out of reach, but if he tried to forget that she’s dead, she could almost be real. Almost.

Yue burst out of the Oasis, panting.

“The Avatar’s floating and glowing and Katara says it’ll be fine but we need to go get help and—”

“Woah, woah, woah, catch your breath. He’s in the Avatar state. We can go get Appa, but Aang can take care of himself,” Sokka reassured her, leading her away from the Oasis and toward the city. Kya watched reproachfully from outside the Oasis, refusing to leave Katara. That was fine, at least she’d have one of them.

Sokka doesn’t worry until he sees Kya waiting next to Appa, her mouth pinched in the way it always got when she had bad news. Even after six years, Sokka had that look seared into his memory.

Katara.

He grabbed Yue’s hand and pulled her into Appa, then raced back to the Oasis. He had already lost his parents to the Fire Nation, albeit in very different ways. He refused to lose his sister too.

Of course, because this was Sokka’s life and very few things can ever go the way they were meant to, Aang got kidnapped. In the middle of a siege. By the Fire Nation. Lovely. At least Katara was okay. If anything happened to her… well, Sokka wasn’t sure what he’d do. Nothing good, no doubt.

This is how Sokka ended up driving a Flying Bison with a saddle full of the Avatar, his kid sister, the girl he loved but could not have, and the unconscious disgraced prince of the Fire Nation.

Then, as if the night could not get any worse, the moon turned blood red. Of course it did.

Yue slumped against Sokka, her eyelids going slack. His heart pounded in his ears. Something, that ethereal ineffable quality that Yue had always possessed was gone now, disappeared into thin air.

“Something’s wrong with Yue,” he hissed, only to find Aang already nodding.

Yue coughed weakly, and Sokka handed the reins off to Katara in order to cradle Yue’s head in his lap.

“I was very sick as a baby,” she began quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the howl of the wind. “I didn’t cry or even open my eyes, and they said that I wouldn’t live very long. My father had seen a vision when I was born of me as the Moon Spirit, so he prayed to Tui every day for my recovery. He placed me in the Oasis on a full moon, and Tui healed me by giving me a little piece of her life force.”

Sokka’s mouth dropped open, but he bit his lip to keep himself from saying anything. So this was what had been different about Yue, in addition to everything else he liked about her. She had been touched by spirits, just as he had. Twin flames of a living spirit and a boy who saw ghosts.

Wordlessly, Katara steered them toward the Oasis. Sokka saw a man in Fire Nation armor below, holding a large white fish above his head. Yue gasped, and tears began to run down her cheeks. Sokka silently wiped them away.

Aang and Katara climbed onto the snow when they landed, but Sokka remained with Yue. Katara and Aang could save the day with their bending, but Sokka would always save the people.

Everyone was yelling and Sokka clung to Yue, his boomerang in his free hand. He could do this small thing, he could save her. He had to.

Sokka had forgotten that, in the stories, spirits moved on when they had to. No sooner and no later. He was but an observer, a stowaway audience to the wheel of time.

________________

Sokka lowered Yue next to the pool, but his hand still clung to hers.

“Sokka,” she began, not unkindly. “You have to let me go.”

“No,” he pleaded, squeezing tighter.

“Yes,” she murmured, and before he could speak, she was pressing her lips to his. Her hand came up to cup his face, just like it had all those nights before, and he felt a tear slide down his cheek. He couldn’t tell whether it was hers or his.

She turned to touch the white fish, and Sokka watched as her spirit flowed out of her and into it. Someone—the old man who had been watching—placed it back in the water. Sokka cradled her body, even though he knew she wasn’t Yue anymore.

Katara and Aang hung back, but Sokka tipped up his head to see Yue floating over the pool. She looked like a goddess or something in a white flowing robe. Just like all the other ghosts, she looked painfully real.

She floated down to him and touched her forehead to his. Yue mouthed something, but he couldn’t hear her. She never knew the rules, how could she? He’d never gotten the chance to tell her. Her dainty hands tipped his chin toward hers and she kissed him, but all he felt was air. It was the thought that counted.

And then she was gone, filtering away like moonlight through the clouds. Instinctively, he squeezed where she once was, but there was nothing but air.

Sokka slumped forward, and out of the corner of his vision, he saw a hand touch his shoulder. He turned, expecting to see Katara or even Aang, but instead there was Kya. She smoothed a hand over his wolf tail and he could see her mouth the words to the old lullaby she used to sing to them when they were young.

And all at once, Sokka began to cry.

________________

There was a tea shop in the middle ring that Aang liked, which meant that Sokka was usually the one who had to get everyone’s orders. He didn’t mind so much; the old man who ran it was nice and gave him advice. None of it really made sense, but Sokka appreciated it nonetheless.

The only downside of this was the ghost that lingered in the shop. It was silent, like all ghosts, but it had this quiet energy about it. Him — it was a him. Sokka had taken to calling him “Topknot Man,” in honor of his topknot. It was vaguely Fire Nation, but it wasn’t as if Sokka could ask about it. What would he say? There’s a spirit of a young man who looks like he could be Fire Nation sitting in your shop all the time. What gives? He wasn’t an idiot.

The ghost was sitting by the window today, watching the people pass by with a smile. The old man—Mushu—was talking a mile a minute. His son or nephew or something was adjusting well. He’d had a date and it hadn’t been terrible, all that jazz. Sokka nodded along, but he was watching the ghost instead.

“Sokka? Did your thoughts get buried by badgermoles?” A raspy voice asked, drawing Sokka back.

“Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking about stuff,” he responded sheepishly.

“Ah, yes, stuff. My nephew is incredibly concerned with it as well.”

“The Spirit World. I’ve been thinking of it a lot.”

Mushu nodded. “It is a lot to consider. There are many things we will never know about our spirits after they’ve left their bodies.”

“I… I like to think that sometimes people stick around,” Sokka murmured into his drink.

“Well, of course they do. But that’s only for the spirits to know.”

“The spirits. Of course,” he sighed and paid for his drink. “Thanks Mushu, have a nice afternoon.”

As he walked by the ghost on his way to the door, Sokka could swear the man smiled.

________________

Jet was an asshole. But that didn’t mean he deserved to die.

There was something indescribable about actually watching someone die. It was like one second they were there—whole and full of a brightness Sokka had spent his whole life trying to describe. And then it was gone, and in its place a shell. That’s what Jet was like; one second a candle burned, and in the next it was snuffed out. It was nothing like Yue’s death, which felt painfully natural. Jet’s death was a hitch of breath, a cut-off sentence.

Sokka pulled Katara away from the body, leaving Smellerbee and Longshot to their friend. He buried his face in the top of her hair, trying not to pull her hair-loopies. When he looked up, it took everything in him not to gasp. There was Jet alright, hovering next to his body and looking sadly at his friends. Sokka reached out, but Katara just hugged him tighter. Right, no one else could see him.

Jet glanced over at Sokka and gave one, solitary nod—the kind Sokka associated with warriors and people who played at being them. But he swallowed hard and nodded back. He blinked, and Jet was gone.

________________

Jet wasn’t like Kya—there was no rhyme or reason to when he showed up. Sometimes it was in the thick of battle, like the attack on Ba Sing Se, and others it was during quiet, forgettable moments. Nonetheless, he was a welcome presence. The rebels never seemed to notice his presence directly, but they relaxed when he was nearby. They fought better too.

And every now and then, Jet would look Sokka’s way and smile or nod or wink. In those moments, Sokka would forget he wasn’t alone, just for a second.

________________

Even in death, Jet seemed to harbor an affection for Katara. Sokka, of course, was not fond of this.

Katara lingered by the bow of the ship—Hakoda’s ship—staring off into the waves. Aang was below decks, trying not to die and ruin everything. And Sokka? Well, he’d spent his days plotting their next steps. He made plans for as many contingencies as possible: if Aang was fine, if Aang died, if Aang lived but couldn’t be the Avatar.

The wind teased at his wolftail, curling the edges of the maps he had laid out on the ship’s deck. Ahead, an otherworldly glow flickered. Sokka glanced up and stifled a gasp. On the railing sat Jet. Had he been flesh and blood and bone, he and Katara would have been close enough to touch—close enough to kiss. Instead, he stared out at the waves beside her, contemplating something Sokka couldn’t put his finger on.

“Katara!” Sokka cried out, waving his hands at her. “Can you come over and look at this?” She rolled her eyes, but complied, leaving Jet and the sea behind. Katara bent over the maps and plans, and Sokka stared over her head to make eye contact with Jet. Quickly, he pointed from himself to the spirit in that childish I’m-watching-you way then bowed his head as well. Sokka almost missed the way Jet stuck out his tongue back at him.

________________

Sokka used to hate Zuko, and everyone knew it. He was stuck-up and jerk-y and not worth Team Avatar’s time. It didn’t help that he was pretty enough to make Sokka’s heart skip a beat, even with the scar. Especially with the scar.

It didn’t matter what he thought about Zuko—what mattered was fixing everything after they’d broken it all apart. At times, Sokka found himself staring at his ceiling, wondering why exactly they had been the ones chosen for this. They were kids after all—powerful kids, but kids nonetheless. A bender for each element, with an incredible warrior and a boy who saw what shouldn’t be seen to boot.

The war had been over for a week, and Sokka tried not to notice the ghosts that crowded the streets of the Fire Nation. There were so many—all of them aimlessly wandering. Sokka darted through the palace in a desperate and frantic hope of escaping them. After multiple wrong turns and frequent evil glances from the staff, he finally ended up outside the right door.

Sokka raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles could connect, Zuko opened the ornate door.

“Come in,” he muttered and moved aside to make room for Sokka. The two had become almost-maybe-friends since Zuko joined them to defeat Ozai. In the weeks since, the twerp had started to grow on Sokka, not that he’d ever admit it.

“So, what’s up? What did you call me here for, your princeliness?” Sokka drawled, plopping back on a fancy chair and propping his legs up.

“I need the White Lotus’ help,” Zuko began.

“Then why ask me? Your uncle or Piandao would love to help.”

“Because… because I can’t tell them!” Zuko sputtered.

“Why?” Even Sokka couldn’t tell if it meant why not or why me.

Zuko did not meet his eyes. “Because it’s stupid. They’re just going to dismiss me as foolish. You have their favor for some reason, and I don’t know if I can do this alone.”

Sokka looked up, startled, at Zuko’s outburst. They were friends, sure, but Sokka had already had his magical Zuko field trip. On the other hand, anything that was too silly for the White Lotus was usually right up Sokka’s alley. “Okay, okay, I’ll help. What is it?”

“I need to find the person who killed my mother,” Zuko whispered, as if he was on the edge of tears.

Killed his mother. That… well, that didn’t make sense. He would have seen Zuko’s mom by now if she was dead. Someone that Zuko loved this much wouldn’t just abandon him after she died, right?

“... If I tell you something, you have to promise not to freak out,” Sokka began slowly.

“Okay?” Zuko rolled his eyes, but sat down on the chair opposite Sokka anyway.

“So, uh, I can kinda see ghosts? Like spirits. Of dead people.”

Zuko frowned, but didn’t say anything.

“Like my mom? She shows up every now and then. And Jet hangs out with the rebels and Iroh has this kid who’s always at the tea shop—”

“Lu Ten?” Zuko interrupted, shooting to his feet.

“Maybe? He has a topknot with a fancy thing in it.”

Zuko nodded and began to pace around the room. “But why are you telling me this?”

Sokka cleared his throat loudly. “Because… because if your mom cared about you the way you said she did, she’d be here. At the very least, I’d be able to feel her. But she isn’t, so how can she be dead?” He mumbled.

Zuko stopped in his tracks, but didn’t say anything. Sokka pulled at his collar sheepishly, his stomach churning with every silent second that passed.

“Thank you,” Zuko finally said, his voice just a hint rawer than usual. Then, he began to stalk toward the door.

Sokka’s heart pounded. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Did he think that Sokka was crazy? Was he going to call the guards?

“Wait!” He called out desperately, “Where are you going?”

Zuko tossed the barest glance over his shoulder. “We have a lot of work to do.”

________________

It had been three weeks since Sokka’s confession, and the days had been filled with preparations. Zuko and Sokka would soon set out on an expedition to find his mom, and Sokka would be lying if he said it didn’t make him seven kinds of nervous. Zuko had named him as his official security detail to limit the amount of people tagging along, and it did nothing to quell the queasiness in Sokka’s stomach.

This isn’t going to end up like Yue, he told himself. You’re not in danger. You’re going to help Zuko find his mom. He grimaced and adjusted the pack on his shoulders. For someone with so much money, Zuko seemed too eager to rough it.

Sokka looked out over the entry hall of the Fire Palace. A shadow flickered in the corner of his vision, but when he looked there was nothing there. He shoved down his dismay. Of course Kya wouldn’t come to see him off. She was probably checking on Katara or doing ghost errands or something.

But there it was, that flicker again. This time it came from the columns that lined the hall. Glancing at Zuko, who was talking to the guards before their departure, Sokka slipped over to the other end of the hall.

Leaning against the ornate wall was Topknot Man, who Sokka had gleaned was actually Lu Ten. Lu Ten grinned at Sokka, then drifted closer. Stopping a foot away, he looked at Sokka, then at Zuko, then back at Sokka. He reached out with a single, transparent hand and placed it on Sokka’s shoulder. Though there was no substance to him, Sokka could feel its weight.

Be careful with him, Sokka could hear in the back of his mind, like the words to a song long forgotten. He stood agape, as Lu Ten tried to cuff him upside the head and drifted away. Was this a shovel talk? Could ghosts do those?

“Sokka?” Zuko called somewhere behind him.

Sokka started. “Coming!” He returned, before crossing back to the not-ghost-hunting party. Zuko smiled as he came into view, and Sokka grinned back. Maybe this was why the spirits had chosen him. Maybe it had all been for this moment, when he’d finally get to help.

As the pair walked into the light of the rising morning, Sokka couldn’t help but think that he was finally done with ghosts. He was ready to join the living.

#atla big bang #atla big bang 2020 #hifthah #atla #sokka #zukka #yukka #sokka sees ghosts au #katara #kya #zuko #aang #lu ten #iroh #my writing

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hansoulo · 4 years

Text

partial to the cavatina pt. 4 - (consumable)

Pairing: Javier Peña/f!Reader (sorry broskies)

Warnings: cursing? allusions to spicy times, mentions of drinking, mild spoilers for beginning of season 3

Word Count: 1.18k

Gif Credit: x by @pvscvls - lmk if you want it taken down!

A/N: i sat down to outline and then this happened. longer chapter as promised will come soon lol

masterlist playlist

You did everything right, Peña. But now you’re all alone. Everything. Alone. Carrillo was long dead. Murphy was gone. And now Martinez was gone, too. Javier didn’t want to call you, to fuck you up with his problems. You deserved more than that. Than him.

He was trying to get better, he really was - for you as much as himself. But old habits die hard and the taste of smoke was familiar.

So he drank.

----------

“Javi?” Your voice carried over through the telephone, crumbling static. He didn’t really know why he picked up the phone, head still sloshing a leftover ache from the whiskey that never got put back in the cabinet. He just wanted to hear your voice, imagine what you looked like on the other end of the line. You hadn’t been able to see each other much the past few weeks, stolen kisses in doorways and quiet evenings in your apartment doing little to sate his longing.

It was strange, the way you appeared. Crept up on him as some beautiful, musical thing that he didn’t want to scare away with his footsteps the weight of concrete. It’d only been a month but he found himself making room for you, the little cracks left on his skin filled back in by a golden ichor that tasted like syrup and whistled when it rolled down his cheek.

You never really said you were dating. Were you dating? He’d like to think so. He wasn’t seeing anyone else, that was for damn sure.

“Javi, are we still on for dinner?”

Dinner. Shit.

He wiped a hand over his face, trying to smooth out the hitch in his words. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s been a long day.” He could almost see you on the back of his closed eyelids, sitting cross-legged on that tacky chintz armchair in your living room, one slow finger tracing the curl of your telephone cord. You had mentioned something about wanting him to meet your friends, other teachers at the school (one of whom was your roommate) who had no doubt heard every detail of your budding relationship. It was sweet, though. He liked that you had friends.

“Oh,” you breathed, trying not to sound disappointed. “Are you alright?”

Javier nodded instinctively before he realized you couldn’t see. “Yeah, yeah I’m good. Just tired.”

You snorted - a loud, unladylike sound that made his lips quirk up just a bit. “For someone who’s supposed to be DEA you aren’t very good at lying.” God, he would do anything for you. Did you know that? Did you know how the songs you played looped in his head for hours? How he tried to memorize every single one of your eyelashes when you smiled? How when he was around you, sometimes he couldn’t breathe? Did you know that?

He heard shuffling on the other end of the line. “I’ll tell them to go without us,” you said, nothing vitriolic tainting your voice. Work was never really a topic of conversation between the two of you. His work, anyways. It took up enough of his life without you having to be involved. You never pressed him about it. “Come over if you want, okay?”

The couch creaked as Javier sat up. “Okay.”

---------

“Ah, and the prodigal son returns!” you called out with a laugh as your apartment door opened, not looking up from your tiny kitchen stove. An apron was tied around your waist, some ridiculous, polka-dotted thing that looked straight out of the 50s. You turned when the lock clicked, watching as he slipped off his shoes. He made the mistake of not doing that the first time he came here and he didn’t hear the end of it for hours. No shoes on in the Palace.

The Palace, he remembered with a snort. Your name for the apartment was somehow the least strange thing about it. Loose papers covered your coffee, stacked high with books and baubles and tiny market trinkets. Every available surface was covered in gauzy scarves or knit blankets, absolutely none of them matching but still managing to feel right - even next to the weird decorative wall hangings in languages he’d never even heard of. And of course, the sheet music.

Javier wasn’t entirely sure what system of organization you had - if you had one at all. He was pretty sure you used coffee mugs as paperweights, but you seemed to always find what you needed so he didn’t say anything. It was a nice contrast to his own apartment, barely lived-in and sterile. Just a place to keep his socks and shoes before he left again. He could tell you loved your place, though. You made it a home.

“What do you think?” you gestured to the apron with a dramatic spin, the wooden spoon in your hand coming dangerously close to his nose. Javier reached to stop you before you hit him in the face, a calloused thumb pressing into the flesh of your palm.

He looked down, trying to conceal a grimace when he noticed the bright yellow ruffles. “It’s…”

“Absolutely atrocious, right?” you said, gleeful. “I love it!”

Trying to change the subject, Javier stepped closer and looked to the pot on the stove. “What are you making?”

“Mac n’ cheese,” you answered, smiling when his hands came to rest at your waist. He nosed his face into the curve of your jaw, mouthing an open kiss to the skin below your ear. You smelled like cinnamon. “Hey,” you tapped him with the end of the spoon, attempting to be stern. “You’re not supposed to distract the cook.”

“Really, now?” he asked, his hands wandering lower.

“It’s very serious business Javi.” He hummed in agreement, his lips still pressed to your neck. “Grounds for expulsion, one could say.”

“Expulsion?” Javier laughed when you yelped as he pulled your back into his chest. “What, am I your student?”

“Oh yes,” you snorted, mocking half-hooded eyelids and dropping your voice an octave. “And you’ve been very ba-”

Your words were cut off by a squeak when he bit the shell of your ear, chuckling warm chocolate in a way that made your stomach flutter. “You’re horrible at roleplaying,” you pouted as his fingertips dragged across the sides of your ribs. “I was supposed to seduce you with my scholarly discipline.”

“You’re wearing a bright pink apron and pajama pants.”

“And I happen to look very chic, thank you. If you want my food, you’ll have to learn some respe-” His lips met yours, deep and melting soft as the spoon clattered to the floor. Your fingers came to thread through the hair at the nape of his neck, everything forgotten except for the way he tasted like whiskey and something else heady, overpowering and enveloping until you grew lightheaded.

“Am I forgiven?” he mumbled against your lips. You cocked your head, faking consideration.

“Maybe, if you kiss me again, I’ll think about it.”

His voice vibrated against your back, soft and low. “I’ll have to do that then, won’t I?”

You smiled. “Yes, yes you will.”

permanent: @ah-callie @itzagoodthing @spookypym @opheliaelysia @watsonwise @damndamer0n @amarvelousmandalorian @bunnyart-blog @agirllovespasta @pascalispedro @pascalplease @coffeencontemplation @chelsfic @lesqui @javierpenaspinkshirt @symbiont13 @glowingpena @squidlywiddly87 @1zashreena1 @hiscyarika @lostingoogletranslate @keeper0fthestars @bobafvtt @halfwaythereroyal @starwarsiscooliguess @huliabitch @frietiemeloen

partial to the cavatina: @longitud-de-onda @way-too-addicted-to-anime @fleurdemiel145

#are the tags gonna work? no #am i still gonna hope they work? yeah #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #narcos #narcos fanfiction

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the-awkward-outlaw · 4 years

Note

“ I read your diary. ” or rather journal, when he was sleeping or while he was taking a bath in a secluded area and left his satchel wide open for grabs.

This one’s so damn fluffy, I’m gonna die! It’s also one of those ones that easily could lead to a really smutty scene, but maybe I’ll leave that for another time 👀

Read all my works on AO3

(Maybe if I’m bored enough and actually have some damn time, I’ll make a masterlist on Tumblr)

Flat Iron Lake gleams orange and blue in the midday sun, flies collecting in swarms hover above the water, begging to be eaten by a hungry fish. You stand on the pier, pole in your hand, hoping to fool one of those fish to take your lure instead of a real insect. So far, you’re having good luck, despite the hot sun above. You know from experience that fishing at any time other than dawn and dusk is spotty, but the fish around this area of the lake seem to always be biting, which is lucky. It saves everyone from having to go far to get meat.

You love fishing, always have. You’re not the biggest fan of the taste of fish, though you will eat it. You enjoy the act of catching them, though. Fishing forces time to slow down, allows you to just sit and enjoy the peace and quiet, and then there’s the chance that something exciting will happen. Not only that, but the scenery is beautiful.

As you stand, waiting for something to grab your lure, you hear footsteps on the shore. You turn and see Arthur, his hands on his hips. He smiles at you a bit, but doesn’t say anything. You return it and then go back to watching your bait, feeling a bit self conscious. Although you’re the newest member of the gang, having only been with them a couple of months, you’ve quickly grown fond of Arthur. You like most people in camp (aside from Micah), but Arthur was the one you took to. He’s handsome, smart (though he denies it), funny, loyal and sweet. He thinks he’s nothing more than a big dumb brute capable of nothing but violence, but you’ve seen the side of him that proves him wrong. You saw him give Tilly a necklace a few days ago, he got a book for Jack, and you’ve seen him playing fetch with the newest member, a dog named Cain. You’ve also seen him many times sitting on his cot or at the base of a tree, scribbling away in his journal.

You’ve wondered many times if Arthur feels anything for you too, but you’re too nervous to ask. You won’t ask the others if he’s mentioned you at all, afraid it’ll clue them in to your crush. You wish, more than anything, that you could get a glimpse in his journal.

You glance behind you again and spot Arthur sitting at the base of a tree not too far from the pier. His journal’s in his lap and he seems to be writing, or maybe he’s drawing. You wonder if he’s any good. You’ve tried your own hand at drawing with little success. You can barely draw a stick figure.

You go back to fishing, wishing you could at least gather the courage to go and talk to him. You’ve wanted nothing more than to do that. He helped teach you how to shoot a gun after you first joined, and how to shoot a bow. It was through him that you learned how to hunt and fish, and you overheard him a few days ago talking to Dutch about teaching you how to rob people. You just wish you could talk to him about anything that didn’t involve you learning how to pull your weight in the gang. It’s doubtful that he has any interest in you though, even in an innocent, friendly manner. You sigh, wishing things were different.

An hour passes and you decide you’re done fishing. You have a decent collection of fish to give to Pearson, he’ll be happy at least. You collapse your pole and begin walking down the pier when you see Arthur, still sat at the foot of the tree, his hat tipped over his eyes. He seems to be sleeping, but next to him is his journal, lying open and just begging to be read.

You approach him quietly. You really shouldn’t be trying to read his journal, it’d be an invasion of his privacy. Still, you can’t help but be curious. You get a bit closer, waiting for him to stir, but he doesn’t. You quietly set down your bucket of fish and kneel down, picking up his journal. You check on him again, but he still hasn’t moved. You can tell by his slow, heavy breathing that he’s out.

The first thing you see when looking at the open page of his journal is a sketch. Undeniably, it’s you, fishing on the pier. The sketch extends across both pages. The drawing is beautiful, simple yet detailed. You had no idea he could draw this well. You flip to the previous page and see sketches of a horse (undeniably his own), a husky and a duck. The duck is really no more than an outline, but it’s endearing. The husky is incredibly detailed, its tongue dangling from its panting mouth. You love the detail of the fur, you can tell exactly what color it is based purely on how he’s shaded it. You flip to the next previous page and are startled by an extremely detailed drawing of your face. On the page next to it is a passage he’s written. You study the beautiful, looping words. His writing is gorgeous. You begin to read it.

“Took Y/N out hunting today. She’s got a natural talent for it, considering she’s only been doing it a few months. If only things were simpler, life wasn’t such a mess, I might ask her to be my girl. Yet damn you, Mary! Y/N ain’t nothing like Mary. She’s sweet, she don’t hold people’s past over their heads or play games with ‘em. When I’m alone with her, I feel like the luckiest man and the biggest fool. If she’s smart, she’ll stay away from me.”

Your stomach does a backflip. Has he really thought about asking you to be his girlfriend? No way, no way could Arthur, the Arthur Morgan, be interested in you! You’re just a simple girl who grew up on a farm until a few months back when it was burned to the ground, killing everyone inside. You were in the barn when it got destroyed by a group of drunk O’Driscolls. It was only a couple weeks after that you were brought in by Arthur, who found you begging on the trail in the middle of nowhere.

You flip through more of his journal, reading about how he hopes never to get on Sadie Adler’s bad side (you agree with him), how he detests doing jobs for Strauss. You’re glad he never went to collect that debt from that Downes fellow a few weeks ago. You’d heard rumors he was incredibly sick and you passed that information onto Arthur, who decided it wasn’t worth the risk and just absolved the debt. Still though, he’s doing a few other collections.

You go on to read about some of the people he’s met, including a blind man who seemed almost like a prophet, a photographer who seemed to be trying to get himself eaten by some wild animal, and a crazy woman touting about dinosaurs. So many of these entries are accompanied with drawing, each one detailed to the point you feel you could touch them.

Every few pages, he seems to mention you, whether it’s just taking you out somewhere to teach you a new skill, or about how you’ve surprised him with one of your own visions of the world. One in particular stands out to you. It’s accompanied by a sketch of you just standing there, drinking a mug of coffee. The passage itself started off with him talking about one of his debt collections from a woman named Lily Millet.

“This world is an ugly one, I see it everyday. I see it in the things I do to people, the way they look at me. But Y/N seems to see the beauty of it. Whenever I’m with her, she sees light and color where I would see only violence and horror. The more I’m with her, the more I see the beauty too. If I were smarter, I’d spare her the misfortune of my own company, yet I find hers euphoric. If I weren’t such a coward, I’d ask her on a proper outing. John keeps saying she’s sweet on me, but Marston wouldn’t know the first thing about women. How the hell he ended up having a kid with Abigail is beyond me.”

You giggle at the last line and then your heart drops when you hear Arthur begin to stir. You quickly flip to the page it was on and throw it on the ground. Unfortunately, it lands a solid foot from where you picked it up and in a different position. You just hope he doesn’t remember those details as you stand up and take several feet back.

He tilts his hat up, notices you trying to walk away in such a manner that screams you’re guilty of something. He looks down at his journal and notices right away that it’s been moved. He connects your guilty smile and knows instantly that you at least looked at the sketch. Before he can say anything to you, you dart off into the middle of camp to give your fish to Pearson and where he won’t confront you.

During the rest of the day, you find any excuse you can to stay away from Arthur, positive he’s furious that you invaded his privacy like that. You’d be mad had it been you, and you’re sure he’d like nothing more than to tell you off. However, you often catch him staring at you, but not in anger or disappointment. His eyes say he’s curious, and he doesn’t seem to be pursuing you to get you alone, though he does try to approach you often. You always come up with an excuse or pick up a conversation with the closest person so he can’t confront you.

After the sun’s set, your luck runs out. Arthur left a few hours ago and you figured he’d be gone the rest of the night. You decided it was safe to go stand at the shores of the lake and look at the stars. You didn’t even hear him approach until he was standing right next to you, a beer bottle in each hand.

“So,” he said, making you jump. You flushed when you saw him standing so close to you, but then he handed you one of the bottles. You thanked him quietly and looked away. You didn’t see the soft smile he wore. “Enjoy readin’ my journal?” he asks, sipping his beer as he stares off across the lake.

You sigh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Morgan. It was wrong of me. I understand why you’re upset.”

He chuckles softly. “Ah, it’s a’right. I ain’t exactly innocent in that myself. Guess I earned it, to be honest.”

“What do you mean?”

He rubs his neck nervously. “I, uh, I read your diary too once. It was on your bedroll and I guess Grimshaw snatched you up while you was writin’. I was just passin’ by and saw it, couldn’t help myself.”

You blush even more. Shit, shit shit! You wrote in there shortly after getting the damn thing that you have a massive crush on Arthur, it’s pretty much a guarantee that he saw it.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Morgan,” you say, closing your eyes.

“For what?” he says, shocked.

“That you had to read that. I’m… I’m such an idiot and I’m sure it’s the last thing you wanted to know about me. I completely understand if you don’t want to teach me anything else.”

He turns to face you. He nervously reaches up a hand to tilt your head up to look at him. “Y/N, I know you read my journal. Pretty far back too, I’d guess. If you actually read it, you’d know I’ve… well, I’ve held somethin’ for you too.”

You smile and take his hand into yours. “I don’t know why you would. I’m nothin’ special.”

“Maybe you don’t see yourself the way I do.”

You look up at him again. His face is inches from yours and his eyes dart down to your lips before going back to your eyes again. Is he thinking the same as you? Right now, you’d like nothing more than to kiss him. You start leaning up, you can feel the heat radiating from him. He moves closer, his free hand sliding over your back. Your lips are centimeters from touching.

“Mr. Morgan, we are in the shit again. Deep in the shit!” the gravelly voice of Reverend Swanson washes over you again. He stumbles over, his eyes bloodshot. Arthur leans away and lets you go, making you let out a soft groan.

“You got quite a way with words there, Mr. Swanson,” Arthur replies.

“Words are the least of my problems, Mr. Morgan.” He stammers for a moment, almost as though he’s seeing something you can’t. His eyes refocus on you both standing inches apart, looking irritated. “But I wanted you both to know that you are children of God! Children of God.” He starts mumbling to himself, almost singing.

You chuckle. “That’s sweet, Reverend, but I stopped believing in God a long time ago.”

“But he has never stopped believing in you,” Swanson says, then he stumbles off.

Arthur lets out a long sigh and hangs his head so his hat covers his eyes. His cheeks are slightly pink. “Sorry for that interruption, Y/N.”

“That’s okay, ain’t like we could stop him,” you say. You want to ask him to try that kiss again, but you just can’t manage to get the words out. He’s thinking the same thing, but like you, he’s too embarrassed to ask. Instead, his hand slowly wraps around yours. You look down at your entwined hands and then back up to him and smile. Encouraged by this, he lets your hand go and both of his slide over your back, pulling you close to him. Yours go up to settle on his shoulders.

Before anyone else has the chance to ruin the moment again, Arthur dips down and presses his lips to yours. His are slightly chapped, but they’re warm. You’ve only imagined kissing him a hundred times, but you didn’t ever do him justice in those daydreams. You move your lips with his, your hand winding behind his neck to pull him even closer. His arms grip you tight, pressing your body against his. Your heart’s pounding in your chest. Something in your chest purrs as he deepens the kiss. Oh, how you’ve wanted this, wanted him. All those moments you spent alone with him, you wanted to kiss him exactly like this.

After several moments of you studying his lips, he breaks it, his breath leaving in quick bursts. He smiles at you and cups your cheek, his thumb tracing your cheek bone.

“I hope that was okay,” he says softly.

“More than okay,” you say and you kiss him again. This one is short and brief, but just as sweet as the previous. You lay your head on his shoulder, your forehead pressed against his neck. His arms embrace you protectively and his heart hammers into your ear. You stare off across the silvery waters of the lake, content in this moment. You want it never to end.

There’s no way you could know that Arthur, for the first time in a long time, finally thinks he may actually be a somewhat decent man if someone as sweet and good as you chooses to nestle in his arms like this. He kisses the top of your head, wishing he could tell you how grateful and how in awe he is. Perhaps he’ll have to write it in his journal and leave it somewhere that you’ll find it again.

#rdr2 fanfic #red dead fanfic #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #awkward asks

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tmntxreader-fics · 5 years

Text

TMNT Raphael x Reader: Soulmate AU (PART 2)

Part 2/3:

THE CONFRONTATION

Warnings: Cussing (as always). Longish

The second you wake up, you instantly wish that you hadn’t.

This is due to many reasons, the main one being that your body feels like it has been set on fire and then run over by a bus. Twice.

Another reason is owed to the fact that you have absolutely no idea where the fuck you are.

Your fingers grasp the material beneath you, confirming that you’re definitely resting on a bed; but who it belongs to is an unfortunate mystery. It’s easily determined that you’re in a bedroom; though, again, whom the bedroom belongs to loops right back around to the unfortunate mystery category.

A groan slips from your lips as your vision spins the room like a bowling ball hurtling down the alley. You close your eyes in an attempt to ward away the pain prodding at your head; though, to your dismay, the action backfires when you can’t bring yourself to reopen them.

You moan again, louder this time. Distantly, you realize you sound like a wounded animal but you can’t find it in you to care who hears. If the person who took you in, (in which you’d assume the bed belonged to them), wanted to kill you they would have done so already. It’s not like they haven’t had ample opportunity to do something Saw-like while you’ve been drooling into their pillow for what would probably be hours.

“She’s making noise!”

You hear an excitable voice sound off from outside the door and you bolt straight up in your bed. Ignoring the way your head spins from the sudden movement, you strain your ears for any other noise.

“I need to do a once-over on her vitals,” another individual speaks up, his voice decidedly clinical in comparison to the previous person. “Are you...” There’s an awkward pause, “Are you coming in with me?”

There’s a long silence and you shift your feet so that they dangle over the side of the bed, ready to make a mad dash if need be. Your eyes are wide when you catch sight of the shadows shifting beneath the doorway.

“It’s not a good idea.” Your eyes widened at the sound of that voice.

That voice... your eyes widen at the sound of that voice.

Arms enveloped you, swathing you in a green sky, “Hey- HEY! Don’t you die on me, I swear to-”

You gasp for air, keeling over the side of the bed at the memory that sears unwantedly through your mind. That guttural tone, inflected with such powerful aggression and anguish. Your skin prickles at just the thought of it, trailing down your spine like an electric shock.

“She’ll hate me.”

There’s an anxious exhale from above you, shifting the hair that’s splayed across your face messily,“No, this can’t be right. This- there’s no fuckin’ way.”

“She doesn’t deserve this, Don.”

“This has got to be a fuckin’ mistake, I don’t have- I just, I don’t fuckin’ deserve one.”

You rasp out heavy breaths, overwhelmed by this one man’s presence, both in your memories and outside the door. You slap your hands over your ears, whimpering as your body slips to crumple into itself on the cold ground. The sheets flutter around you, tangled in your limbs like restraints- choking you.

“Stop it,” you rasp, pressing your palms harder to block out the noise, “please.”

Thick fingers pat your hair down gently, an attempt to distract you from your writhing agony, “I know,” he mutters repeatedly. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault.”

“Stop talking,” you whimper, fingernails digging into your scalp. You want to deafen yourself, to reach inside your mind and tear it apart just to silence it. His voice beckons you towards something that you can’t identify, it doesn’t scare you. The weight in your chest is what terrifies you.

The knowledge that the more that this man talks in your mind, the closer you are to uncovering the terrible part you had so desperately tried to forget.

The man of metal and fire.

“Where is that pathetic soulmate of yours now?”

Your heart stops.

The second time that you wake up, you instantly wish that you hadn’t.

A recurring pattern it seems.

Your fingers grip the sheets beneath you in an attempt to ground yourself and distantly you realize that you’ve been placed back into the random stranger’s bed. Tucked in and everything.

There are no voices this time, no shadows beneath the door, no hint of life other than your own. And yet, you feel as though you’re being watched. The room is almost completely dark, the only reprieve being a flickering jasmine-scented candle on the bed-side table.

Along with a cup of water and aspirin.

With a raised eyebrow, you reach for the water. Still cold. Throwing a suspicious glance at the door, you tentatively sniff the contents of the cup. You have no idea what you’re hoping to discover, it’s definitely water but is it spiked?

“It’s clean.”

You jolt, the water splashing over the brim of the glass in your hand. Heart thrashing in your chest, you realize that you remember that voice.

His voice.

“Who’s there?” You rasp, ignoring the terror inflected throughout your words.

Your eyes scour the room, hoping to make out the outline of anything.

There’s a pregnant pause, dousing the air in a tension that you could almost taste.

“I’m- My name’s Raphael,” was the hesitant response, gravelly and unsure and it sends shivers down the length of your body.

Raphael.

You don’t speak for a long moment, unsure of how to reply. You don’t want to tell him your name, not yet. Finally, you settle on a question.

“Are you going to hurt me?” Your voice is paper-thin and so small you don’t recognize it. You almost don’t want to hear the answer, what are you going to do if he says yes? Where would you run? Where would you hide?

“I don’t want to.” The voice cracks, anguish seeping from every word. Your heart leaps into your throat, that’s not the response you wanted to hear.

“Please don’t,” you say, bringing your knees to your chest as both hands grip the glass. You’re usually not one to beg, but you had learned your lesson from your last encounter. Your jaw still stings as a reminder.

There’s a choking noise from somewhere in the room, “What? Wait, fuck no, I’d never lay a hand on ya like that. That ain’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” You whisper, ignoring the relief that floods throughout your being.

“I just- I...” He goes silent.

“Raphael?” You venture tentatively.

“Yeah?” His voice is immediate and soft, almost intimately vulnerable. “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m just- fuck, I dunno how to say this.”

You stay silent, allowing him the space to contemplate his next words. The last thing you want is for him to feel as though you’re pressuring him or stepping out of line, resulting in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre moment.

Though, deep down you know that’s not the case at all.

“I need you to...” Raphael trails off again and you hope he doesn’t fall back into silence. Ironically, when he finishes his sentence, you find yourself wishing he hadn’t said anything at all.

“I need you to look at the name on your arm.”

Raphael Hamato New York City October 2019. “Hey- HEY! Don’t you die on me, I swear to-”

“You motherfucker!” The screech is your only verbal response. “I swear I’m going to shove my foot so far up your ass that you’re going to choke on it.”

“Fuckin’-what?!” Raphael’s sputtered squeak only aggravates you more.

“You in a gang?” You rage, launching a pillow in what you hope is his general direction, “is that what this is? You got me caught up in your little gang war and I had some fucking oversized kitchen knife in my face trying to find you!”

“I’m not in a gang!” He exclaims quickly, the gravelly voice he usually possesses is now a panicked falsetto shriek.

“There were demon ninjas!” You snap, throwing the last available pillow into the abyss with the hopes it would knock him out. “Demon. Ninjas. Raphael.”

“Well, ya ain’t gonna think any differently about me, girly,” your soulmate drawls sarcastically and your rage falters at his statement.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” You snap.

“It means,” he growls, voice husky, “that if you think they’re scary lookin’, I’m gonna look like Satan himself in your eyes.”

“Lucifer was physically beautiful,” is your automatic correction.

“Y’know what I meant, smartass.” You can almost feel him rolling his eyes at you.

“Then prove it,” you say, standing up to linger beside the bed. “Show me what you look like.”

A rough, humorless laugh echoes throughout the room and you can’t help but flinch. “Trust me, short-stack, you don’t wanna see this.”

“Short-stack?”

“There ain’t nowhere for you to run,” he continues over you gruffly, “you’re gonna piss yourself, try to bolt, fail and pass out. Then, because nothing goes right in my life, you’ll concuss yourself, forget this happened and then we’ll have to do this shit all over again in a few hours.”

“I highly doubt you’re going to scare me out of the room based on your looks alone, Raphael.” You drawl, feigning a bored tone. If you trivialized the matter, made it seem as if it were casual, perhaps he’d be more relaxed with revealing himself.

“You don’t get it,” Raphael snarls, growing increasingly agitated. You raise an eyebrow at the tone, reminding yourself to be wary. Just because he’s your soulmate it doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re in the clear.

“Then inform me,” you say. “If you’re that terrified of me seeing you then tell me what you look like so I know what to expect!”

“I’m not even a fuckin’ human! What features am I meant to explain to ya?”

You choke on air.

“Fuckin’ what?”

“You heard me, princess,” Raphael’s words are rough and sarcastic. You’re beginning to see the nature of his temperament now. “I’m. not. human.”

“What; are you part lizard?” You snark at him, heart beating wildly out of control in your chest despite your sarcastic remark. “Just because you might’ve done some bad things in your life it doesn’t mean you stop being human, Raphael.”

“Wrong reptile,” is all he says, voice suddenly a guttural whisper.

Then he comes forward.

“Jesus Christ,” you rasp, stumbling backward until the small of your back hits the bed.

“I’m betting Satan would be the better description, right about now.”

You allow your stare to rake from feet to bandanna, drinking in the vast expanse of the awe-inspiring creature before you. He was definitely not human.

Large, strapped feet equipped with two toes on each foot. Calves that flare with muscle; white strapping tape twisting over the diametre of his shins to meet the hefty black padding protecting his knees. The grey jagged shorts leading to a bare torso, protected by natural armor. A softer shell to match the large, hard one on his back.

You whisper a soft curse beneath your breath when you observe the expanse of his chest and barnhouse-sized shoulders. Impossibly large arms with fists akin to sledge-hammers, decorated by the red strapping tape twisting over his knuckles. His biceps are as thick as tree trunks.

Finally, you reach his face and the first thing you observe is his full but scarred lips parted slightly to give way to straight, white teeth. High cheekbones that mount a red fabric acting as a bandanna, shielding the entire upper part of his face except for his eyes.

A gaze that resembles molten gold, alive and shifting beneath the glass.

A rich and watchful stare that pins your very soul to the spot you stand in, making it impossible for you to run if you dare. The fact that he was watching you with that gaze when you couldn’t see him sends an electric shock down the length of your spine.

“What are you?” You breathe in wary awe, eyes roaming over his figure repeatedly. Raphael shifts uncomfortably beneath your scrutiny but doesn’t express his distaste for such heavy observation.

“Mutant turtle,” he states, voice ruled into a neutral tone. It seems like an unnatural thing for him to verbally wield.

You remain quiet, opting to scour his appearance until his image is burned into your memory from head to toe. He remains as still as he physically can, which, if it weren’t for his anxiety he’d be able to keep inhumanly still. He could freeze as if he were suspended in time and space.

But, pinned beneath your careful observation, he squirms.

“Ya scared?” Raphael forces humor into his tone and it’s fooling neither of you. You swallow down your nausea, unsure as to how to answer. Your soulmate is a Pandora’s Box, the minute you unfurl his world your own will change forever. Are you really willing to run the risk that it could turn out for the worst?

“Should I be scared?” You retort softly, eyeing him carefully from where you stand.

“I’m a freak, short-stack, it’s your nature to be ‘fraid of me,” Raphael begins, edging forward slightly. There’s a sheen over his golden gaze that makes your heart stutter, “but, I’d never do anything to hurt ya. Please, ya gotta know that.”

You watch him, standing only a few feet before you in all his glory. This mutant in which the universe has gifted to you to be you Soulmate, baring himself and all his vulnerabilities in the open for you to either accept or quash.

You know you’re trembling, he’s a physicaly representation for dangerous uncertainty. The normal processes and ideals don’t apply in his world and you’ll only be pulled into that life with him should you accept. But as he watches you, like you’re the only thing that matters to him, you can’t help but want to throw caution to the wind.

“I don’t truly know that,” you whisper and his eyes widen when you take a step forward on your own accord. “But... I’m trusting that you’ll prove it to me.”

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt2012 #tmnt2014 #tmnt2016 #tmnt 2019 #tmnt raphael #tmnt raph x reader #tmnt raphael x reader #raphael x reader #tmnt leonardo #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt donatello #michael bay

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 5 years

Note

this is dom harry bro no questions he'd just sit there eating u out for hours but wouldnt let u come

“Please.”

“No.”

“Harry, please.”

“Mm-mm.”

It’s been hours. Literal hours.

Her best guess is two, but it feels more like twenty. She’s hypersensitive, and it’s not helping that he’s refusing to let her cum.

Y/N can only hold out for so long before her body takes on a mind of its own and breaks down without his or her permission, so she tries to focus her thoughts on something—anything— else. Anything but him.

Her mind wanders to how she’d ended up in this position in the first place.

How she had thought he’d come in from the airport and they’d go out for some dinner and maybe save all of the raunchiness for the later half of the evening.

But of course he couldn’t wait. He’d been waiting for three days, and now he was refusing to leave his post between her drenched thighs to make up for it.

Harry had gone to Cancun for a couple of days to shoot something top secret, leaving Y/N behind in Philly, where he was planning to come back to put some more business details in order for his next album.

When he had walked through the door of the hotel room, she almost didn’t recognize him.

He’d gotten very tan during those days in Mexico and she could tell it was natural. His nose was already starting to peel and the edges of his hairline were sun-bleached, along with a wave of honey and auburn highlights running through his usual chestnut brown curls. He was sporting crisp white shorts, a simple black button-up with the first two buttons undone, a black windbreaker, and her own pair of scuffed up white Vans that she had let him borrow.

He tended to take something of Y/N’s with him whenever he went away, even if just for a little bit. An old oversized Jurassic Park t-shirt that smelled like her, a wooden bead bracelet she got when they visited Animal Kingdom, the silver charms from one of her favorite necklaces that dote her initials, which he would loop around his cross chain. A ruby and black diamond ring he had gifted her for her birthday that fit perfectly around his pinky, her favorite pair of cactus-patterned socks— the list is endless. Point being, this time around he decided on the pair of Vans he found at the bottom of her suitcase.

Harry loves that he never had to ask to borrow her stuff; she just let him raid whatever he wanted because it truly touched her that he always wanted to have a piece of her on him.

Those pair of raggedy Vans had ended up kicked into the corner of the room beside his suitcase as he distractedly shrugged off one shoulder of his jacket, the other occupied holding his phone to his ear.

“Yeah, that’s what we planned. Mitch texted and said he was boarding his flight so he should be here by tonight, probably around ten. The latest, twelve, depending on traffic.” Harry had grabbed his phone from its spot between his ear and shoulder, switching sides to slide off the rest of the windbreaker. “Okay, so nine tomorrow morning? The room’s booked and everything? Alright, sick! I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Later.”

Harry had tapped the screen of his phone, releasing a long sigh of relief through his nose as he chucked it onto the free bed along with his jacket, running one of his large hands up his tired face and through his messy locks.

Y/N had spoken up first, voice clear even over the Sugar Rush episode playing on the TV in the background. “How was Cancun?”

Harry’s drained gaze had focused on her and somehow, just looking at her— just seeing his girlfriend laying on the disheveled bed in one of the lavish, creme-colored hotel bathrobes with rainbow fuzzy socks covering her wiggling toes and her bangs pinned back haphazardly with a clip— had inflated a certain warmth inside him that rose up from the heels of his feet to the tips of his fingers, expanding in his chest and squeezing out any stress and exhaustion milling in his veins.

He had pursed his lips into a small, lopsided smile full of tender fondness, his eyes softening and glossing over with the comfort that comes from her familiar scent of chamomile shampoo and apple lip balm. “It went great. Everyone was lovely, the filming got done quick and easy, the food was as amazing as ever, but...”

Harry had trailed over to the front of the bed, falling onto his knees and then hands, crawling across the mattress until he was hovering over her with arms propped on either side of her head and knees straddling her hips. He’d pressed a delicate kiss to the center of her forehead, leaning down to nudge her nose with his. “...I missed you.”

Y/N cocked her head back to lock eyes with her boyfriend, his smile contagious. “Well, I missed my Vans.”

Harry had broken into an amused snort, shaking his head lightly as he speckled pecks all over her face. His tone was dramatic and full of pretend anguish. “My poor heart!”

She was reduced to a giggling mess as she wrapped her arms securely around his neck, his own arms weaving their way between the bed and her lower back to keep her trapped as his mouth brushed across every tickle spot he’d learned like the back of his hand.

Harry had pulled back from his little attack, grinning ear to ear with his dimples on full display. He’d balanced himself on his elbows, fingers reaching up to tuck her unkempt hair out of her face.

They’d laid like that for a moment; Harry snuggled between her legs, irises flickering over the tiny details of her face, taking her in. The way her lips were lightly chapped, her cheeks warmer than usual, her chest heaving and neck flexing with every breath she’d gulp down. The way her eyes were bright, almost as if infused with literal starlight. The way her hands were gripping at his wrists gently and the way she kept glancing down at his mouth, inviting it to meet her’s.

“Y’know what I’ve been thinking about all fucking day?” His voice had been soft— barely above a mumble— but filled with a type of desperate conviction that she rarely saw in him.

“Mm?” Her fingers had tightened around his wrists curiously.

He’d taken in a shaky breath, letting it out slowly in such a way that it rattled his lungs. His tongue had peeked out to swipe across his bottom lip, which had then pursed with his top one in anticipation.

“Been thinking about eating you out for hours.”

Y/N’s heart had tripped a step at his confession, which had come out as a sigh of needy pleading.

“Yeah?”

Harry had nodded his head sluggishly, leaning forward to lightly touch his lips to her Cupid’s Bow. The warmth of his words traced the outline of her mouth suggestively, sending a shiver racing down the knobs of her spine. “All fucking day, baby. Spent every second on that plane thinking about how sweet you’d taste on my tongue and how good it’d feel to have you dripping down my chin.”

One of Y/N’s hands had left its spot, opting for tracing his top lip with its fingers instead. “For hours?”

Harry had nodded almost feverishly, a small whimper stringing at the back of his throat at the sensation of the ridges of her skin passing over his. “Just been craving you a bit extra, lately. Was practically running through the airport to get here.”

She’d release small laugh in the form of a scoff, taking her bottom lip between her teeth. “I thought we’d go out to dinner first or something and save this for later, but if you really need it that bad...”

“Fuck, minx, I need it so fucking bad.”

Harry had left no time for her to think it over twice, pushing back to sit on his heels and tugging the tie of her bathrobe loose. “Jesus Christ...”

Y/N had prepared for the occasion.

In the short time he’d been away, she’d gone shopping at a mall near the hotel. She hadn’t really gone with the intent of purchasing anything, but then she ran into a specific set of lingerie that she just couldn’t pass up.

It was bright red lace, the fabric littered with glitter. It came with a bra (which had a bow over the middle of each cup and one at the center of the piece, which could be undone to remove the article from the front) and a pair of high-waisted cheeky panties with matching garters that fit perfectly mid-thigh.

Y/N could practically see Harry’s mouth watering as he had blinked at her a few times, utterly dumbfounded, mouth slightly parted. A hue as red as her undies had crawled up his neck and spilled across his cheeks, as well as the shells of his ears and the tip of his button nose.

“I was saving it for later.” She’d murmured softly, keeping her vision trained on his face, drinking up every twitch and jolt of his expression and letting it overflow her ego. She had spread her legs, hooking them over the back of each of his knees as she sunk further into the sheets, allowing her plush robe to skim down her upper arms. “But you can tear it off now, if you want.”

And that brings her to where she is now, with her head thrown back against the mound of expensive feather pillows, fingers woven into Harry’s damp curls as she bucks against his face, his forearms draped over her outer thighs to keep her pinned down to the mattress.

“Fucking hell, Har, please just let me cum.”

When he said for hours, she thought he’d meant it hyperbolically.

“Stay still.” His voice is low and raspy, thick with lust and drunk on her taste.

She thought it would’ve been maybe twenty minutes— forty, tops— but those minutes had turned to an hour, and that hour into two. The first hour he’d spent biting into her inner thighs and tonguing her over the lace panties, only removing them after they were embarrassingly drenched (and with his teeth, of course). The last hour had been him nose-deep between her thighs, fingers working into her thoroughly as he lapped at her folds like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“God, you’re so fucking wet.” Harry pulls back a bit, lips, dimples, and the point of his nose gleaming with her excitement. He messily drags his knuckles up her pulsing clit, trying to clean her up a bit so he can get in further without feeling suffocated.

The milky liquid coats the back of his hand generously, dripping down onto his fingers and smearing across the soaked sheets. He glimpses down at it, instinctively bringing it up to his mouth and licking every drop off his knuckles. His tongue passes over his skin and between his fingers, eyes flickering upwards to lock onto her’s. His irises glitter with a form of self-satisfied snarkiness, glittering with different tones of green, light blue, and crystal amber in the deeper crevices.

Harry pushes his first two digits entirely past his lips, lids fluttering shut as he inhales a quaking sigh through his nose, humming a moan in the back of his throat. His words are muffled over his full mouth, but passable nonetheless. “Shit, you taste so bloody sweet.”

Her whole body caves upwards, thighs clenching and heels digging into the bed. Her voice is broken and whiney. “Wanna cum so bad.”

“I know y’do, darling. I know.” He pulls out with a wet pop, licking over his swollen lips and glistening chin. “But I’m just having too much fun. Just a little longer, I promise.”

Harry’s large hands cup over her quivering outer thighs, yanking her back towards his face. He picks up again with tiny puppy licks across the sensitive bud at the center of her folds, hips absentmindedly grinding into the bed to ease the radiating ache itching the underside of his balls.

Y/N tugs harder at his sun-kissed curls, feeling him hiss against her— the vibrations cause her knees to twitch. “I c-can’t hold off anymore...”

The pads of his digits bruise her skin. “Y’can— know y’can. If you want me to fuck you tonight, you better.”

Harry flattens his tongue out across the thickest part of her crotch, turning his face slowly from side to side as his fingers gently curl inside her, brushing against her tightening walls and resulting in a shattered whimper straining her throat. “That’s a good girl, hm? Love the sounds you make for me— they’re so fucking pretty. Love the way I make you squeal.”

Y/N’s words choke out in sputters, interrupted by abrupt breaths she can’t help but inhale. “Feels—so good— fuck—!”

“Such a darling little thing, aren’t you?” Harry looks up at her from underneath his thick lashes and cockily furrowed brows, the edges of his lips peeking up in a smug simper from between her legs. “Bought yourself something nice for me to fuck you in and thought you could go prancing around in it all night without me knowing until we got back.”

“Wanted it to be a s-surprise.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, too.”

Harry backs away from her slightly with a final rough lick, removing his fingers from inside her and sloppily wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He reaches over her left hip, hooking the ruined panties with his index finger and holding them up above her abdomen for her to see. A certain mischievous glossiness washes across his darkened eyes.

“You’re going to put these back on and spend the entire night in them. Want you sitting at dinner in the mess you made, thinking about how hard I’m gonna pound you when we get back.”

#drabble

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7team7 · 4 years

Text

Aoda Crossing

SUMMARY: So maybe Sasuke likes playing Animal Crossing. So what? // Rating: T

Continuation of Katsuyu Crossing!

A/N: Hi I really thought this was just gonna be a one shot but then I thought of this and it’s actually longer than the first part?? but pls enjoy

Sakura woke up to a bed that was colder and emptier than usual. Her mind was groggy, but she still registered faint clicking sounds, like buttons being pressed. Soft music also played close by.

Reluctantly, she cracked open one eye to investigate. “Sasuke?” she called out groggily. She could make out his form in the pale light of their room, outlined by the brightness of the television screen near the foot of the bed. His hair was still rumpled from his pillow and he wasn’t wearing a shirt, so he must have been sitting there since he woke up.

“Good morning,” he said without turning to look at her. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes to look at him more clearly; what was he so intent on? He normally relished being able to sleep in like a lazy cat. Plus, wasn’t it Sunday? He really had nothing to do that required him to be awake before noon.

She finally peeled back the blankets and sat up, the slight chill of the morning air making her shiver. She crawled across the bed to embrace Sasuke from behind. She took comfort in his warmth and familiar smell. He leaned back slightly into her, but still didn’t turn around. With her arms looped around him, she finally checked out what was on screen.

“Are you playing Animal Crossing?” she asked in disbelief. She thought he hated the game, or at least found it pointless. (“Why would you want to play a game where you’re just always in debt?”) He often found ways to distract her so she would abandon the game and pay attention to him instead.

So why was he running around her island this morning? He swiped at a floating cherry blossom petal, muttering a low, “Yes!” under his breath when he successfully captured it with the net. And to finally answer her question, “Oh, uh, yeah. You said you needed turnips or whatever, right? I got a bunch of them for you.”

Sakura had complained about her irregular sleeping schedule and how she had missed out on certain parts of the game because she simply wasn’t awake to play. The window of time for buying turnips was generous, but she still never managed to catch the peddler. She would fire up the game at her leisure, usually after lunch, so no turnips for her to sell to her favorite little racoons. A missed business opportunity for sure.

But she didn’t think Sasuke had been listening very closely to those rambles.

“Turnips, huh? And what else?” By the way his eyes were focused on the screen and his hands tightly gripped the controller, she could tell he had more tasks on his mental list.

“The cherry blossom season is almost over in the game. I looked it up. There are still a few cherry blossom recipes that you need to complete the set, so I went to a bunch of mystery islands to look for the message-in-a-bottle recipes. I’m almost finished, I’m just making sure you have enough of the actual petals.” When he opened up the game, he was really only planning on buying the turnips and going back to bed, but he was enchanted by the sight of the Sakura trees swaying in the wind. He wouldn’t be able to rest until she had all the recipes.

She smiled and kissed his cheek, squeezing him a little tighter. Leave it to Sasuke. “I see. Then I have to say thank you, I’m impressed. But why’d you go to all the trouble of collecting them in one go? Aren’t there still a few days for me to get recipes?”

He shrugged, finally tilting his head to meet her eyes, “Because you’re Sakura.” Because she was his favorite person, because she should have all the recipes that matched her name, because he would do anything to make her happy? Something like that.

“Aww,” she started cooing, “you’re so sweet —”

“Wait! Shh, shh. Do you hear that?” Before Sakura could finish praising him, he cut her off. In the silence of their bedroom, he focused on the game again. A low whistling noise could be heard in the distance. He tilted the view upwards and spotted a balloon carrying a present just on the edge of the frame. “There!”

He scrambled to hop across the river with the vaulting pole and climb up to another level with the ladder. Next time he would build her some better infrastructure, he thought, because this was terribly inefficient. He grabbed the slingshot out of his pockets and aimed. Realizing how close he was to the water, he shook his head, “I swear, if the present falls in the water —”

The balloon burst with a pop! and the present bounced dangerously close to the water’s edge, but ended up landing at the base of a fruit tree. Sasuke exhaled. It was safe. He picked up the present and immediately went to his (or, Sakura’s, really) pockets to open it.

A DIY recipe. Without hesitation, he selected the option to learn it. He wasn’t one for littering, but if it was an egg recipe, he would throw it in the water.

But the benevolent Animal Crossing developers decided to smile upon him and grant him the final recipe for the cherry blossom collection.

He had planned on getting it all done before Sakura even woke up, but having her there to see the final victory was sweet too. He set down the controller and turned to face his beaming girlfriend. “There. Happy?”

“I’d be happy even if you didn’t get it, but yes, very happy. Thanks again, Sasuke,” she said. “I’m gonna brush my teeth and stuff, then it’s my turn. Okay?” He grumbled; he wouldn’t mind playing a little longer. But he still agreed because it was her island after all. And maybe he should take a break.

“Sasuke, look! It’s so cute!” Upon returning from the bathroom, she found that Sasuke had crafted all the recipes and all she needed to do was place them or wear them. Soft pink dominated the screen, and even if it felt a little narcissistic, she loved it.

“You should move the pond in the center, it’ll give the room a focal point,” he suggested very seriously.

“Oh? And should I put the bonsai and the branches by the door to flank the entrance? Or will that be too crowded?” she teased. She never realized how much of an eye for interior design he had.

He grunted. “Do what you want, I suppose…But if you’re asking, they should go in the corners and you can put the cherry blossom pile in front of the door so it’s like a doormat.”

When they took a break for lunch, Sakura looked up from her plate to find Sasuke staring intently at her. “What?” she blushed.

He shrugged and looked out the window. “Next season we should have a picnic by the trees. You know, kind of like in the game. And I could take pictures of you with the trees. You know, uh, like in the game.”

She chewed her food so she wouldn’t tease him too much. He was just so cute. She should’ve named her island “Sasuke Uchiha is a big sap” so the entire world would know. “Mhm,” she agreed, “and are you sure it’s because of the game or do you just want to go on a cute date with me?”

He pondered this for a moment, still staring outside. With an annoyingly attractive smirk and bright eyes, he turned to look at her and said, “Definitely the game.”

A/N: it is ok to be a simp tbh my island and house are both ugly and unorganized LOL but I have a few cherry blossom recipes like the wand and the pond so woohoo

#sasusaku #my writing #animal crossing #fan fic

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random-esfp · 4 years

Text

FACING INTUITIVE BIAS AND MBTI STEREOTYPES: ESFP EDITION

Hello, some already know my blog since it attracted attention for being one of the few MBTI blogs run by a sensor, especially an ESFP. I have always claimed to be pretty different from ESFP stereotypes, though I enjoy MBTI stereotyped memes and shitty posts. But there is one thing I can’t cope with: ignorance towards our type.

I am a strong Se (extraverted sensing) function defender, and I keep finding shallow and over stereotyped descriptions on how we use it and how do ESxPs portray and represent it. This originates a blurred vision of ESxPs in particular (all sensors are badly perceived in general) which affect us, especially because the most common believing among the MBIT community it’s that we are the dumbest.

First thing you have to learn about MBTI: IT CAN’T determine the IQ or cleverness of ANYBODY.

Fine, with that being clear, let’s continue.

I have been posting little call outs and statements about ESFPs being wronged as other types when being perfectionistic and having leadership skills etcetera but I think the time has come for making an appropriate post of how a non-stereotypical ESFP can be. I know my case it’s not common, since I am an ambivert and that affects my behavior but I’ll try to be objective.

Usually, ESFPs in fiction are portrayed as the flamboyant hero or the funny sidekick. Anyway, we are always seen as the bright, carefree, funny, attractive and badass characters, but in real life, we are more complex than that.

HOW ARE HEALTHY AND NON-STEREOTYPICAL ESFPs IN REAL LIFE:

Because of Dominant Se:

The first thing you have to think regarding Extraverted Sensing is experience and engagement. Sure you have already heard about this but it doesn’t mean we crave every day to be high or to hit all the parties. Life is beyond physical pleasures. Even for us, who feel comfortable with sensorial stimuli the most because we need them to create our safe and accurate visión of the world around us.

An ESFP will most likely say yes to everything. That’s, in part, because many of us are insecure and indulgent or pleasant with people. ESFPs can struggle a lot with assertiveness, swinging between being extremely obliging or aggressive-reactive (usually ESFP enneagram 2 o 3 are the first ones, while enneagram 6-7-8 are the last ones). But a healthy ESFP will eventually address this tendency to “say yes because of FOMO” (we have A LOT of FOMO) and will start seeking out what’s more convenient for them.

Se encourages us to live in the moment and take any opportunity or experience we can, but let’s remember we have another three functions. So a balanced ESFP knows when to engage with the flow and when to keep away from it. Of course, we are more willing to take risks but that doesn’t make us reckless in any way.

Instead, we use Se to manage our time and energy efficiently, and this is very important. You know how it is said that INxx types are the most likely to procrastinate while Te types are the ones who “get the shit done”? Well, ESFPs are somewhat in the middle. That’s because ESFPs are impatient. Our Se hurries us to take the task and finish it as soon as possible to engage with something else sooner than later. That’s also why it is said we “only care” about the present. It’s not that we don’t care about the rest. It’s that we are ENGAGED with the present.

ESFPs like to economize time. We’d rather lose money than time. Because time means experience. But we don’t concentrate that easily. Stimuli chase us and beg us to pay attention to them, not to the task. Still, we want to maximize that time, so manly this tension reflects on us as being very capable of working under pressure. When we are given little time to do something, we somewhat get more relaxed because that means maximizing time to the fullest. And THAT is also Se.

Of course, we are also all that beautiful descriptions we find over here: aesthetically selective and sensitive, very observant, can notice when the mood changes in a room, we are very sensitive to the lighting and the sounds etcetera. I’ll drop over here some Se posts very accurate and flattering because trust me, Se is not about jumping off a cliff or fly off from a bullet. That’s fiction (or you have mistaken us for ISTPs lol)

https://random-esfp.tumblr.com/post/140982329002/se-is-not-a-shallow-function

https://random-esfp.tumblr.com/post/141091312137/building-blocks-of-personality-type-extraverted

https://random-esfp.tumblr.com/post/142229288882/entj-girl-personalityplop-what-stereotypes

Because of Auxiliar Fi:

Fi can be a very upsetting function especially when Dominant. We aren’t “that idealist bitch” but we usually have a full sense of what is wrong and what is right for us (well, that is literally Fi). This means we can be reactive and susceptible when feeling attacked (and trust me, we DO feel attacked easily). We come across as social butterflies but being with insensitive or negative people can use up our energies. However, healthy ESFPs are usually more realists than optimistic rays of sunshine. Let’s not forget we are truly sensors, we crave for outer stimuli and although we can have our mystical believings, usually we trust what we see, touch and hear. What we can prove. The tangible.

We are people-oriented so these observations lean mostly on those who surround us. Making us empathic and, somewhat, INTUITIVE. Yes! ESFPs are very intuitive when it comes to interpersonal intelligence. In my group, I am the most likely to realize or notice when someone is a little more upset than usual, or when someone has changed anything on their image.

We engage the moment, the action, and that includes voice tones and gestures of people, which we use to complete our vision of the world, make conclusions basing on those observations and take action on it as sociable beings. (Gosh this point it’s the most confusing. We can come across as ENFJs).

INTERESTING REMARK: Why Se+Fi sometimes seems like Fe?

I have been struggling with this for months. I was so sure I use Se and Fi. I am individualistic and I don’t care if my opinions go against the crowd. I always say what I think. Sometimes I’m brutally honest. I don’t personally seek harmony. I’d rather be honest with myself. So… why do I sometimes feel extremely empathic to the point to think I am using Fe?

I think it’s basically because of what I have said earlier. The vivid observation makes us both sensitive and intuitive about people’s emotions, moods, and thoughts. ESFP’s minds can be very quick analyzing external stimuli to get to a conclusion. Basically, that is Se, and when it gets in touch with our emotional patterns, we spot the change, we comprehend it, and then we decide how to act based on our mental outline. Sometimes we won’t feel anything for them; sometimes we will feel exactly as them, and THEN is when Se+Fi looks like Fe, but we are just empathizing with people. And Fe isn’t exactly that. Fe users are known for their empathy BUT they also project other people’s emotions, suffering with them even with no clue that people may be actually feeling that. This post (by an xxFJ type) explains if perfectly, it made me realize I have mistaken my empathy with Fe for so long.

Because of Tertiary Te

Healthy ESFPs are real pragmatists, down to Earth people. They are those who in a brainstorm may not participate the most but will show support and excitement for those ideas that seem feasible. But with those who don’t… well. Let’s say we have already reached a decent assertiveness point… we’ll tell you when your thoughts or ideas are unviable, out of context or unnecessary. Sorry but that’s it.

As I said, we value time, we value DOING, not eternal thinking (Se again). So, why do I have to waste 3 hours of my time discussing this fifteen surreal ideas for our project if we don’t have even put into action at least ONE of the plausible ones, Brenda??? (Brenda is ENxP sorry)

Oh, gosh, I REALLY love Se+Te healthily used. It’s!!! So!!!! Useful!!!

Let’s say it straight: we can be very efficient CEOs. I’m kinda into that at the moment actually. The difference between ENTJs and ESFPs (there are A LOT of differences but I mean in the CEO context since they share all 4 functions) is that ESFPs aren’t used to Te as primary function, and Se will always take the lead, so ESFPs may think less of the consequences of their decisions because they lack that Ni “vision”. Also they have a more “soft” leadership style that can lead them to stressful situations who may end up in loops or grips that aren’t funny at all.

Anyway. Realists. We put things into action. We are quick at decision making and enjoy dynamic jobs where we can train this trait. ESFPs may not have 100 ideas per minute but they will have 2 o 3 that actually are possible and they will just get the shit done.

BONUS POINTS If they have overcome their insecurities and reached assertiveness.

Oh, does it seem like an ENTJ to you? We don’t have that “vision” because Ni is our frenemy, but what is real is that a healthy Te use, especially in mature stages of life, distance ESFPs from that “dumb party animal look-who-just-broke-the-table-dancing to-Beyonce” type of persona and it makes them effective leaders. Real doers. (Without losing their flamboyant temperament!)

Because of Inferior Ni

I can only think about shitty Ni grips at the moment but I’ll try to be objective.

Healthy inferior functions. This is a very good post about it. It says that inferior Ni: “May display delusional and grandiose thinking” and “Can turn gloomy when life circumstances don’t go their way”. Well, yes, that’s me. That’s ESFPs. Inferior functions aren’t funny. And because of that, the not-so-funny side of ESFPs relays here.

ESFPs can be pretty gloomy even when healthy. As very emotional types, ESFPs project their dark thoughts about the future on Ni. As I said, they naturally engage with the moment and like to take action, but Ni is that subtle but insistent voice in their head that goes like: you should think about this… and that… and what are we gonna do about this thing? Where are you gonna live in ten years? Who are you gonna name your baby after?

We refuse to think about the long term but when we are forced to do so because of #adulting ESFPs can take two ways:

Keep refusing thinking long term. Which can lead them to immaturity, dissociation of reality, avoidance and some other mental disorders.

Keep it serious and do it. We will complain about it. We will refuse to talk about what we haven’t made up yet, but we’ll try.

A healthy ESFP who decides to confront Ni and try to use it becomes more focused, serious and driven. Of course, we will have our mental breakdowns because we aren’t comfortable with it, but that is part of life.

ESFPs who are private about their lives, who are hesitant and reflective… are struggling with Ni. Because we know we need it. And it makes us feel uneasy because Ni requires depth and details and we prefer to improvise and get-by-doing. Ni also demands using all the time Se don’t wanna “waste”. But it’s not time wasted, it’s invested (although too dilated in time for us to appreciate it). However, when we see our goals reached we appreciate the effort we’ve made.

TO SUM UP:

How are ESFPs usually defined: dumb, reckless, shallow, overly-sensitive, can’t think in detail, bubbly, too much sociable.

How are ESFPs non-stereotypically: observant, doers, quick-minded, leading to action, perfectionist, efficient.

Well, that was almost 2k words about ESFPs in depth. And I could say much more, but for now, I think it’s enough.

I invite any underrated or extremely stereotyped MBTI type to do their Edition. Or to make some feedback.

Hope this was useful and/or revealing for you.

Thank you!

#mbti #mbti stereotypes #mbti cognitive functions #cognitive functions #se #extraverted sensing #fi #introverted feeling #ni #introverted intuition #te #extraverted thinking #esfp #estp #esfp stereotypes #facing intuitive bias esfp edition #important #personal

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abalonetea · 4 years

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I'm new to your worldbuilding and ocs. Could you steer me in the direction of who everyone is and what's going on in the stories? thank you

HELLO ANON

I NEED YOU TO KNOW I LOVE THIS QUESTION and also! welcome to my blog! i have a lot of minor background wips, and several main ones. i’m gonna throw this under the cut!

GROUNDHOG DAY - 60k words into the first book, outlining the second half of the first draft - part of Cat House Productions Verse

This is my MAIN wip. The heart and soul of everything I write. Groundhog Day is set in two versions of the same classic rpg video game, one the gritty reboot of the other. But when glitches start to wreck the original games’ codes, several characters begin retaining memories of their past lives, realizing their kingdoms are trapped in a time loop. It’s even worse when another glitch strikes, switching the games of one of the characters with his counterpart—Red and Blue—prompting a race to get home amidst the formation of friendship and family and the threat of a new war.

It stars Bolte, Locke, Red, and Blue. Secondary mains include Captain, Celeste, Aba, and Midnight! You can find art of most everyone HERE! Locke is the goodest good boi to ever exist, the literal embodiment of Hope. Bolte is a very hurt, angry desperate knight just trying to keep himself and Red alive. They’re the two “Official Mains” of the wip. Celeste is one of the most popular side characters - they’re a spider bard!

It’s a “worlds collide”, power of friendship and love story set in two candy kingdoms; one already fallen and the other on the cusp of war. The main themes are learning to accept help, making your own family, and understanding that there’s always time to make a better life and a better self. Hope, love, and compassion are the main driving points. It’s a highly emotional story, and the first of an eventual series.

_-_-_-_

STARBOY - 13 chapters in, posted over on patreon.com/abalonetea for the $10+ tiers, excerpts and art frequently posted here, goal of finishing by december

The crew of the Cosmic Pearl have been on the run for years now, their ship set in a permanent course towards chaos. It’s just that they’ve never really gotten into a mess like this before.

When they find a ship idling in a part of the galaxy no one else should be, Rumi orders it to be docked. What sort of pirate would skip a chance to plunder, right? It’s just…the ship isn’t abandoned. And the single man they find on board isn’t…exactly how he should be.

Judges cast the first stone, but hunters throw the knives.

And captain’s? Well, they’ll protect ship and crew to their dying breaths.

Rumi just hopes he’s not about to take his any time soon.

An epic space adventure following the pirate crew of the Cosmic Pearl. Main characters are Rumi, Starboy (Jude), Jaxon, and Carmelo. Rumi is the captain, and he’s got a really hard time keeping track of his pants. It’s a running theme for him. The basic idea is that a concept called “Judges” exist in this world. It’s random who ends up as a Judge. Jude is a Judge that managed to escape from Unity, where he was being held, and who accidentally gets picked up by Rumi and his crew.

The smart thing to do would be to just turn Jude in but...Rumi’s not known for being smart. What follows is an epic chase across the galaxy while they try to get Starboy home, find their own treasure, and avoid being caught by Hunters. Heavy themes of found family, learning to be yourself and not what other people want, friendship matters, and also poly-relationships.

_-_-_-_

PASS YOU BY - almost done the outline, hopeful nano story

Axel and Wrench have made a living for themselves in the Fallows; the wasteland left behind after a magical nuclear explosion. They aren’t expecting for a doll to show up in their dreams and rip them into an entirely new world. They really aren’t expecting for a bunch of children to show up in their bedroom closet, talking about how they’re the only ones that can stop the Melt from destroying their world.

Despite having been content finally making an easy going, relaxed life for themselves, they can’t let literal children try to save the world. So they take up that task instead...and find the same doll from their dreams at the heart of it all.

Main characters are Axel, Wrench, Blanket and Doll. Secondary mains are Ruin, Russet, Wren, and Melt. Wrench is literally a walking lamp post, and Axel has a floating cow skull for a head. It’s a hardcore fantasy with magic, alternate worlds, and a “Studio Ghibli” vibe to the designs.

The running theme is that Axel and Wrench, an unofficially-married married couple end up adopting a bunch of kids because the other adults in this world are useless. Culture clash, Food With Importance, found family, and making a place in the world are all the main themes. The first in a two part set, with a spin off planned called Take It To The Grave.

_-_-_-_

Dandelion Fluff - gets published on the 15th

A casual read about the prince of the Land of Monsters and the monster he finds trapped in the basement of the Royal Labs. Running themes are making wishes reality, it’s never too late to find a friend, standing up for the people you love, and dealing with grief in your own way.

The prequel to the upcoming book Quilted Blanket, in the outlining stages presently.

_-_-_-_

You’ll also frequently find me posting about my background wips -

NeonPnk - set in a post apocalyptic world where radiation has caused people to develop “glowderm”, causing glowing colored patches on their skin. It follows the members of a strip club trying to locate one of their missing employees and accidentally over throwing the government in the process.

The Business - animal mafia, set in the video game world of The Business

Catharsis - all about vampires, soul mates, and dealing with grief

Wings Of War - set in a CHP video game, starring the winged members of the Compass Team.

Swimming In Stars - four young adults take the road trip they were never able to go on in their youth

I also make new wips every three or four days and will frequently post about them here! I LOVE answering questions, so feel free to ask any questions about the wips or characters if you would like!

A lot of my stories have food as a central theme, and about half of them are set in the CHP verse, meaning they take place in various video games.

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midnightartemis · 4 years

Text

~Chapter Sixteen Up Now~

Read Me Here

“To understand magic, you must first understand what magic is. The better your understanding of it, the better you can master it. Most of you, if not all of you will never understand magic. You can study the spells and the history and the art all you want, but unless you find that understanding in yourself, in your soul, you will never be a great witch or wizard.”

Rey watched as her fellow Hufflepuff classmates shrugged off Professor Skywalker’s harsh words. Part of it, she thought, was the idea that Hufflepuffs were rarely destined for greatness anyway and that to not be a hero was a weight off their shoulders. It was an absurd idea, one that could be contested with more than a dozen witches and wizards from Hufflepuff that had achieved glory or fame in their own right. She had seen only glimpses of that power— woe betides the man who insulted a Hufflepuff’s friend.

The other half of the classroom, made up of Ravenclaw first years, shared confused and terrified looks. From that alone, Rey knew she was in for an afternoon of Rose overanalyzing and complaining about Professor Skywalker’s remarks. She’d most likely start with the fact that, quote, “Anyone can master anything if they study hard enough.” A fact that Rose liked to bring up whenever Rey or Finn got frustrated over homework.

“Magic flows through all things animate and inanimate. It can be stored, transferred, honed, and warped.” As Professor Skywalker spoke, a piece of chalk floated up from its tray and began to write those four points on the small black chalkboard. Quills began to scratch down the notes on parchment quickly, but Rey was too drawn into the lesson to take any of her own. “Indeed, each of you contains a finite amount of power–”

Professor Skywalker tapped ‘ stored’ on the board with his wand. “Transferred from the magic that runs through the universe. And with your wands, you can hone that power. Ask it to perform different tasks. The most powerful wizards can do this without their wands. Magic changes the reality around you, letting you control and manipulate the seen and unseen. Warping the world to protect yourself. To attack. To transfigure objects. Creature potions. Manipulate the mind. Cause chaos and confusion. Or ease and peace.”

He stored his wand away, grey eyes surveying the classroom with a steely gaze. As he spoke, his voice darkened, those eyes flashing back to a time that Rey had only heard of. “These four things define the way we view and use magic within this world. In the right hands, magic can perform great deeds. Can heal and create. In the wrong hands, magic is the most destructive force in the world. It can tear through minds, turn those who love you against you, bring death and chaos to all who meet it. There are those who would use this dark side of magic to bring the world as you know it to its knees. Who would destroy anyone who got in their way of making a so-called utopia. Once the darkness takes control, it can be difficult, if not nearly impossible, to return to the light. Those who master this path of darkness are known as Sith. They are little more than creatures of darkness, corrupted until they are no longer human. I only hope that you never cross one.”

Professor Skywalker paused, letting his warning fall over the room and silencing them all. “That is why, in this classroom, I will focus our efforts on defensive spells and teach you how to control yourselves as young witches and wizards. A good wizard uses magic for knowledge and defense, never for attack."

Beside Rey, Rose’s hand shot up. Professor Skywalker barely had time to acknowledge her before she asked her question. “If our magic is finite, how do we know when it’s gone?”

Professor Solo raised his eyebrows. “You will know when it’s gone because you will be dead, Miss Tico. Most never get that far. As you all know, or will soon learn, there are limits to magic. One cannot bring back someone from the dead, for instance. Trying to do so would exhaust the warlock who attempted to the point where they, too, would die. Magic can be repleted, however. I find a good night's sleep does the trick.”

“And you said it can be stored. How so? If magic is finite but it can be repleted and stored, can’t people just store enough of it to do something impossible, such as bring back the dead?”

Professor Skywalker’s eyes narrowed into a storm at Rose’s questions. Rey had the very distinct feeling that Rose was going down a path she should not. “There are objects which act much as people and magical creatures do. Take the Sorting Hat versus a regular hat, or one that’s had a spell cast on it to speak. All magic is not equal, Miss Tico. All animate and inanimate objects are not made equal. Storing magic requires more magic than most can stand. It is a very dangerous practice which was outlawed several hundred years ago. Punishment for such a practice is a lifetime in Azkaban as those who wish to store magic often fall to the dark side. I ask that you leave it at that.”

There was something in his voice that left no room for questioning. Even Rose and her million-question mind were stymied by Professor Solo’s response. For a moment, Rey swore the Professor’s eyes flickered to her.

The rest of the class was spent on note-taking from the defensive spells section of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Qui-Gon Jinn. Notes and reading did nothing but make her squirm. She wanted nothing more than to be with Ben in the Room of Requirement practicing all of the spells and techniques that Qui-Gon Jinn was outlining. As Rey read further, she realized that they had been working on… Yes, practically all of the rudimentary spell work and techniques. Though Ben took a more aggressive approach, she recognized the footwork and wandwork demonstrated in the frustratingly small diagrams. As she read, the words clicked into place in a way they hadn’t before. Her eyes devoured the words as quickly as she could scribble down her notes.

She hardly noticed when class was dismissed, taken out of her intense studies when Rose poked her. “Come on!”

Rey scrambled to put her things away and ran after Rose into the halls. Rose looped her arm through Rey’s and giggled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that deep into schoolwork.”

Rey rolled her eyes. “I think you’ve been having a bad influence on me.”

She walked beside Rose as they headed off to the Great Hall and Rose set off on Rey’s predicted tangent of how anyone could become a great wizard if they studied enough. It wasn’t until Rey stepped into the great hall that she stopped and patted the side of her bag. It was definitely lighter than usual.

“Did you forget something?” Rose stopped in her ranting and cocked her head to the side.

Rey dug through her bag. “I think so. I think I had my Astronomy book in here. I must have taken it out and set it down before D.A.D.A. I’ll just run back and grab it. I need it tonight.”

“Do you want me to come with?” Rose asked, but Rey already disappeared down the corridor.

She hurried through the mostly vacant halls, hoping that there wasn’t a class in the DADA classroom during this period. Rey let out a sigh of relief when she found the door standing open and a quiet classroom beyond.

Well, very nearly quiet.

“We are barely into the new semester and, already, not one but two detentions. Talking back to me is one thing. Asking me questions about dark magic is another. But hexing another student? The son of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot?” Professor Skywalker’s voice hissed loudly from the slightly ajar door to his office. It was filled with barely uncontrolled anger that Rey was loathe to be on the receiving end of. “Do you forget who your mother is? Do you know the kind of pressure she is under?”

“How can I forget when it’s all I hear about every two seconds?”

Rey froze at the sound of Ben’s voice. She could see her book sitting under her desk where it must have fallen. She should just grab it and go.

“Nevermind the fact that Hux deserved it. Nevermind the fact that he was calling students mudbloods. Perhaps next time I’ll just join in. How do you think the Prime Minister will feel about that? Perhaps I should forget when I’m so easily replaceable that she’d rather spend Christmas with a bloody random nobody she picked up off the streets?”

Rey felt a lance through her heart. Is that what he really thought of her? A nobody? She hadn’t meant to hide the fact that Leia had invited her to Chewie’s hut for Christmas. He’d just been so upset at them already. She hadn’t known.

Whatever Luke said next was too low for Rey to make out, but it was enough for the wooden door to his office to burst open and for Ben to angrily storm out. Rey watched as he swept down the small set of curved stairs, his cloak billowing behind him. He got to the bottom and turned. Dark eyes came to meet hers and he stopped.

Rey’s words caught in her throat. She wasn’t even sure of what to say as she tried to process everything.

He hexed Hux?

Nobody.

Perhaps next time, I’ll join in.

Ben steeled his face into a dark mask void of emotions when she didn’t speak. His hands flexed before he resumed his swift exit out of the classroom. It wasn’t until he brushed past her that Rey fell out of her stupor.

“Ben!” Rey turned, catching his hand in hers. Ben paused only for a moment to look down at his hand caught in hers. The mask over his face stayed as he tore his hand from hers and left. Rey stared at the door long after he had gone.

“Miss Niima.”

Rey jumped at Professor Skywalker’s voice behind her. She turned away from the door quickly to look up at him in his grey robes. “Sorry, professor. I forgot my Astronomy book in here and I was just picking it up.”

She hurried over to her desk and picked up her book. With shaky hands, she struggled to shove it into her book bag.

“You’ve been progressing very quickly in your studies.”

“I… I just really enjoy Defense Against the Dark Arts.” Rey looked back towards the door. She wanted to go after Ben, but he was probably long gone. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Practicing?” Professor Skywalker raised his brows. He was trying to draw more out of her. Rey couldn’t help but feeling he already had his suspicions.

“I should go. I’m missing dinner.”

The professor paused for a moment, holding Rey in his gaze before nodding. “Indeed.”

Rey turned and hurried for the door only to be stopped once more by Professor Skywalker.

“Rey?”

“Yes, Professor?” She didn’t want to look at him, but forced herself to meet his gaze anyway.”

“Remember what I taught you today. And be wary of those who ignore it.”

#reylo #kylo x rey #ben solo x rey #reylo fanfic #reylo fanfiction #reylo fiction #ben solo deserved better #fall of ben solo #rise of kylo ren

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dragonofyang · 5 years

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The Heroine with a Thousand Faces

As the youngest member of #TeamPurpleLion, not only have I learned a lot in just the four months we’ve been working together, but I’ve explained a lot of what I’ve learned to others. Sometimes it’s about the history of Defender of the Universe and Beast King GoLion that @crystal-rebellion researched, sometimes it’s referencing @felixazrael‘s musical knowhow or @leakinghate‘s animation knowledge, and most recently, it’s leaning on @voltronisruiningmylife‘s expertise in how to break down and identify writing to provide corrections to those who see something in a show or article not working but can’t tell why. One big thing I learned since starting this crazy ride with my team is a massive hole in my college education on writing, which Felix filled in for me since we hit the ground running. Sure in my fantasy literature class we discussed Aesop and The Hobbit, and what the phrase “The Hero’s Journey” means and why it’s the monomyth, but there was one thing that my dear professor never taught us, although I’m sure she will in the future. Compared to Joseph Campbell’s heroic journey, this other monomyth is much younger.

What is it, you may ask?

Simply put, it’s a heroine’s journey.

[Image description: Princess Allura with her hair up and wearing her flightsuit from season 1 “The Rise of Voltron” backlit by white light.]

Let’s go on an adventure together.

To understand the heroine’s journey, I want to give you all a rundown on what exactly the hero’s journey is first. While it was never neatly labeled as “The Hero’s Journey” until Campbell, studies on common themes and plot points began back in the 1870’s. As time moved forward, Campbell published his 17 steps to the monomyth in 1949 (The Hero with a Thousand Faces) and as we move toward the present his monomyth is eventually dubbed as “the hero’s journey”. I won’t overload you with the dates and stuff I needed to study since that’s a) not the point of this piece and b) Campbell’s monomyth is actually secondary to the main one in Voltron: Legendary Defender. That said, it’s the backbone of a lot of literature both old and new, and while not every story follows these 17 steps outlined by Campbell or approaches them in the same order, you’ll find everything from the story of Christ to Lord of the Rings somewhere in these steps. It’s just that a lot of times the steps of the hero’s journey aren’t ever really explained, so you as a reader/viewer/consumer will see them and will have a gut instinct as to what’s supposed to happen, and when it happens you feel great! The story followed a formula that satisfies its audience! But it also makes a story that doesn’t follow a formula feel fundamentally wrong, from just a mild discomfort like putting on a shirt and buttoning it slightly off, all the way to triggering strong emotional responses including panic attacks or tears. Stories are designed to bring forth emotions from their audience, but what good is a tragedy without a lesson to learn? How can we enjoy an empty marriage when the couple has no chemistry?

So with this piece, I hope to illuminate just what the steps of the heroine’s journey are, contrast them against the hero’s journey, where VLD fits into all of this, and through that demonstrate why they are not interchangeable even though they share similar names.

Part I: Of Heroes and Heroines

In The Hero With a Thousand Faces, Joseph Campbell outlines seventeen steps, which are laid out in this diagram by Reg Harris:

[Image description: diagram of The Hero’s Journey using a circular diagram shape separating out the seventeen steps into eight categories, divided into the Known World and the Unknown World.]

In Maureen Murdock’s The Heroine’s Journey, she writes the heroine’s journey as follows:

[Image description: The Heroine’s Journey depicting a cyclical diagram of the narrative, featuring 10 distinct steps that loop back to the beginning at the top.]

The Heroine’s Journey is fundamentally cyclical in nature, and while the diagram above shows the Hero’s Journey as a circle as well, it ultimately has finite start and end points. One of the key differences between these is that the Hero’s Journey explores internal character in an external adventure and the hero achieves a (theoretically) lasting peace once their journey is finished. Conversely, the heroine must constantly evaluate themselves in the bigoted environment that tries to disenfranchise them.

As a note, while I use gendered terms such as “hero” and “heroine”, I use them as gender-neutral placeholders to label which monomyth I’m speaking about at present. Women can undertake a hero’s journey, and men can undertake a heroine’s journey, particularly when you examine them in an intersectional lens.

A heroine’s journey, at its heart, is an examination and acceptance of the self in an unaccepting environment, and its cyclical nature stems from the fact that whenever a heroine moves into a new environment, they have to make that journey over and over. They can be a queer man of color, a white stay-at-home mom, a disabled nonbinary person, whatever the case, the constant need to re-evaluate their place in the world is what marks the heroine’s journey as separate from the hero’s journey.

But while it’s cyclical in nature, we should start at the beginning nonetheless.

[Image description: Alfor (right) holding Allura (left) in the Castle of Lions. She says, “We can’t give up hope!” and he replies, “I’m sorry, daughter.”]

In The Heroine’s Journey, the story begins when an event causes the heroine to separate from the feminine. A significant event spurs them to reject the prescribed role of the patriarchy, which in the case of a woman could be a mother, a damsel in distress, a wife, etc. The heroine is put into a box and chafes against its edges because it cuts them off from their ability to reach for the masculine, the power and privilege it affords. This marks a stark difference from how our archetypal hero lives and begins their own adventure. The hero lives a fairly mundane life for the brief time we see them before the first element comes into play: the Call to Adventure. This is generally an external force spurring the hero to action, as opposed to the internal force of the heroine.

The hero then will Refuse the Call and will be introduced to the Mentor they will come to rely upon, whereas the heroine typically immediately begins on a journey to become more powerful/masculine, generally through rejecting femininity. Princess Allura does not inherently reject her own femininity. She rejects the helplessness of being forced into cryostasis after her people have been destroyed and embarks on embracing her masculinity by finishing the war her father and Zarkon started 10,000 years ago. The heroine Identifies with the Masculine and Gathers Allies, which we see Allura do in the pilot of season 1 of VLD. She awakens to find a team of five men and her male adviser Coran, her allies in the coming intergalactic war, and she takes up the metaphorical lion herself as the pilot to the Castle of Lions, changing into her armor--pink, to honor the fallen--for the fight against Sendak as he tries to claim the Lions of Voltron for Emperor Zarkon. Her choice of pink, particularly pale pink, is reminiscent of the breast cancer awareness ribbon, baby pink, it is an intrinsically female color that she dons to assume the role of her father, King Alfor. The narrative is reminding the audience that Princess Allura--the first nonwhite Allura, no less--is just as much a princess as her previous white and blonde iterations are warriors.

After choosing their allies and undertaking this quest of gaining power (not to be confused with empowerment, our heroine is still operating within the confines of the patriarchy here), our heroine undergoes trials and faces enemies that try to persuade them back into the box, into what’s known and fundamentally safe and silencing. The words may be kind, be delivered kindly, but ultimately they can be boiled down to a single message: “go back to where you belong.” For the hero this is a point of no return as an external journey. The hero can choose to go home and leave saving the world to someone else, or they can choose to face the trials that bar them from their prize. But the heroine? They can’t. There is nobody who can save the heroine’s world because for them because their world is what they are trying to escape, and often they are the prize for a hero. It’s up to them to save themselves, and at this point in time, adopting the masculine and the power of the father figure is the way to go. And it works. Princess Allura, again while she does not get discouraged by the men around her to remain an idle princess, because this is the 21st goddamn century, her conflict arises from inexperience. King Alfor supports her drive to finish the war and take decisive action, to finish what he started. The Paladins challenge her authority as a sovereign in the beginning because even if she’s a princess by birth, she has no planet and they’re not of her planet or species anyway, and until they themselves undergo trials in the first few episodes do they appreciate that Allura is still critical as a person, despite her lack of sovereign weight.

Together, she and her team move through the obstacles and the war against Zarkon together, while simultaneously trying to build a coalition of allies to aid in the fight. In fact, much of the plot of VLD takes place during this stage of the heroine’s journey, and it’s here where we as the audience follow Allura as she meets her animus in the form of a Shadow figure: the cunning Prince Lotor. He takes on the role of the challenger to force Allura to better herself, and as Allura rises to the occasion each time, he is textually impressed by her battle skill, then by her intellect. The most iconic moment of Lotor as a Shadow (aka: the half of herself that Allura doesn’t want to accept yet), is when he baits Voltron into battle, then pilots his cruiser through the volatile environment of Thayserix. He expresses disappointment at Voltron’s ability in battle, but when Allura in Blue rises to meet the challenge he lays out, he praises her, even if he textually does not realize who is in Blue at the time.

[Image description: Prince Lotor in profile, a pleased expression on his face, and the subtitles read “Someone’s learning.”]

As a brief aside: the animus comes from Jung and is often paired with an anima, or masculine and feminine energies. The key takeaway is that these energies are complementary to each other and exist in a balance. While they typically are portrayed in a more heterosexual context, like everything else in this meta, the terms are used in a gender-neutral context when not applied directly to Allura’s storyline. While Lotor could be likened to either Meeting the Goddess or (Wo)Man as Temptress in the hero’s journey, a key difference between the heroine’s journey animus and either of these feminized roles is that the Goddess and Temptress are two separate figures--generally women to male heroes--and are generally not equal to the hero physically or mentally. The animus, however, is intrinsically the perfect match to the anima of the heroine, being their complement and their intellectual and physical equal. Lotor is not meant to be seen as the woman on Indiana Jones’ arm, he’s meant to be a force in his own right, challenging Allura to better herself and raise the standards for them both. It’s fitting that this occurs in an episode full of fog and a dangerous abyss, because the traditional hero descends into a metaphorical (or literal) one to encounter these flattened versions of feminine energy.

The trials continue for Allura through the seasons, and she makes many allies and continues to face their enemies head-on, and once Prince Lotor, now Emperor, cements his place as one of Allura’s allies he shifts from the Shadow figure challenging her to the animus in full, being encouraging and supportive as they work together as allies to find Oriande, a mythical place that should yield them the secrets of unlimited Quintessence. While Lotor challenges Allura in a traditionally masculine way (physical trials, battle, strategy), he also encourages her in a decidedly feminine way through Altean history and mythology, as Altea is very feminine-coded compared to the Galra Empire, which through Zarkon represents a familiar and violent strain of masculinity that seeks to crush Allura and force the universe to fit his will through abusive language and physical violence and genocide. Allura taking up the battle in Alfor’s place is simply her continuing the cycle and seeing power in masculine terms, rather than breaking the cycle.

Now here is where the diagrams diverge even further. Until this point, the journeys followed fairly similar trajectories. After the trials and battles of the heroine’s journey, they experience the boon of the journey, which the hero does not achieve until they face further trials and temptations. As such, we will continue to follow the heroine’s journey model and I’ll explain the significance of the flip.

Part II: Not the Place to Arrive

One of the significant things about the heroine’s journey is that when a woman undertakes it, it’s empowering and her becoming her most unified self. Campbell once reportedly said to Murdock, “Women don’t need to make the journey. In the whole mythological journey, the woman is there. All she has to do is realize that she’s the place that people are trying to get to.” In the hero’s journey, often a woman’s place is as the prize, rarely is she her own agent. As I stated previously, the hero and heroine journeys do not have to ascribe to gendered protagonists, however the reality is that the hero’s journey is very patriarchal in nature since it was formulated primarily through the study of male heroes and does not take into account the constant reassessment heroines must face. For heroes, they simply must survive going from point A to point B. Heroines are always subjected to reevaluation within their environment and the people around them, so their journey never really ends.

All this is to say that the hero receives their boon at the end of their story and that’s the end of it. They get a happily ever after and can return to normal life and spread their bounty to those in need or dearest to them.

The heroines?

They get their boon at the middle of the story.

And there’s still more to come for our heroine as they build toward the climax (pun intended).

Princess Allura receives the boon of Oriande’s secrets with Lotor by her side, which in pretty much every literature class would become a discussion on the ways this represents sex, or the the ways Allura is interacting with the world in terms of gender, particularly how they discover Oriande after having an emotional reaction in Haggar’s lab and activating the Altean compass stone. In the heroine’s journey, this boon is often of the same significance as the hero’s boon/reward at the end of their journey, but for the heroine it’s false. It’s fleeting. It’s not meant to last. This is the turning point for our heroine because while yes, our heroine achieved the goal of the adventure, they did so by consciously or unconsciously shunning the feminine. In Allura’s case, she’s still taking after her father, trying to follow in his--and to an extent Zarkon’s--footsteps by mastering the unlimited Quintessence.

And true to form, before season 6 is out, our heroine seems to be betrayed by her animus, returning him to the status of Shadow figure as he challenges her to unleash the power within one final time. Princess Allura thinks Lotor lied to her and has been harvesting Alteans for their Quintessence when Keith and his mother Krolia discover a living Altean in the Quantum Abyss, and with the budding on-screen romance between Allura and Lotor, this betrayal cuts our heroine deep. To her, he not only lied about there being no more Alteans left, but he actively continued the genocide his father began 10,000 years ago. That’s not an easy thing to get over. So Lotor assembles Sincline, which bears a visual resemblance to a wingless dragon--the last metaphorical dragon she faces before moving into the next step of the heroine’s journey--and with Allura in Voltron the two battle it out in a tragic action-packed scene that leads to Voltron overloading Lotor with Quintessence and leaving him in the Rift.

With the dragon defeated and the boon lost, the heroine has to sacrifice not only her animus, but the last vestiges of her home to try and undo what following the masculine has done: close not only the original Rift, but all the fractures in reality caused by their battle.

And what does a girl who has already lost her planet, people, and lover have left to lose?

[Image description: The five Lions of Voltron flying away from the massive Rift, the Castle of Lions flying straight toward the center of it.]

The heroine following the footsteps of the masculine always comes at a major cost to them. In Allura’s case, she has to sacrifice her castle in order to make right the harm done to the literal universe. In this case, she mirrors Zarkon in his destruction of the universe, but rather than directly harming billions of lives on uncounted planets, she creates a literal hole in the universe because of her blindness to the consequences of the actions of herself and those around her.

And much like her father sending away the Lions, she must send away her castle in the hopes of saving the universe from greater destruction.

Part III: Transcending the Rift

From the gain and loss of the boon, things look dire for the heroine at this stage in the journey. In Allura’s case, she is without people, without planet, without castle, and as she learns at the beginning of season 8, her found family has families of their own--other than Coran, that is. Our heroine continues to lose pieces of the things and people surrounding her at the beginning of the story: which Murdock refers to as awakening feelings of spiritual aridity or death. She is losing her place in the universe even faster than before, when she stood on the shoulders of her father, and she must move forward. Allura passed the point of no return all the way back in season 1 episode 1. As the heroine, she broke free of the safe mold she knew for the past 10,000 years, and every episode since her awakening she has had to try to forge forward on the path she knew: that of her father. Now, though, her father’s methods have failed her, just as they failed him, leaving her with no option but to keep moving forward and to approach her journey from another angle.

[Image description: from left to right, Veronica, Allura, Romelle, and Pidge (mostly off-screen) in a clothing swap shop as Allura speaks. Caption reads, “I could give you a royal decree of service from the Crown Princess of Alte…”]

Allura not only must deal with the loss of her place in the universe, but she must also deal with the fact that by leaving Lotor in the Rift, she abandons half of herself as well. Physically she is a whole person, but if we look at her role as an anima and what her fears and strengths are, destroying her animus throws her self-knowledge out of alignment. She’s careening away from the safe path of her father, but she must now rediscover the strengths within herself without succumbing to her weaknesses and do so by stepping out of her father’s shadow.

Season 8 is rife with emotional buildup and no payoff. We as the audience don’t know what happened to Lotor for the whole of season 7 and we see Allura struggling to deal with all her losses, we travel to Earth and meet the MFE pilots, a plucky bunch who probably were meant to lay groundwork for a new Vehicle Voltron, and we see that Haggar/Honerva is the final big bad of the whole show, ready to vindicate the son she lost to the Rift, but also 10,000 years ago when he was born and she became the Witch we love to hate. So when we join Allura and the gang on Earth with Luca in the infirmary, and Allura’s final trials begin…

Or they should have.

[Image description: Lance and Allura kissing in rainbow lighting where they are artificially-colored in red, then pink, then blue from top to bottom in front of a fading background of warm yellow at the top to gray at the bottom.]

Instead, we are treated to the final acts of a hero’s journey, but still following our heroine through the steps.

Our heroine wears down to the persistence of Lance, who in a heroic journey would receive a fair princess as his boon, and Allura is trying to find a place to belong. In seasons prior to this, Lance acts like a goofy everyday guy, very much a typical character in many present-day stories that allows the audience to see themselves in him. He fantasizes about wooing the princess, calls himself a ladies’ man, tries to be funny, he’s a pretty typical character that a male audience is more likely to sympathize with, and as such the fantasy is pairing up with the prettiest, smartest, etc. girl in the story. The woman as a boon, the Goddess, and the Temptress are never on equal footing with the male hero, and even in the case of female heroes, the meeting with a god(dess) means that the female hero is worthy of being a consort rather than the equal that a heroine is to the anima/animus. In fact, Campbell reportedly told Murdock, “Women don’t need to make the journey. In the whole mythological journey, the woman is there. All she has to do is realize that she’s the place that people are trying to get to.” In the hero’s journey, if the hero is male and heterosexual, the women will always be the prize, the virginal ideal, or the sexualized damnation, and in all of them, the woman is meant to be receptive to the man (and doesn’t THAT sound like some familiar rhetoric). Never is the woman an agent in the hero’s journey when it fulfills a male fantasy. And it is this very same box that spurs a heroine to begin their heroine’s journey: this breakdown of people to individual parts as determined by a patriarchal society.

While Lance is a hero in his own right, in Allura’s heroine journey, he acts as an ogre that comes dressed as a male ally all the way back in season 1. He’s a Subverted Nice Guy in that he’s constantly trying to woo Allura, but ultimately he’s still reinforcing the same patriarchy that not only plagues Allura in this iteration, but also in previous iterations of the Voltron franchise. The Nice Guy doesn’t challenge the heroine like the animus, but rather encourages them to stay in place or to fit a predetermined mold once more.

Look familiar?

[Image description: Lance’s fantasy, with him standing triumphant over Zarkon as the team cheers him on, Allura kneeling at his right side and looking up at him, while a flag with his face waves on his left.]

Many of the silly shots in the series have been foreshadowing, whether in the most direct sense or in the promise of subverting what’s portrayed. In the case of this screenshot, by the time Lance gets the girl, Zarkon is killed (by Lotor), Allura has already had an intimate relationship (with Lotor), and the team collectively became heroes and allies of Lotor before the end of season 6 happened. Lance, textually, is not Allura’s equal as an animus, and while he doesn’t quite view her as his equal--especially in earlier seasons--he can only textually become her equal when she is at her lowest point, and he’s still affixed to the idea that she’s a prize, going so far as to say that “winning prizes is my specialty” in “Clear Day”. Really, it’s a messy relationship dynamic that tries to show the audience why, as they stand in the canon material, they don’t work. Not only is Allura still not his equal, but his fantasy comes about at the hands of others, or with the help of others, and he comes second. He plays a role, but he is not the singular hero he once fantasized about being. Textually this subversion is teaching him a lesson about becoming his best self and acknowledging that he doesn’t have to be the hero, the payoff of which should have come in season 8 as Allura completes her heroine’s journey to become her most unified and realized self. It’s meant to be his apotheosis, the new perspective and enlightenment brought to the hero after facing all the trials of the journey as a part of the final reward.

Allura, fighting with this sudden loss of herself, must now also help spearhead the war against Honerva, the archetypal Bad Mother, in an alchemist-versus-alchemist battle for not only Lotor’s physical soul but for Allura’s metaphorical one as well. This is a new fight, the gauntlet thrown by someone other than her animus, and after all his tests, she must still rise to the challenge with the same energy, but she must do so with new knowledge now that she knows she cannot rely solely on her father.

But what’s the next step for a heroine trapped in the arid desert of the unknown self and with the weight of the world pressing onto them?

They must descend to the underworld and begin the transformation from the masculine methods to unleash the femininity that’s been locked away this whole time.

And who do we have to escort Allura to the metaphorical underworld as she falls asleep?

[Image description: A close-up of Lotor’s face in deep shadows as he stares head-on at the “camera”.]

Her Animus, acting as a Shadow once more.

His entrance is littered with sex. Not literally, but metaphorically. He greets Allura while she’s in bed, the camera does a gratuitous slow pan over his body in a way that many cameras exclusively afford to women, the presence of a blooming flower with an erect stamen, the lighting of the preview--altered in the final season itself--is purple even, a romantic and spiritual color. You know the joke in college English classes about how everything is sex except sex? That’s this scene in a nutshell. He’s always been drawn and behaved in a way designed to appeal to the female gaze (an essay in itself), but this scene really takes the cake.

[Image description: Lotor as viewed in profile from a low angle in a Garrison room, looking down at a juniberry flower in a pot.]

And it’s this scene where we see Lotor give Allura the first critical piece of information for how she can stop Honerva/Haggar, but also reminding her that some people do not change. While Allura must change to achieve her realization, he reminds her that Haggar is still the same witch, and that her pain of losing Lotor becoming public does not excuse the fact that she has not expressed remorse or tried to change herself, let alone her hand in not only his downfall but in the brainwashing of the Alteans. She is an antagonist so focused on the wrongs done to her that she justifies the wrongs she does to others with them. Allura, however, expressed remorse and wanted to save Lotor as soon as she realized what was going on, which further cements the ways in which their fates could have been the same or switched had they made slightly different choices. Honerva is 10,000 years too late. Like Lotor mirrors his father and in “Shadows” is shown to be more empathetic, Allura mirrors Honerva and both prove throughout the show to have stronger moral compasses than their predecessors. They are the Emperor and Alchemist, and while fate decrees they must take up the mantle left behind, their free will dictates that they should not blindly follow their footsteps if they truly wish to make a lasting change. Narratively, they must forge a new path if they are to bring the universe to peace again.

[Image description: A close-up shot of the juniberry flower with Allura visible in the background, but blurred. The subtitle reads Lotor’s line, “The witch may change her name, but she will always be a witch.”]

Lotor tempts Allura to take the entity into herself, and when she reaches out to connect with it, she is taken further into the dreamscape and finds herself back on Altea and greeted by her mother. This marks the beginning of the reconnection with the feminine, but while Allura has always so desperately missed her family and Altea, she finds herself in a precarious position. Suddenly, she is in the very same mech suit that Luca was found in, and to save Altea from the Galra fleet overhead, she makes the decision to use the planet’s Quintessence. However, in the process of destroying the Galra fleet, destroys Altea as well. As her world crumbles, her mother congratulates her for a job well done. This presumably mirrors the dropped plot about the Altean Colony and the decisions Lotor would have been faced with, and after “Shadows” would lend both Allura and the audience a greater appreciation for the position he was in before he died.

And when she finally wakes?

[Image description: Allura sitting up in the Garrison bunk, looking at the mice, the juniberry dry and wilted in the foreground, blurry. The subtitle reads, “It was only a dream.”]

Our oh so sexual symbol is wilted, and Allura wakes up alone.

With the visual deflowering and this new revelation about the kinds of decisions those before her have had to make, Allura can begin reconnecting with the feminine in earnest without falling into the old placements she may have been subjected to at the beginning of the story. This would have continued further with Allura reconnecting with her animus in the missing episode @leakinghate titles “The Descent”, especially fitting as she continues her descent to her feminine roots as a heroine and to reconnect with her lost animus. Reconnecting and reconciling with him--and with the side of herself he represents--is critical to her achieving unity within herself and being able to face Honerva head-on.

Once the heroine has descended to the underworld, begun the reconnection to the feminine, and returned with new knowledge on their relationship to their emotional side and the aspects overshadowed by the masculine, they are ready to begin healing the mother/daughter split. This in essence is the heroine returning to the old knowledge she has cast aside when following the path of the masculine/father, but approaching it with a new understanding and perspective. Think of it as understanding why your parents enforced rules like “don’t run into traffic”. As a kid, the danger may not be obvious, but as an adult you’re able to look at the same situation, see over obstacles younger you might not have, and realize “oh shit, that’s a car”. That said, the heroine does not allow themselves to get put back into the same or even a different pre-prescribed role because they now have a greater understanding of the situation at hand.

In Allura’s case, this means revisiting the plan on how to take down Honerva, and realizing that she must pursue the course laid out by her trip to the underworld to not only save the universe, but awaken Lotor from being a robeast. Part of the conflict against this plan comes from the team, who see the entity she took within herself as dangerous. While that’s true, stopping the plan also prevents Allura from growing in strength to be able to fight Honerva. The power flowing within her that Lotor referred to back in season 6 is at her fingertips, and like his visit in “Clear Day” reminded her, she need only take it. During both parts of the “Knights of Light” episodes, Allura is confronted with shades of Honerva’s memories as they dive deeper, and it’s here that we as the audience and the cast are meant to learn what truly became of Lotor after he was imprisoned in the Rift, and it’s meant to be utterly jarring to everyone. Instead, with how the scenes were edited together during the post-production alterations, Hate aptly points out in “Seek Truth in Darkness” that Honerva promising vengeance and seeing Lotor’s corpse has next to no impact. Or rather, it does to the audience--a melted corpse isn’t exactly Y-7 appropriate--but the characters don’t really react to this revelation at all.

That said, it’s more than likely that Allura genuinely believes Lotor to be dead (as opposed to a sleeping prince), which would explain her aggressive reaction to seeing pre-Rift Zarkon, and we don’t see his reaction to learning what he did to his son, either. This would be a prime location for Zarkon to experience and express remorse for what his actions have done to his son, subverting the toxic masculinity narrative his character had been representing prior.

At the end of “Knights of Light Part 2”, Hate mentions that Allura would need to make another trip to the underworld to commune with Lotor and realize that no, he’s not dead, but also that she not only must defeat Honerva, she must do so in order to save Lotor and free everyone of the cycle of violence that began 10,000 years ago. This is the final descent she makes before she can heal the wounded masculine, both in herself, and Lotor directly.

[Image description: Allura in profile inside the cockpit of Blue Lion, unconscious. Her window displays measurement increments and stars in red-tones, while Allura herself is lit in blue tones.]

After the end of this episode, however, Hate mentions that much of what was there is butchered in the post-production editing, so I will be extrapolating based on the content we have in the season as well as utilizing her analysis of the story as it should have been.

When Allura wakes up from falling unconscious, this is when we should see her proposing to save her animus, and it should come with a discussion with Lance about how they don’t click romantically. That said, in the version on Netflix, we see their relationship continue, however much of their shared body language doesn’t necessarily even match up with an awkward couple. Lance seems sullen and possessive, and while he might still be sullen in Allura’s original heroine’s journey, he would have had this moment of growth in which he learns to let go of Allura. She’s his fantasy, and not only is that unfair to Allura, it’s also unfair to him, and he doesn’t need to be the hero or the guy that gets the girl. He can be himself, silly, sharpshooting, video game-playing Lance. A genuinely nice dude, which completes the subversion of the Nice Guy trope his character embodied for so long.

“Uncharted Regions” is a hot mess of an episode in terms of narrative flow and consistency, but this would have marked the beginning of the alchemist vs. alchemist fight for not only Lotor’s soul, but the universe. Honerva uses the Sincline mech and her new mech to start tearing holes through realities, and once Allura jumps into the fray, that moves the audience into the next missing episode proposed by Hate: “Storming the Pyramid”. This would be where Honerva uses Allura to revive Lotor because she did not receive the life-givers’ blessing, and Allura would do it, literally healing the wounded masculine, but also falling right into Honerva’s trap in the process. This would almost certainly be a highly-controversial thing among Allura’s allies, but like Allura remaining on the path she knew, it’s easier to accept Lotor as pure evil who got what he deserved, when at no point is there a definite case against him. In fact, “Shadows” is designed to render him as a sympathetic character, and seeing his melted corpse is even more horrifying after seeing him as a baby and child. But that’s the way it is when a heroine breaks the mold. The heroine defines their own role, and as part of that, it gives them the ability to help others break theirs. The heroine experiences true empowerment by divorcing themselves from the power structures that defined them before, and doing so with the greater knowledge of their internal masculinity and femininity. Allura revisiting the war of her father with the lifegivers’ knowledge to compound her intrinsic alchemical abilities is the moment when she achieves union within herself, and it manifests physically as reviving Lotor, her animus.

It’s after this point that we see the Purple Lion and Purple Paladin manifest, our namesake.

In “Day 47”, Kolivan references the team sizes the Blades of Marmora use. He references four and five as the usual sizes, but six occasionally happening, but what he says next is particularly interesting.

[Image description: Kolivan being filmed for an interview, saying, “Seven seems rare, but… it could happen.”]

The Voltron team had four Paladins briefly after Shiro disappeared and before Allura took up the mantle, but the full team always has five. After Shiro returned for good, their team became six Paladins.

Now, with the healed animus Lotor on their side, they could have the rare seven-person configuration that Hate discusses at length in “Seek Truth in Darkness”.

With the anima and animus aligned together at last with no secrets, they can unify externally the same way Allura unified internally, and battle against Honerva properly. Now, Team V, Lotor, and the entire universe can face Honerva head-on and stand a chance at winning.

We also should get the emotional payoff for Lotor as an abuse victim in his own arc, closing up this nice little loose end that hurts way more than it did before season 8 dropped.

[Image description: An up-close shot of Lotor glaring into the “camera” in green lighting and saying to Haggar, “maybe I will take pity on you when the time comes.”]

And it’s worth mentioning that while the final battle is exciting and action-packed, the final surrender of Honerva comes quietly, in the rift of all realities. The characters of Team V are able to deliver their character-based arc lessons, it’s a somber moment of learning as Allura, using once more the blessing of the lifegivers, enlightens Honerva to her memories and what she’s done, but also restoring her sense of self the way Allura was. This is the final healing of the mother/daughter split, and it’s significant that Honerva’s abuse victim not be her healer. Not only does Lotor (as far as we know) lack the ability, but it’s never the victim’s job to heal their abuser, just as it’s not the obligation of the oppressed to appease their oppressor. Honerva can finally move on and begin atoning for what she did by setting the ghosts of the Paladins of old in her mind free, but that still begs the question of what our heroine and her animus must do to finish the job.

This is where Lotor would get his second chance, in the most literal sense of the term, where he faces a similar trial to the one in Oriande back in season 6 and the burning question for a man so concerned with survival and cunning.

Is there something he would give up the life he has known and fought so hard to keep for?

And this time, the answer is yes.

Allura.

It was always Allura.

While Honerva is able to stop the rift from expanding by, well, not expanding it herself, she lacks the ability to properly close it the way that it was closed the first time. It takes one final adventure, one final unification by the anima and animus, by the heroine and her Shadow, and one final goodbye. Allura and Lotor, born of an age long past, become the lifegivers eternal through staying behind to close the rift.

The lionhearted goddess of life and her stalwart champion of survival.

[Image description: The final scene after the credits, where an Allura-shaped nebula is nestled up against a smudged, darker nebula with a sea of stars among them, and the five Lions of Voltron flying toward the nebulae.]

Sources

Dos Santos, Joaquim and Montgomery, Lauren. Voltron: Legendary Defender. Netflix. 2016-2018.

LeakingHate. “Seek Truth in Darkness”. VLD Visuals Detective and Imperial ApologistTM. 2 Mar. 2019. https://leakinghate.tumblr.com/post/183160042843/seek-truth-in-darkness

“Maureen Murdock’s Heroine’s Journey Arc”. The Heroine Journeys Project. https://heroinejourneys.com/heroines-journey/

Murdock, Maureen. The Heroine’s Journey. 1990.

University of Kansas. “Science Fiction Writers Workshop: Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey”. KU Guinn Center for the Study of Science Fiction. http://www.sfcenter.ku.edu/Workshop-stuff/Joseph-Campbell-Hero-Journey.htm

#dragon's ramblings #TeamPurpleLion #vld #the heroine's journey #voltron #allura #lotor #writing #literary analysis #strafe #hero's journey #lance #executive meddling #freevlds8 #free vld s8

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emperorsfoot · 5 years

Link

Chapter five is up!

We get to see how Entrapta’s doing on Beast Island.

Meanwhile, Glimmer copes with the responsibilities of being a Queen.

...

“Day five on Beast Island. Four? No, five.” Entrapta wasn’t speaking into anything. She lost her recorder in her lab. At least she thought she did, her recollection of events was a little spotty on the details. But she knew for sure that she didn’t have it now. She was just filling the air with her narrations and notes out of habit. “I have not seen any signs of the guards implementing my improvements to spite my multiple suggestions.”

Using her hair to lift her, Entrapta peered out her cell’s tiny window. Barely the size of her welding mask, it was too small for her to fit her body through, and it was high up, near where the wall of her cell met the ceiling. Too high to provide decent ventilation. But it was the only source of airflow in her cell in the Horde Prison Complex on Beast Island. Unless the even smaller panel at floor level they used to slide in her daily meal –meal singular- counted as ventilation.

“They could cut down on the smell by sixty percent if they just renovated and installed an air circulation system.” Entrapta continued to narrate. She even curled a tendril of hair as if it were holding a recorder, even going to far as to leave a gap. Pantomiming the device close to her face. “Better air quality would also improve prisoner health by thirty percent and lower the mortality rate.”

“Shut-up!” Someone shouted from the cell next to hers.

They were separated by a solid stone wall –stone, not metal paneling and insulation- but they could still hear each other through the open windows near the ceiling of each cell. Sound tended to carry in close quarters. Entrapta could hear them moaning or crying at night, and they could hear her analyzing and assessing.

“An improvement in prisoner health will also cause an improvement in prisoner moral.” She noted. “Higher moral would mean fewer escape attempts and a lowered risk for the guards.”

“Would someone shut her up!” The same prisoner called, almost desperately. She had been monologueing for the past five days. Outlining ‘improvements’ to the prison as if she were some kind of Horde engineer that was just visiting on an inspection. Most of the other prisoners that could hear her didn’t know what to make of her. A few grew very irritated very quickly.

“To spite these positive outcomes,” Entrapta leaned back on her hair. Almost doing a back flip as she twisted in the air, lowering herself back onto her feet, “There has been no perceptible evidence of these suggestions being taken seriously. This leads me to wonder if the guards lack the ability to understand what I’ve been telling them, or else I’m not explaining myself effectively. Communicating successfully with other people has always been… challenging for me.”

Her shoulders drooped. That loop of hair that was pantomiming holding her recorder slackened. All of her hair hanging limp around her body. Communicating with other people and forming connections always had been a challenge for her. Not an exhilarating challenge like unraveling the mysteries of multiple dimensions and the portals to traverse them. A frustratingly exhausting challenge. Whenever she thought she understood someone, or found someone who understood her, the reality did not turn out to fit the calculated data.

She thought Adora, Bow, and Glimmer were her friends. But then they left her in the Fright Zone after Glimmer was rescued. Adora said it was because they thought she was dead. But Adora didn’t give any evidence to support why she thought that. That was a problem within the Princess Alliance. They often just assumed things without evidence. Made hypotheses, then just decided those hypotheses were true before testing them.

She thought Catra was her friend. Of all the data Entrapta had complied in her computer, Catra had the highest marks in all categories. In voice pitch, pupil dilation, support of Entrapta’s work (pre-portal project), physical proximity, unnecessary touching… Catra scored high in them all. Entrapta truly thought Catra was her friend. She even put forth the extra effort and went out of her way to convince Hordak to overturn his sentencing on her and show leniency. Entrapta saved Catra’s life –because that’s what you do for your friends! But Catra tazed her in the back.

She thought Hordak was her friend. Entrapta was so preoccupied with their portal research that she stopped entering data into her Friendship Assessment Algorithm, so she did not have the empirical measurements to support her, but she felt like he was a very special friend. At least, she certainly enjoyed being around him more than she did around any of her other friends. Hordak did something none of her other friends did, he shared her interests and her passions.

Catra tried to be supportive. Going out into the Whispering Woods to get First Ones tech for her research. Coming with her on missions to study abandoned First Ones structures. Encouraging her to experiment to the fullest, like with the black garnet. But Catra didn’t really understand what Entrapta was doing. She didn’t understand the process. She mostly just appreciated the results.

Bow understood the process. He was an amateur inventor. Entrapta thought his trick arrows were cute, and his First Ones tracker pad was a stroke of genius –when he could get it to work. But Bow thought on such a small scale. He was not on the same level as Entrapta was, and while it was nice to have a friend who understood that science wasn’t a magic spell, it was a technique for learning and discovery, it was also exhausting having to hold someone’s hand all the time.

But Hordak… Hordak was different. He was the best of each of them. Like Bow, he understood the process. That science was a means of learning, of exploring, and then achieving. But, unlike Bow, his inventions were on the exact same level as her own. The power source he was creating when she first snuck into his Sanctum. The cybernetic implants he used to compensate for his body’s physical limitations. He was brilliant! Broody, and easily frustrated. But brilliant none the less. And he was supportive and encouraging of Entrapta’s own passion for the work. In short, Hordak was kinda perfect, and they clicked instantly. Entrapta had never related to, and connected with another person so easily and naturally in her whole life. She thought Hordak was her friend.

But, Hordak was also the overlord of the entire Horde.

Entrapta was currently confined in a Horde prison.

Sure, Hordak wasn’t the one who knocked her out before she woke up here. But he was the Big Boss that everyone had to listen to. If Hordak really was her friend… why was she here? If Hordak hadn’t initially known where she was sent after she passed out, why hadn’t she been released the moment he did find out? If Hordak really was her friend, why was he letting her rot in this cell like some kind of criminal? Was he angry that she was going to tell him not to activate the portal? That she was basically telling him ‘no, you can’t go home’.

But, she was still here. She existed, and the world existed. So, clearly, the portal had not been turned on –or if it had, someone closed it soon enough afterward. That couldn’t be why he was leaving her here to rot.

Maybe Hordak –like Adora, Glimmer, Bow, and Catra- wasn’t really her friend after all.

Raising one tendril of hair, Entrapta lowered her welding mask over her face. As if the visor could shield her from her own feelings. Her own insecurities.

“Is she finally quiet?” Asked the one whom was irritated by all her notes. “Did she die?”

Another tendril of hair coiled around a non-existent recorder and she cleared her throat. “But as with any time when the quest for understanding is blocked, I will gather more data and push through!”

“Oh, for the love of-“ Groaned the other prisoner. “Hey, hey, I’m ready to confess. Guards! I’ll confess, okay!”

Her hair once again lifting her up to the tiny window, Entrapta peered out the narrow gap.

“Not much can be seen from my cell.” She announced. “I was unconscious when I was brought in and so didn’t get a look at the outside. But from what I can observe, Beast Island is covered in dense jungle. The trees exhibit wide trunks and dark leaves, indicating that they are either very old or else contain a high copper content –possibly both. I am yet to observe the famous beasts of Beast Island, this could possibly be due to the fact that many of them are nocturnal and the lighting outside my cell is poor at night. I have heard that the Great Beast can grow to be as tall at the trees, and I’m still optimistic to witness this phenomenal creature. Animals rarely surpass their natural environment. The Great Beast of Beast Island is anomalist. I’m very excited!”

She paused again, lifting the welding mask from her face. Entrapta looked at the empty coil of hair that was pantomiming holding her recorder. She was not actually very excited. She was not even sort of excited.

She was exhausted from sleeping on a bare floor. She was hungry from only being served one meal a day. She was dirty from not having any way to wash herself. She was concerned for infection and other filth based illnesses because –while her cell did have a toilet- the plumbing was inconsistent and unreliable. Everything smelled bad. Between the body odor, the urine, the feces, the odors of natural decay that wafted in from the jungle. Everything smelled bad!

Entrapta leaned against a wall, not wanting to sit on the floor, but also feeling like she needed something to support her.

“I miss my lab.” She informed the pungent air. She wasn’t thinking of Hordak’s Sanctum, or even her lab in the Fright Zone. She was thinking of her own lab, in her own castle. High up in the mountains, mostly isolated. Her own little mining Queendom. It was small, and it wasn’t pretty like some other Princess’ domains. But it was hers. “I miss Dryl. I wanna go home.”

“We all wanna go home, Princess!” Shouted the angry prisoner that had been annoyed with her from the moment she arrived.

Sinking down to the floor, Entrapta drew her knees up to her chest. She wondered –silently- how things might have been different if she never joined the Princess Alliance at all. If after Bow’s sonic arrow saved her, her staff, and her castle from the First Ones’ virus, she just thanked them for their contribution to her research and sent them on her way. If she had, she never would have gone with the team to rescue Glimmer. She never would have been left in the Fright Zone. She never would have teamed up with Catra and Scorpia. She never… she never would have met Hordak.

“Hey! Leave her alone!” Shouted a second prisoner from the cell on her opposite side. “Can’t you tell she’s coping! Let the Lady cope however she needs! You cried for, like, three weeks when you got here!”

Idly, Entrapta cast a thought to her clone, still gestating in her lab in the Fright Zone. A clone she made for Hordak.

“Oh! This from the guy who shouts in his sleep!” The two prisoners launched into an argument around Entrpata. “’Angella…! I’m not dead! I’m not dead, Angie!’ She’s not coming to rescue you, dude. Just give up like the rest of us.”

It was a private project. Meant to be a sort of ‘going away present’ for him, for when their research paid off and they were able to create a stable portal. A new body for him. She hadn’t left any kind of note for him, letting him know it was there –she wanted it to be a surprise. Hordak rarely ever left his own Sanctum. Would Hordak ever even discover it? If he did, she was confident Imp and the automated machinery he used to maintain his implants were capable to preforming the mental transplant. Transferring his mind, his memories and personality into the new body. No different than transferring data onto a new hard drive.

“You don’t know my wife!” Insisted the second prisoner. “She’s so strong! She could stand at the end of the world and smile.”

She also hoped no one besides Hordak found the clone and let it out early or without prepping it for transfer. It was a living organism with the capacity for high-level intelligence, after all. The moment it became conscious, it would begin to learn. To fill up its own mind with its own memories, form its own personality. Evolve from a blank doll into a fully formed individual, just as unique as any being born through natural means. It would be impossible to transfer Hordak’s mind into it then. There wouldn’t be enough space for both minds. If it were a computer, it would definitely crash. An organic being with a living brain would probably have a stroke and die.

“It’s been years!” The first prisoner reminded him. “No one’s coming to save you.”

If the clone became conscious before Hordak’s mind could be put in its body, then they would both just have to live as separate individuals. She supposed the clone could still be used for spare parts in that event. As a tissue donor. It wouldn’t cure Hordak’s illness, but replacing the damaged tissues with healthy ones could stop the progression of the degeneration.

Of course, since the clone would be an autonomous individual in that scenario, the question of Consent did come into play. It would be ethical dilemma number… she’d lost count.

Entrapta looked up at the ceiling of her cell. There was no way of knowing what was happening outside her four walls. There was no way of knowing what had happened to all her projects and inventions, all her experiments, or the things she cared about. Emily, the clone, and… Hordak.

Heck! She didn’t even know what was happening with Catra and Scorpia.

Or Adora, Glimmer, Bow, and the Princess Alliance.

…

Bright Moon had no prison.

But since the defeat of the Horde, their borders had been invaded by scattered remnant soldiers. Not intentional attacks like Octavia’s poorly conceived and impotently executed last ditch attack. Scattered individuals or small groups. Deserters breaking into homes to steal food or valuables. Small groups rolling into villages and declaring themselves the new town rulers.

People who had lied their whole lives in a strength based culture, who had been taught from infancy that the strongest fighter, or the soldier with the biggest weapon could do whatever they wanted and those that were weaker had to serve them.

Glimmer, Adora, and Bow spent a great deal of their time traveling Bright Moon, going from village to village to village cleaning up these messes.

At first they were just chasing them away. Pushing the Horde remnants out of Bright Moon.

But that just meant they were going into other Princess’ Queendoms. Doing the same things just as a different Princess’ problem. The Princess Alliance was basically playing Hot Potato with remnant Horde bandits. That was something that couldn’t continue.

Bright Moon never had any prisons before. But Glimmer was building one now.

Not even formally coroneted as Queen yet, and she was already implementing new policy that would have been unheard of in her mother’s time. In Queen Angella’s day, imprisoning wrong doers was just not done. People who did wrong, who committed crimes, who hurt others were educated, rehabilitated, given counseling or job training to mend whatever way Bright Moon society had failed them that drove them to harm others. The people of Bright Moon believed that crime was a symptom of a failure in the government to provide for its people, not solely a failure of the person.

But the Horde bandits that came in were not members of Bright Moon society. It was not Bright Moon that failed them. And there were too many of them for Glimmer to try and fix.

So, she ordered a prison be built to hold them. Scavenging metals from the destroyed Horde tanks and skiffs from both attacks on Bright Moon.

She made sure the cells were equipped with all the necessities. Proper ventilation and air flow, beds with foam mattresses for rest, flush toilets so the guards did not have to escort them to and from restrooms at all hours of the day, a small utilitarian sink so they could wash their hands and keep themselves clean, sound insulated walls so they couldn’t talk to one another and collaborate escape attempts. Glimmer was working through andger and grief over the loss of her mother, while also trying to function under the pressure to be a good Queen her mother could be proud of. That didn’t mean she was going to be cruel.

When construction was done, Adora commented that –aside from the fact that they were single cells, not shared dormitories- they were almost identical to the accommodations in the soldier barracks in the Fright Zone. The only significant difference was that the prisoners could not let themselves out of their cells, while Adora was always free to leave her barracks whenever she liked.

Octavia and her routed soldiers with the first residents of the newly minted prison –which someone had called ‘Moon Shadow’, probably not originally meaning to be serious. But the name stuck and became official. Moon Shadow Prison.

The Princess’ of other Queendoms built similar holding facilities for their own Horde bandits that stirred up trouble on their lands. Perfuma constructing hers out of tangling vines and dense trees. Frosta created an ice fortress. Mermista, a stronghold of coral caverns that were filled with air.

The only Queendom that did not build a new prison for Horde defectors or rouge Horde bandits, was Dryl.

Dryl was still under Horde occupation when Hordak’s Sanctum blew and the leader of the Horde disappeared. It was still under Horde control now. Flying Horde banners, the borders patrolled by Horde patrols. At an outside glance, one couldn’t tell they were even aware of the Horde’s defeat at all.

There was a rumor that Dryl was where Hordak had retreated to. Traders and travelers reported seeing Hordak’s deamon, Imp, lurking the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, or staring down from the ramparts. Spying on them for his master. Or heard the guards talk about how Hordak was brought to the castle by a loyal Force Captain.

That was another concern that weighed on Glimmer. None of them knew what happened to Hordak after the Sanctum blew. They knew he wasn’t dead. Adora saw him escape with Catra. Was Catra the loyal Force Captain that brought him to Dryl? Should Dryl be where they look to for the next attack from the relentless overlord and his stubborn, relentless subordinate?

Should they try and sneak into Dryl? Spy on Hordak and Catra. Get an idea of their plan.

Glimmer couldn’t. She had to stay in Bright Moon. The Queendom was still observing its traditional period of mourning, so she had not been crowned Queen in any official capacity. But It was still Glimmer’s responsibility to oversee the safety of her domain, inside and out. She could not leave while bandits roamed the woods and raided villages.

Angella told Adora that she always stayed behind out of fear and cowardice. That might very well have been true. But that did not invalidate the fact that someone also had to stay and protect the home front. It was not cowardice. It was responsible.

“I’ll go.” Adora volunteered. After standing next to Glimmer through what must have been the hundredth boring report of the day.

Who knew trying to solidify lasting peace could be so tedious? Maybe Adora wanted a dangerous adventure. After all, danger and combat were pretty much all she’d know her whole life. That, and Glimmer had been rather cold to her since coming back from the Fright Zone. Maybe the two needed some time apart anyway.

“I told you, you don’t have to stay through these with me.” Glimmer informed her.

The three of them, Glimmer, Adora, and Bow were all in the throne room. Glimmer, seated on the throne, obviously. With Adora standing at a military parade rest on her left side. Bow had started off standing at Glimmer’s right, but after the first hour, he got tired and sat down on the steps leading up to the throne instead. He took notes on his tracker pad, keeping a record of all the reports, requests, and concerns that were brought before the Queen-to-be.

Glimmer knew they were just trying to help. Her friends knew that, while he should one day succeed her mother as Queen, Glimmer never planned for it to be so soon. She was off guard and unprepared for her new responsibilities. That along was challenging enough. But she was also trying to step up as sovereign of a healing nation when she herself was still reeling from the unexpected loss of her mother. Something she had not been prepared for and had no idea how to handle. Bow and Adora were trying to help her. She understood that.

But sometimes, their help felt too much like hovering and it was starting to get on Glimmer’s nerves. Adora did not have to stand next to her like some kind of body guard every time she held audiences. What could Adora even bring to the metaphorical table in terms of help ruling a nation? She was a soldier. Not a Princess. She might be She-Ra, but ‘Princess of Power’, was an honorary title. She-Ra never ruled a Queendom. What did Adora know?

“I meant, I’ll go to Dryl.” Adora clarified. “I’ll see if these rumors of Hordak hiding out in Entrapta’s castle are true or not.”

Glimmer frowned. Grinding her teeth behind her lips. Hearing Hordak and Entrapta’s names spoken in the same sentence…

There was no one person Glimmer could blame for her mother being trapped inside the portal –save her mother herself. But it was Adora who left her there. It was Catra who pulled the switch and opened the portal. And it was Hordak and Entrapta that built the darned thing in the first place. There was no one person Glimmer could blame for the loss of her mother and focus all her anger and hate on. There were several people. Chief among them, Hordak and Entrapta. Just hearing their names –and hearing their names together- made the blood pound in her ears.

Entrapta would offer her castle to Hordak. As a safe haven and new base.

“It’s dangerous for you to go alone.” Bow stood, taking Glimmer’s stony silence as confirmation of the pseudo-Queen’s permission to send Adora on a spy mission. “I’ll go too.”

Glimmer stood from her throne. Her instinct to automatically announce that she would also be joining them on the mission.

Except she couldn’t. Not right now. Probably not anymore. Not so long as Bright Moon needed a Queen. Maybe if she could find a reagent to rule as he proxy while she continued her work with the Alliance. But she had no regent or proxy at the moment. Glimmer needed to stay.

She ground her teeth again. “Be carful.”

#entrapdak #entrant/hordak #entrapta #hordak #beast island #clone baby au #non-binary oc #fan fic #ao3 #RenkonNairu

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