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cathalbravecog · 7 months

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since you have a lot of thoughts of whats out there in the toontown universe i wanna throw my 2 sents: so "toons" is short for carTOONS, the much is obvious. but as you & i both know cartoons can be so much more than your typical loonytunes slapstick humor. so i like to think there are other islands out there which represents a different genre, such as: a fantasy adventure land, a sci-fi land, a western land, a horror thriller land, a rom-com land, a detective mystery land, a preschool land. so on so forth. with all their own unique animation styles. with the only consistent thing is that all the land's inhabitants are anthropomorphic animals (GOLLY sorry if this is long)

OHOHOO. you caught me in a rambly day, so prepare for a long one, lol!! (i JUST talked about some world building for my deltarune AU in private) (and i just spent my whole day listening to video essays)

this MAY be ttcc specific but aside from some ttcc details, this could apply to just... toontown in general. but i am a ttcc blog and that's my hyperfixation so that's what i'll talk about.

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i love that idea! honestly, something like that is what i've had in mind, too! maybe not everything being placed on island - but a majority of them being. (perhaps similar themes being on bigger islands or just masses of land with some wilderness and such between?)

i already have my idea for a prehistoric toon land, but it's also still based on your looney tunes type cartoon - just populated completely by dinosaurs! it's where my OC, archie archaeopteryx comes from.

an idea like this in general would allow for a lot of interesting places to be made, stories to be told, characters to be made... all that could eventually get into toontown and interact with our typical toons and interact together in interesting ways and have jokes and themes based around their different animation styles and genres.

it would also let the toons to be expanded upon even more, since, in my opinion at least, ttcc can lack that a little bit in some ways. (but going out of my way to look at toons a bit more rather than just the cogs does bring some small interesting things into the light, even if just singular pieces of dialogue, lol. sadly, i don't have examples on my mind right now.) i'm a big cog fan and all, but i wanna see more from the toons! but then again, we play in the role of the toons - so i suppose that's our stories to tell! :]

I also like the idea of everything being anthro animals (ignore the fact i'm a furry for a second) it just allows for more fun, diversity, and just consistency. human-ness being reserved for cogs is what makes this work more in my opinion, but even with that not even all cogs are humanoid. (i am so glad ttcc brought us more robotic cog designs!!)

but the sheer contrast of a human-like robot interacting with ANY cartoon animal is what works in it's favor, y'know? makes the division more clear - even if there's a lot of stories and themes of these lines being blurried more. (like cog and toon friendship -> william and rain, misty in general, whatever dave has for the player toon, thomas warming up to the toons...) which i really like! gives more ideas for stories to be told and explored, and question the laws and logic of the world.

i guess this could also explain art style changes and design choices - like, for example, i don't exactly like the way flesh colored snouts look, it just doesn't fit my art style and so i leave them out. obviously, that's for all toons i draw - and honestly all art styles for just our regular toons are to be loved and celebrated. but y'know, this doesn't have to be! just a little idea i wanted to throw on the table as well.

one thing that could be interesting would just be different medias - i know toontown is a 3d game based on traditionally animated cartoons - but imagine the mixing you could do in art and in story telling! a classic cartoon coming across a pixar-esque cgi animated cartoon and them interacting, both baffled by one another - but still connected by their tooniness deep down!

it's a really interesting idea i like, thank you for sharing this with me and letting me ramble a bit! now, i'm going to list some genres or artstyles that i would like to see! based VERY OBVIOUSLY on my personal interests.

old kids edutainment game, i'm talking 90s - early 2000s. the jankier animation, bit-crushed voice acting, pretty off-model art... but all just very jolly and meaning to educate a young audience! could mix in cgi elements as well, since old games like this would have this. and y'know, some of these would be based on pre-existing thing.

honestly, just old games like that in general... the type of ones you don't see a lot, especially when spoken about online between more mainstream gaming places... but games you probably owned! games of mysterious origins, with very good charm tied to them despite their obvious lower production value... but maybe also something like pf magic petz! oh i'd die i'd love to see petz toons running around - except perhaps more anthro, but still four-legged since there are cartoons of non bipedal animals living more human-like lives.

just... digital in general? perhaps low poly cgi... listen i just like old games and their vibe. but we could do modern animated cartoon toons! both things from studios - but also indie things!

FLASH ANIMATED

eastern european slav cartoon toons - hey, that's where i am from! i grew up with a lot of cartoons from here (czechia), russia and poland! (these being the most notable obviously) and... the themes, animation styles and vibes are very different to anything anywhere else in the world! i would love to see that! obviously, this is hinted at older cartoons - but newer modern ones could apply, too! i'm just unfamiliar with those.

a bit more on the previous topic, since my country has a big history of this type of animation... stopmotion and/or claymation!!

i'm NOT a comic book person, but oh my god would comic book toons be interesting to see! i don't even mean super hero - just comic book style in general! comes from someone who's only comics they read and own were like... my little pony, astérix and obélix, tom and jerry, smurfs and some ducktales. very toony things!

now, most of these relate to art mediums and art styles... i think those are a bit more interesting than genres, since after all art is an art medium, and genres come second. soo many possibilities. thought there are some genres i think would be interesting to see!

detective/noir type toon world? a mysterious place filled with crimes and mysteries to be solved! could make call-backs to things like scooby-doo, too!

kid's cartoon, like you've said! something cute, fluffy, there to entertain the whole family and teach the kids a valuable lesson. not to be a bluey enjoyer on main here but... bluey toons. that would be very very cute, i think.

on that note, one could argue there could be an adult animated cartoon place, but considering a place like toontown we probably want to keep things pg 13... maybe not! but it's still a possibility - as long as you take inspiration from good animation made for adults. i will not be naming any names here...!

okay, this one is MORE an art genre/style thing but... illustrated children's book type thing? maybe not for VERY young kids, but still filled with fun stories and anthro cartoon animals regardless! could appear as 2d cutouts.

medieval toons, but in the art style of medieval styled drawings...! based on old tales and fables! could also mix with some fantasy elements, of course!

SPAAAAAAACEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (space core portal 2 voice) (BUT LIKE... ALIEN TOONS. NOT JUST SPACESHIP TYPE STUFF THATS BORING TO ME I WAND INVADER ZIM TYPE SOMETHING RAAAA...!)

just anime. toon beastars. shoutout to that one louis fan-toon i saw some time ago

and honestly...im out of ideas for this here! i don't really look at genres too often to be honest! they kind of fly over my head, so i'd probably want these to reference specific types of stories that could be told in one of these, but not enough to base a whole place on. anyways, running a bit low on steam here, and i'd repeat myself on possible video game genre based toon worlds, so...! that's it from me! hope you had fun reading this... and my many callbacks to other medias for reference.

(also, your ask is not long! just long enough to be a delight to read! just look at my own responses here :,] )

also, question- should i get a tag for big rambles like this relating to like... world building and ideas in general? both for the cogs and the toons! would make it a bit easier to navigate, even if i am a little bit shy about people reading back through these, especially as my opinions may change. looking at you old thomas and robert ramble...

#rambles #long #[answered]#i talk about a lot of this as if toontown is a cartoon #KIND AFORGETTING ITS A VIDEO GAME BASED ON CARTOONS #but still IN UNIVERSE its cartoon world ok can make call backs to video games in that way too #i actually have plans for my cog oc the web surfer... i doodled that actually!#they can 'digitalize' toons and turn things into an retro video game ;]

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nitewrighter · 9 months

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i hate that I'm starting to get those ppl who say shit like "i know it's problematic but I can't not interact w it cuz it's my hyperfixation"

I've been in this overwatch shit since the game launched and stayed even when the fandom was dead like in 2021, and i just feel like I can't leave now even tho everything abt it makes me either sad or angry

Well like, I think it's always been kind of complicated with Overwatch because when it first dropped, everyone was crowing about its representation and its optimism, but at the beginning, so much of it was fan hype. It's never really belonged to just one person like H*rry P*tter. It started out as a completely different game, Titan, passed through god-knows-how-many hands before it dropped in 2016 and became this massive phenomenon. The first big Blizzard scandal was centered on Hearthstone, not Overwatch, and when the sexual harassment and union-busting scandals started emerging, it was clear there were still people at Blizzard who cared about Overwatch and their work on the game and the community it created, they just wanted better working conditions and workplace culture. Overwatch was never the product of one singular asshole, it's always been collaborative, and that's also why I've spent the past few days really questioning my relationship to it--because I poured a lot of myself into this community through my fanfics, and I had gained this wonderful audience from it, but the negative keeps stacking and stacking, and even if you've carved out your comfortable little niche, eventually it weighs on you more and more.

On top of it all, the game was very much designed to be addictive. The sensory overload of the game itself, the euphoria of working with a cohesive team, the exasperation of being on a shit team, the leveling systems, the sounds the game makes as you get a loot box or progress through the battlepass, the challenges and achievements, the cosmetics, the sunk cost fallacy of how much time you've already put in, the way it can be 1 in the morning but you're like "oh that last game sucked, I can't end the night on that note" like--I know it sounds ridiculous but it is a game that really worms its way into your psyche in the same way gambling can.

I think like... the first step to getting some distance from it is giving yourself permission to explore other things. One of the first steps to breaking a habit Like, for me, because I had such a narrative focus on it, I kind of joked that getting into Dune and reading 'Fire and Blood' after months of writing Overwatch fic was like doing lines of coke because my brain was going, "Holy shit, lore." I'm also lucky enough to work in a library, where my magpie brain can go into overdrive. I've been reading a lot of comics, working my way down a reading list I had been neglecting too long, and when I get an urge to play video games specifically, I play a different game like Horizon Zero Dawn or Skyrim. I found that open-world games have kind of helped my brain wean a bit off of they hyper-overstimulation of Overwatch, and it also scratches my narrative itch, too.

Basically what I'm saying is, if everything about the game is making you sad or angry, it's okay to explore other things. Don't make it about quitting, per se, make it about finding something new that makes you happier. And if you're just getting sad/stressed from it, I promise you, you are going to find something new. It might not scratch all the itches Overwatch did at first, but just be patient with yourself.

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sytokun · 1 year

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So, I have a question I hope that isn't too much of a problem. How do you feel about Salem as a villain? Her character, her plans, and motivations and what the current Volumes have utilized her, how do you feel about what they do with her as a villain?

On paper, I don't have problems with Salem.

Since the beginning of the show, the Grimm are framed as this mysterious, endgame villain that the cast needs to deal with. There were two major ways they could have gone with this and honestly I wouldn't mind either:

They are a force of nature and cannot be resolved easily, just adapted to and lessen their deadly influence over the world

They have a source/leader who leads or coordinates them, and defeating them significantly reduces the Grimm's influence on the world.

Both can be interesting, and both can flow well with RWBY's themes if executed well. We know canon went with the latter, so that's the baseline we'll go with. Back when Salem was revealed in V3, many fans speculated she was a hyper-evolved Grimm that has lived for so long she gained human intelligence.

Now I used to be iffy on this back when this theory was trending, but over time I grew to like the idea, and thought it would have been a really cool way to frame Salem - she is the ultimate result of the arms race between the Hunters and Grimm, locked in an eternal battle to outpace each other. If Salem wasn't stopped, she would destroy everything. But you had to do it right. You had to somehow make it permanent and that the Grimm could never evolve down this path again.

Because if you don't properly deal with what is essentially the equivalent of the Grimm singularity, you've gotten rid of one problem. But the thing that comes after Salem will learn all of her failures, and then the world will be faced with a being that's even worse.

This idea, if you discount Salem's backstory and relation to Ozpin, and observe more her general vibe and tactics, can match pretty decently. Salem gives the vibe of a threat that is always watching and observing, growing in strength and influence. She's a very archetypal villain type: she's like the serpent in the garden, or Sauron from the shadowed corners of Middle Earth.

And clearly, she has a beef with Ozpin too, so that's a constant. Everyone latched onto Oz's "I've made more mistakes than any man, woman or child" line for a reason - it tips off he may be responsible for some really bad shit; he may be the reason for all of it, and has spent all his lifetimes trying to fix them. It's not farfetched to believe the Grimm and Salem are a result of that - his darkest moment.

Now we're getting into the specifics, and that's where I don't really vibe well with the route canon has committed to: the angry ex-wife thing.

Now, I still think Salem being originally human and not an evolved Grimm is fine too. It's basically like Kerrigan from Starcraft - she's the Queen of the Grimm. I don't even mind her being a former lover - I've had discussions with a friend from my server and there's a lot of potential there if you present it a certain way:

While it does seem weird that the fate of the whole world lies on a single relationship between two people - RWBY is technically a very personal story. It's about individuals, about self-expression and the soul. So having the main conflict be focused around a human experience that becomes corrupted can still work - it's a very Star Wars approach to it: the entire film saga is centered around the Skywalkers.

It's likely that both of them, while deeply in love, had different ideas about immortality, about how the world to be, and they were the only two people powerful enough to put those ideals into action, so they came to blows, causing the landslide that created Remnant as we know it.

So really, there is a lot you can do with Salem if you applied yourself to it. But what we got is a vaguely diet Sauron-ish figure sitting in a creepy castle, like we're in a nondescript cookie-cutter JRPG setting.

Some of Salem's scenes do hit well, and I can only really credit the artists and Jen Taylor's solid performance for that, particularly scenes of her exuding a serene and otherworldly, yet intimate and almost motherly presence, like a whisper given form. More a voice than a person, more a presence than a form.

This was the Salem I think could have worked best with canon RWBY if they had stuck to it. Keep her a largely formless being whose mere voice compels madness and ruin, whose invisible hand has moved the pieces towards a single end.

It sort of reminded me of the one Mephala quest from Skyrim, an unassuming, dark voice beckoning from behind a humble, wooden door tucked in a corner most would overlook until one wanders too near, or rather... seeks it out. Another mentioned Xal'atath from WoW, who is an ancient evil bound in a weapon. All three performances sound incredibly similar too.

youtube

I sort of like the idea of Salem leaning more into this trope than the fully physical being we see in the show. Have her start out as this ancient influence, whispering in the ears of Hunters promising power, perhaps bestowing weapons cursed with Grimm-like energy that slowly eats away at them. Hey look, cursed weapons, almost like weapons are an important and recognisable aspect of RWBY, and the idea of an ancient evil possessing your rocket-powered katana assault rifle instead of just a sword or dagger would have been a novel take on this familiar trope.

Have her gain power and influence throughout the series, and if you ever feel like making your pale-faced dark lord mommy character to hit your arbitrary waifu quota, you can just justify it as "she's powerful enough to enter the material plane now" and call it done.

I think it's the things Salem creates that should evoke more physical fear. The weapons she's made. The progressively stronger, more vile abominations she can turn Grimm into. The way she can tug a few strings and turn entire nations against each other. Salem doesn't need to appear as more than a very well-performed voice and a wisp of black smoke or a glowing red eye to be scary. Her works can speak more to her power than any fight scene or rainbow beams from her hand possibly can.

Because maybe, Salem is someone you just can't fight. She's not a problem you can solve with violence, but instead of an immortal, super-powerful mage who realistically should have killed Remnant ten times over yet chooses not to, she has a reason to need pawns. Her influence is strong, but she needs vessels to carry out her will, i.e. Grimm and people like Cinder. Why play a game of chess with Ozpin for thousands of years when you could have just flipped the board over any time you wanted? When the only canonical inconvenience was waiting 20 minutes to an hour to regenerate, good as new?

At least with this depowered, more subtle portrayal of Salem, she still had to play by the rules. She still had to be the Black Queen the show loves to symbolise her as. But really, given enough time, Salem will no longer just be the Black Queen. She'll be the whole board. Playing Ozpin's own pieces against him. Adding pieces to herself. Expanding the playing field so she covers everything.

And she'll do all of this one well-placed turn at a time. To me, that sounds more like the kind of game an immortal would play. Not... bringing six or seven dudes to your moonlit villa (most of whom died either betraying you or being betrayed by the same group members), sitting on your throne for the past few centuries when you could have made a few giant whales in advance, marched into each Kingdom at any time and wiped out all opposition through sheer overwhelming brute force alone.

Canon Salem is mishandled in canon because she had all the power, time and Grimm to take the Relics the boring, straightforward way, but thinks she's too cunning and smart to resort to that, so she just... does it the hard, inefficient way instead, because that's what real, mastermind dark lord characters are supposed to do.

#syto asks #rwby #rwby salem

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lokisknife · 1 year

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¶Welcome to New York – Loki Odinson

Summary: Everyone got a red string around their pinky that leads to their soulmate... Well, everyone but Y/N, that got a golden line that goes straight up.

Word count: 4.7k

Warnings: not sticking to cannon; 2012! Loki; cursing; mentions of sickness; me bullying the shit of Loki (I love him that's okay); one sex joke; angst

Author's note: yes I'm naming all of my fanfics after Taylor Swift songs. Yes, I could have named it "invisible string" but it's too obvious. Also the original was just so long (up to 6k words) so I decided to split this in two, so I'm posting it vvvery soon.

Tony's version.

Liked my writing? Consider donating on Ko-fi!

Gif's not mine.

Since the beginning of human life on Earth, there have been records of the existence of invisible strings (at least to the general population regarding the strings of others) that connect two people that are fated to be together. The Mesopotamians, Ancient Greeks, Egyptians, Romans, and many other folks had countless myths that served the purpose of explaining why that happened: some people said that these so-called soulmates were made of the same clay, the same stardust or maybe they were created as one singular soul that got split in two. The skeptics firmly believed that "soulmate strings" could be collective hallucinations induced by pheromones that persisted since prehistory, but the fact that everyone had a special someone was undeniable.

Whatever the reason, everyone in the whole world that ever existed has or had a red string on their pinky finger that led straight to their soulmate. Still, no religion, philosophy, or science could explain why Y/N was different than anyone else. As a kid, every visit to the doctor's office was accompanied by a complaint about their soulmate string that - quoting by the then 6 years old Y/N - "worked wonkily": they have learned about red strings that lead to your future spouse in school, but their own string was golden and pointed straight up, just like a helium balloon. Uncountable health professionals claimed they have never seen something like that, but it shouldn't be a reason to worry: soulmate's strings have never malfunctioned before, so it wasn't possible. Well, they hoped at least.

Not only the doctors but every person Y/N ever encountered commented on the golden circle around their finger (that being the only visible part of the string by third parties) and close friends even joked about their soulmate being a deity or an alien. Y/N always laughed and was considered to be someone with a good sense of humor regarding their own problems, but the truth is that all the remarks about their condition ached like a stab on a previously infected wound. The whispering and bewildered looks people shared when staring at Y/N's hands were a highly effective reminder of the possibility of a loveless life. Sure, they did not have an entirely loveless life: they had friends, family, hobbies, and many sources of joy. But the love they felt for life when looking at a puppy at a park couldn't compare to dancing in the rain with someone you fancy. The love they felt for life when buying pretty flowers for their nightstand was nothing next to cuddling in bed past noon.

Experts didn't have a clue about what was going on with their soulmate or the lack thereof – or even "Schrodinger's soulmate" as Y/N called it – but they couldn't put a stop to their running thoughts. As they spent their whole life thinking about it, they couldn't help but feel special: every single individual had an "other half" but them. Maybe their string pointing to absolutely fucking nowhere was Universe's way of saying "hey Y/N, you don't deserve love, maybe next time!".

Y/N observed their string that pointed at the sky as they walked to work, imagining how it would be to witness life with someone else's eyes. How does the world present itself with a vibrant red string that resembled a treasure map, in which the X represented the most wonderful feeling a human can feel? The girls that shared candies on a bench, the guy that served their coffee, and the receptionist of the building, all of them had the assurance of following a straight path to their lovers if they wished to. They all knew they could be loved and cherished and kissed on the spots they were most insecure about. They knew the person they were destined to spend their whole life with was safe somewhere. But Y/N knew they could marry the atmosphere, for what was possible.

The newly graduated scientist decided to put a stop to their introspections on frivolous matters like love – of course, this being a total facade they presented to people to seem unbothered by it – and focus on their obligations for the day. After spending years burning every single brain cell on difficult equations and acquiring student debt of the size of the moon, one could imagine that being an astrophysicist would be more glamorous: planetariums, telescopes, discovering new galaxies. Sure, someone who works at a fancy university, NASA, or Stark Industries could have all of that, but not Y/N. Don't get me wrong, Y/N was very grateful for their job, but sometimes they wondered if the right choice was made by trading the big companies of space-related technology to learn with the genius Dr. Erik Selvig.

Working with the Swedish scientist promised never-ending knowledge of Einstein-Rosen bridges and many other wonders of theoretical physics. Still, it said expectations were instead met with long lists of required research on nordic myths. Jane and Darcy already explained in detail all their discoveries of the past year when Thor - yes, the god and Foster's boyfriend, as crazy as it may seem - appeared out of nowhere in New Mexico and changed all humanity's knowledge of the universe forever and of course, as someone new on the field, Y/N found it very exciting. Even as a newbie, they were curious and capable as everyone else on the team, so reading borrowed dusty books about old deities felt like a waste of potential.

They trusted the professor with their life, but since the god of thunder made a special appearance on Earth, he has gone a little bit...lunatic, for a lack of better wording that could sugarcoat the actual state of his mind. Working with him on day to day basis made Y/N feel like a coadjuvant on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde: in one second the blonde concentratedly wrote equations of the highest difficulty related to multiverse theories on the whiteboard, and in the other, he was shouting nonsense about Asgard, Midgard and hidden knowledge on the old texts; what bring to Y/N and the infinite paper stack on their table.

Okay, to be fair, Y/N would be lying if they said that they absolutely hated this part of the job, as it was much more entertaining than getting hot-headed over seemingly dead-end physics equations. Reading everything from the genesis of Asgard to its imminent end at Ragnarok and every single character that existed in the between, the scientist couldn't help but choose favorites. Their colleagues, Darcy, Selvig, and mostly Jane drooled when talking about Thor, his magic hammer, and long blonde locks. Even though Y/N could feel he was a nice guy and all, their attention was focused on his younger, quieter brother.

The stories put bad lighting on Loki Odinson, describing him as a mischievous, trickster, egocentric person but the feelings transpassed to them was of so much compassion that their heart must as well explode when reading about him. Yes, he was the God of Mischief and was always creating chaos in his realm, but couldn't you understand his motives? Just imagine how it must felt like growing up in his older brother's shadow, with every single person - including your own father - diminishing his achievements to magnify Thor's popularity even more! Well, everyone's entitled to have an opinion, and Y/N thinks raven hair is nicer than golden and magic is more interesting than muscles. Simple as that.

The scientist's head started to pound heavily, their eyes burning holes inside their skull and their stomach was sick to the point it felt like it was turning somersaults, as it always did when they spent way too much time curled over all the parchment covered-in dust obsessing over Loki - disguised by scientific research, of course. The whole week went like this and Y/N always downed some medicine down their throat and continued to work hard, but the migraines were getting stronger every day. Complaining to themselves about how the ache in their temples made it so hard to focus and form coherent trains of thought, they glanced at the clock on the wall. Only one hour and a half left of the work journey, good enough.

They quickly organized their table and talked to Dr. Erik, who, despite his urgency in advancing the research, was very comprehensive. So, work: check. Next step: finding a pharmacy while trying to not throw up from all the pain. Good thing Y/N lives in New York City and there are stores everywhere you set your sight on...and if they couldn't hold back the vomit, it's not like people are going to judge them so much right? C'mon, it's NY, at least it wasn't going to be that unusual of a thing.

As an astrophysicist and Dr. Erik Selvig's favorite intern to pile work on, they didn't have enough time or money to go to the hospital to get every "stupid symptom" checked. Y/N felt like dying, sure, but you and I know that no matter the illness, they would step out of the doctor's office with a flu diagnosis. So the smartest decision is, obviously, to get medicine for all the wrong stuff going on in their body. Only relaxing from all the rush of trying to not puke, faint, or cry from the headache when handing the cashier their debit card, the sight of their own hand hits them like a brick.

How great is the human mind and all of its levels of complexity, its delicate and intricate gears allowing conscient, external responses to subconscious perceptions. The golden thread, the subject of most of their worries that would otherwise be constant in its position, was leading somewhere out of the door. Their heart dropped, focusing on the inviting leaded path, their queasiness becoming just an annoying thought at the back of their mind. The string changing wasn't even an option for them, that being such an impossible scenario that Y/N didn't ever fantasize about it. They always took for a fact that they didn't have a soulmate, so the line basically pulling them towards someone was absolutely dumbfounding.

Tucking the meds under their arm, they ran after the thread feeling like a kid expecting to meet a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Y/N didn't know what to expect: to be honest, they didn't even know if they weren't hallucinating. Did their soulmate string lag all these years? Was their soulmate an older astronaut, who spent all of Y/n's life in space? Or worse, what if their soulmate were just born and they would have to wait decades to meet them? God, that's so weird, they sure fucking expected that they weren't running after a hospital or something like that. Wait, what if their soulmate was dead and some crazy scientist resurrected them?

Their head, still throbbing from the pain, spun in circles just like their thoughts. What if, what if, what if? Just what ifs, no plans, no logic, no focus. Their head was so full of "what ifs" that were no room for other feelings than concern. Having an abnormal soulmate thread resulted in so much pain their whole life but the worries that came with the scenario of finally having someone were nothing that Y/N ever heard of. The path could be leading to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of the creepiest forest to encounter Frankenstein's monster himself, and the only thought crossing their mind would be: does he like me?

Quietly thanking the Universe or whoever was in charge, Y/N sighed in relief when the string pointed to a large crowd on a busy street. It would be awful to find their one when there were dozens of people gathered together, but at least they could be sure that they weren't destined for Michael Myers hiding in the woods. The scientist takes a deep breath in order to calm down their soulmate-induced panic and looks around to form a tactical plan, but instead of locking eyes with a handsome someone, they met terrified looks. No one batted an eye at the astrophysicist, their wide eyes locked on something - or someone - way far ahead of them, their bodies frozen in place, unsure of every movement. New York, the city that never sleeps, whose streets were always booming with movement, fell dead silent. But no, Y/N couldn't call a uber from work and go straight home, they absolutely had to waltz themselves into this mess. Way to go, Y/N, what a great way to read the room.

Even though the little devil at their shoulder begged for them to tiptoe their way out, their feet seemed glued to the floor. They were completely clueless about what was happening and what they could and could not do. C'mon, you're a scientist, you work for one of the smartest men alive, you can work out some solution for this shit. Looking around again, they choose the youngest person in a three-foot circle, praying that this choice reflected a lesser possibility of being ridiculously rude to them - considering that absolutely no one dared utter a word - and nudged at a 17-ish boy's shoulder. Shooting him an apologetic look, Y/N mouthed a "what's happening?".

"I just got here like 10 minutes ago, but at the front is a very creepy weird dude with an even creepier scepter with blue lighting on it and he is shouting at us because he wants to be king or some shit like that. I thought he was just an anime nerd who thinks he is god because he is wearing really weird clothes, but looks like he is using magic to control people? That's all I know". He let it out in only one breath, in a voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so tired of living in New York man, I thought we were done after the Iron Monger/Obadiah Stane mess in 2009. All these weirdos wandering around... If I survive, I'm moving to California".

Y/N answered with a discrete smile. Okay, five minutes ago they were trying to convince themselves that they are smart and capable of making clever decisions but, for the first time in forever, they had hope. What horrible timing to finally meet their soulmate in a hostage situation by a (probably) Reddit user who thinks he is superior because he watched American Psycho a bazillion times and could pull off some magic tricks, and honestly, it's a shame that Y/N didn't give a single fuck to their plans. Their soulmate string was pointing to someone, the weirdo's superiority complex could wait, I guess. Passing through the crowd as they followed the golden path as if they were trying to get the best spot at a Taylor Swift concert at Madison Square Garden, they were increasingly ahead of the crowd. If they did have a soulmate, their soulmate was sure dumb to be that close to the psychopathic geek.

Now, in literally the middle of this mess, Y/N could see the wannabe-villain face and... This is so embarrassing. The teen's description was right but didn't do justice. The man had an unusual style, yes, but in an almost theatrical manner. A golden horned helmet lay on top of his long dark hair and framed his face perfectly, the contrasting colors making the man even paler, contributing to an eerie, power-hungry king look. Even though Y/N never laid eyes on someone like him before, he looked familiar: like an old childhood friend, an actor in a play you once saw, or someone you met in a dream. The type of memory that is stored in the back of your mind you can't quite make it hit the surface. Despite the situation - if you can ignore it - he looked beautiful. His power was mesmerizing and they couldn't look anywhere else. The man didn't sense their stare and continued his speech, which Y/N didn't catch the start of.

"Kneel before me" He shouted, some people in the crowd obeying his command. "Is not this simpler? Is this not your natural state?"

The astrophysicist rolled their eyes and stood still on their feet. He was gorgeous, but it's no excuse to kneel... Well, his act was absurd and he didn't pay for dinner beforehand, so at least not tonight. The man up front opened his arms, his big gestures reflecting his big ego.

Y/N felt a slight pull on their string, reminding them that they were there for a reason, they had a purpose to fulfill. They didn't have a clue about how the thread worked, but maybe their soulmate got ahead of them in the crowd and tried to get their attention. Maybe their soulmate wanted Y/N to make the first move, maybe they were in a spot where they couldn't move that much. Jesus, the astrophysicist knew for a fact that purposefully being knee-deep into this shit was a dumb move, but you always could be...dumber, that's the word to describe it. Maybe common sense fell out of their bag at the drug store, being that the last place they have seen it. So, breathing heavily from the anticipation, Y/N squeezed their way closer to the front.

No one in the crowd struggled to maintain them farther away, complying rather quickly with their efforts, keeping their eyes glued to the golden thread afraid if they blinked, it may change again. Searching for their one was the main focus, the only thought on their head, the concentration was so great that Y/N slightly stumbled on their feet when the mass of bodies that prevented them from walking freely disappeared. Nothing obstructed their view, the path was clear. No frightened people, just the granite floor, the man, and the golden string connecting them.

His full image in front of Y/N made everything fall in place, as it is scary as one may think of this situation. A character that fell out of an old book, the raven hair that reflected the light of the buildings around among with his golden horns, the mischief of his eyes, and the scepter holding into what the scientist recognized as the Tesseract not only hinted but confirmed his identity. Loki of Asgard surely wasn't on Earth as part of Odinson's family trip.

They felt stupid. They should have felt this before based on their actions tonight, yes, but they felt stupid. And anxious. And scared, so scared. But, most of all, stupid, because everything seemed so predictable now. Fate, an arch-nemesis, played the game beautifully in leading Y/N in this time and place. Inexplicable hyper fixation on Laufey's son and his story, the pounding head, and the knot on their stomach while even thinking about him this week. Intuition, premonition, gut feeling. The abnormal string was actually pointing to the right place, doing its best to lead to another reality realm. If Y/N's friends had a penny for every time they joked about how one of them was destined to a deity... they would have one penny and a crazy story.

"It's the unspoken truth of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power, for identity". Loki didn't seem to notice either the thread or the dumbfounded Y/N.

As soulmate strings, the question "why do humans cry when they feel strong emotions?" has been raised tirelessly from the beginning of time. Even though it's way out of their research field, the subject did also fascinate Y/N, who learned on research that, up to the 1600s, the prevailing theory was that all sentiments heated the heart, consequently generating water vapor that would escape from our eyes. In modern days we know that this belief it's invalid, but they couldn't feel like it didn't have some truth in it. As their eyes watered and their vision became blurry, disappointment, anger, and nonconformity rose in their heart and heated their chest.

On Soulmates 101 you don't really learn what to do in this type of situation. Sure, there are cute stories about soulmates who absolutely hated each other when they met, soulmates who were so different that they both thought that it was a mistake, and so on. But being fated to a God who happens to be enslaving Earth's population as a boost of ego... well, that's a first. Not that Y/N isn't used to having problems about their destiny.

Learning so much about Loki in the past months made them sympathize with him. Understand his motives, understand his personality, and understand his background. Understand, at least to the surface level, who he is. But this is too far. Mischievous tricks and pranks on the Asgardian royal family were a classic move, but this? Plotting a cartoony evil plan to be the king of the world? And all of that on a Friday night when a hot shower and a warm bed are waiting for them back home?

"You were made to be ruled". He went on with his megalomaniacal speech, making a pause and looking around, checking if he got the impact he was waiting for. His vision set a stop on Y/N. Their eyes locked for a beat of time that seemed like an eternity, sharing an unspoken understanding, knowing that wasn't the time or place. His eyes, marked in craziness, soften for a minute. He breathes shakily, fully filling his lungs. As he dry swallows, only the scientist ahead of the crowd gets a glimpse of a frightened, destroyed man. "in the end...you will always...kneel".

Should they do something? Could they do something? But, do what? Was it even logical to scream at the top of their lungs, begging him to stop, like the lame white love interest of an action movie who keeps saying "babe, stop! You're not like this!" in the middle of a fight scene? But who had the power to change his mind if not his soulmate? God, this isn't fair at all. Most people meet their soulmate at 20-something in a coffee shop and spend their whole lives happily together. But here is Y/N, debating internally if they should stop their meant-to-be (whose existence wasn't known up to 40 minutes ago) from being a tyrannical king. Not fair at all.

A sudden loud noise behind their back put a stop to their thoughts, the crowd splitting in half like the red sea in order to let its source walk freely to Loki. Like a god ex machina, red, white, and blue came into their vision: Captain America stood tall and confident, loud footsteps from his heavy boots contrasting with the sepulchral silence. Relief and panic washed over the scientist a the same time, like an electric shock right into their nervous system.

"You know" he annunciated "The last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everybody else, we ended up disagreeing".

"The soldier" Loki chuckled, the laugh didn't meet his eyes. Y/N felt like the mass stopped breathing at the same time as an individual living organism. "The man out of time".

"I'm not the one who's out of time".

With that and the aircraft that unexpectedly appeared in the night sky, pointing a machine gun toward Loki, hell breaks loose. The scientist's head spun like it was part of Disney World's Mad Tea Party, the previously quiet and submissive mass of people running around, bumping into their body uncontrollably. Their shoulders ached, but their legs stood glued to the floor like blocks of concrete - Y/N thought they deserved to know what happens to their soulmate after all this time. Police ushered them to run to a safe spot, but their eyes were glued to the fight happening just a few feet away.

Loki shooted a blast of blue lightning from the tesseract at the aircraft, which maneuvered just in time for Captain America to throw his shield at the Asgard prince. Y/N's throat felt tight, wanting to scream "watch out!" but knowing it wasn't the right thing to do. The right thing to do was to run away as soon as the avengers showed up to save the day. The right thing to do was to not follow the golden thread to this mess. The right thing to do was to focus on the job and not spend hours reading about nordic old myths. The right thing to do was to take a better-paying, less interesting workplace. Maybe, the right thing to do was to never leave their bed until soulmates are not real anymore.

The golden thread that linked them together jumped in place with Loki's movements as he battled with Steve Rogers, fists meeting flesh, scepter meeting shield. The metallic sound of the clashing, the grunts, and the screams muffled Y/N's hard breathing, trying to contain their sobs, keeping their tears at bay. The world didn't care about their feelings, didn't care if they would ever get their happily ever after.

Their movements are way too fast and complex for someone out of the fight to comprehend, the violence looking like a choreographed waltz, the sirens sounding like an orchestra. The God of Mischief threw the soldier to the ground, swatting the bright collared shield away. Standing tall over the blonde, he grabbed the scepter tighter, pointing to the sharp end of the blue helmet. Y/N knew Rogers's abilities were extensive and he wasn't a hostage to his gadgets, but it was also part of their knowledge that Loki was a powerful sorcerer. But it was impossible for a newbie astrophysicist to know for a fact who would win in a battle between a deity and an enhanced super-human.

It felt so useless, discussing between doing what is right or doing what feels right when both weren't even an option. They were destined to be together and there was nothing Y/N could do: their presence and the presence of the next person were the same in this situation. The golden line wrapped around their finger stared back at its owner almost in mockery - the couple has never been so close, but the scientist has never been so unhopeful, even when they didn't even know about his existence. They surrendered to the gut-wrenching feeling that rose from the pit of their stomach, spreading like oil on a lake, making everything darker, lifeless, polluted.

The memory of the pull of the string by Loki's gesticulation flashed in Y/N's mind. They had as much understanding on soulmate threads as a kindergarten kid, only knowing the theoric part and having no experience whatsoever, but perhaps, just perhaps, they could do something. Y/N watched attentively, heart in hand. Not what they wanted to do, no, but what they should do. If what they wanted to do was on the table, they would have cried out to the raven-haired man, begging for explanations, the moment they set their eyes on him. But, who cares about what Y/N wanted? They had moral obligations, that sat above everything else.

"Please, let this work" the astrophysicist muttered. They rolled their wrist, grabbing the invisible thread like a rope in a Tug of War game, yanking it down in hopes of controlling the other side's movements like a ventriloquist.

Much to his surprise, Loki's hand falls, the scepter falling on the floor. The Captain didn't demonstrate his confusion at the prince's sudden change of behavior but took advantage of it, getting out of his passive stance and forcing Loki to the ground. Their team got him cornered while a policeman finally lost his patience with Y/N, grabbing them by the waist and forcing them out of the scene. Both were being talked to, but the scientist couldn't discern any words out of the cop's ramble even if their life depended on it.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I had to. I'm so sorry, I didn't want to" Y/N struggled to get the words out, their throat hurt from the contained sobs from before. Now, they didn't have any reasons — or strength — to fight their emotions. They sobbed like a child, the tears feeling like waterfalls, a powerful unstoppable force of nature. They knew that Loki couldn't hear them, but they hoped he could understand their motives.

His ice-blue eyes stared at Y/N, not showing any emotion. Just a stony, indifferent stare.

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akumei-official · 6 months

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soooo at what point in the game did you start thinking, "yeah these two are in love" c:

((yes it's me again. i'll keep spamming you with asks because ive been alone for FAR. TOO. LONG. write that fic. i will be waiting))

No problem, feel free to send me as many questions as you'd like (o´∀`o)

Honestly, I didn't think that at any point in the game. To me, Colress reads as aromantic and single-minded in achieving his goals, and Mei is too busy with the Gym challenge and trying to take down Neo Team Plasma to be falling in love. That being said, the building blocks are there — Colress recognises the player's singular potential, focuses on them out of all the Trainers he's met and battled with, and is supportive of them all throughout their journey. I imagine Mei feels shocked and a little betrayed when she sees Colress at the helm of the Plasma Frigate! She wouldn't have believed someone who had been so kind and encouraging to her was capable of freezing over Opelucid City (and I don't care what the game/manga say, that Kyurem beam definitely killed some people).

It's this tension between Colress coming to care specifically for the player and not caring about what happens to anyone else that fuels my interest in these two. In particular, in the postgame... the fact that he's a little pouty if you refuse to battle him cracks me up, lol. This line post-defeat really sells it for me:

"The things you and your Pokémon have seen and felt… Do they belong to you and you alone? If you would, please have another Pokémon battle with me. By facing you, I feel as if I can see what I should do from now on."

He's really, really trying to understand this "bonds" thing, but Colress's... everything... gets in the way of that. There's no evidence to suggest he's unkind to his own Pokémon, but it's also hard to believe he has the closest relationship with them even if he says he wants the best method to be "the trust between Trainers and their Pokémon, just as it has always been." Still, his strength as a Trainer implies that trust and respect for his Pokémon at least factor into his method of raising them, and I feel like the player would eventually come to understand this. In my interpretation, it's Mei who develops feelings for Colress, largely based on the fact that he's an unremitting source of positivity and confidence in her life. He believes in her. He'll cheer her on in anything. He wants to understand her love for her Pokémon and is slowly beginning to understand it's not something that can be quantified by numbers. It's not too large a step from there to imagine that he'd begin to question what love means, and Mei — who has spent all this time battling him, getting to know him, realising that his values are less evil than naïve — wants to help him find his answer.

By the way, Masters isn't helping.

#sorry lol I kind of wrote a thesis #I do like Spectralcolorshipping as well by the way #they're just a different dynamic #アクメイ #moonringshipping

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ccthewriter · 10 months

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CC's New Watch Ranking - June 2023

Every month on Letterboxd, I make a list of the 10 best films I’ve seen for the first time. It’s a fun way to compare movies separated in time, genre, and country of origin, and helps me keep track of what I’m watching! This is a breakdown of those films.

June! An exhausting month. We wrapped on the movie after a number of 12+ hour days. That, on top of two new jobs that picked up this month, turned June into a stressed mess for me. I spent a lot of time in bed and in the garden, trying to quiet an overstrained brain. For the first time in three years, I have seen only the 10 films on this list this month! That’s why Zaslav felt safe firing all the TCM folks, he knew I was away. But this gives me a chance to discuss some movies I wasn’t crazy about and explore why. There’s something to be learned from every film, even those that don’t please. (I am going to yadda-yadda through some entries, though.)

Click below to read the breakdown! Click HERE to view the list on Letterboxd!

10. Night Moves

1975- Arthur Penn

Was kind of disappointed that this didn’t move for me as it does for others! It reminded me too much of this schlocky film I watched earlier this year Stick. Stick had Burt Reynolds going to Miami to be a double-agent chauffeur for the mob. Or something. Night Moves had the exact same thing happen? Or something? Maybe that’s on me for not paying better attention.

I promised myself I would explore why this didn’t capture me. The best I got is that it’s a slow moving mystery centered on a rather boring figure. Next!

9. Bringing Up Baby

1938 - Howard Hawks

See, I heard about this movie a long time ago. Never in my life did I think the ‘Baby’ in the title was a leopard! This is a fun slapstick comedy about a man who fumbles his hot paleontologist wife for a pathologically lying Katherine Hepburn. I get it, who wouldn’t do the same in that situation, but I was surprised there wasn’t more back and forth between Hepburn and Grant’s fiance. Not quite as charming as another slapstick comedy on this list, but still immensely satisfying.

Cary Grant in a fluffy nightie? 👀 Reeks of gender.

8. Bend of the River

1952 - Anthony Mann

The river! It bends! I find myself watching a lot of pre-1955 movies while I’m doing other tasks. Cowboy flicks and noirs make great background noise. Their rhythms and plots can be so predictable that you can fall right back in if you lose attention for a few minutes. This one gripped me, though. My cinematic nemesis James Stewart plays a black hatted cowboy trying to reinvent himself, escorting a group of settlers to their new home in Oregon. The supplies they ordered don’t arrive in time, so before winter sets in he rides to find what happened to them, visiting the den of villainy and sin known as… Portland. It’s very funny to see the city depicted as a town full of drunken gold miners and thieves, when in a century it will be home to queer witches and their burlesques. (Hi Caity <3) Fun plot, a few interesting reversals, and more colonial assumptions than I can typically stand. It’s no McCabe and Mrs. Miller, but if you’re in the mood for a PNW Western, look no further.

7. Step Brothers

2008 - Adam McKay

A movie so culturally dominant that I knew a huge amount of lines without ever having to see it. It was fun! Will Ferrell and John C. Riley have perfect comedic chemistry, and embody this strange energy of 15 year olds trapped in 40 year old bodies perfectly. The entire film works off of their performance. Just like last month’s Face/Off, two actors giving singular, unique performances is all you need to make a memorable picture.

6. Battling Butler

1926 - Buster Keaton

It’s Buster Keaton! It was fine. I don’t have any more interesting thoughts on him in this movie than I would have in the next one.

5. The Cameraman

1928 - Buster Keaton, Edward Sedgwick

Extremely fun. Buster doing a bit of metacommentary on how artists are valued, and the systems they have to engage with in order to find work. Extra satisfying to view amidst the writer’s strike. These studio heads would have nothing without the footage that the people on the ground capture. The Tong War battle at the end is particularly engaging. It’s the sort of Looney Tunes/Roger Rabbit comic energy that I adore, able to float through a conflict without any worry or care. Satisfying, destiny-bound ending.

4. Once Upon a Time in America

1984 - Sergio Leone

Now we get to the good stuff. Sergio Leone is synonymous with the Wild West - why is it so surprising that he would take on another classic tale of Americana? A gangster drama, an immigrant story, a distinctly East Coast experience of the twentieth century and the superpower that defined it. Where his cowboy movies focus on the mythic qualities of its protagonists - framed among giant landscapes, attention drawn to their weapons and horses - the protagonists of this film are framed within a series of relationships. It is their association with the people around them, the space between their bodies, that Leone captures so well. It is a promise of genius from a filmmaker whose career ended too early. This is a freewheeling biopic of a Lower East Side urchin who rises up towards the top, intersecting with high levels of power and upheavals in his closest bonds. Framed by an opium dream, not afraid to break free from logic, this is a masterful exploration of a cinematic space from one of our best directors.

3. Asteroid City

2023 - Wes Anderson

I feel so lucky to be alive at a time when I can see Wes Anderson movies in theaters. The sheer thrill of this opening sequence…. A black and white TV format exploding into a wide frame, desert-chic phantasmagoria, a MINIATURE TRAIN MODEL title sequence… god. Irreplaceable cinematic moments. It needs a gigantic screen to be really understood.

I think a lot of the theatre-going experience, of the crowd itself, as I remember this film. It was a great sample audience. A group of teen boys who must have just started their summer break. Several pairs of old women enjoying long-scheduled friend dates. A nuclear family. Me, alone, having made use of the Value Tuesday discounts. ($1 off hot dogs!) The whole crowd laughed throughout the thing - has Anderson ever been this funny? It made me feel a lot of hope, that an audience would take such pleasure in little background beats and quiet humor. Much of movie rhetoric paints The Audience writ-large as a bunch of mindless Marvel fans who need jokes telegraphed from a mile away. How hard the subtle humor hit really made me happy.

The story itself is something I’m going to have to meditate on. Anderson is working some meta-commentary that can be hard to grasp with only one viewing. I get the sense he’s looking at his own work and his style of directing. He’s famous for his ensembles - it’s a movie about a cast making a play. He’s famous for his invented worlds - we walk backstage and meet a writer-director who literally lives in a set after the performances are done. He’s a director beset by nostalgia for times he never lived - Jeffrey Wright says to a bunch of young geniuses, “Should have picked a better time to be born.” This is why I feel such a thrill, such satisfaction, in being alive while his movies are airing. I get to witness the years, hopefully decades, of discussion that this movie inspires. I think this is already ripe for a “Underappreciated in its time despite being his masterpiece” sort of thing.

2. Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse

2023 - Joaquim Dos Santos, Justin K. Thompson, Kemp Powers

God, what a lovely film to watch. My gushing excitement for this is cut by the recent revelations about its production. I spit on the names of Lord and the names of Miller, I wish them to suffer as they have made others suffer. I think of how beautiful this film is - how every frame is a gorgeous vortex, how you could hit pause at any moment and drink in one billion details that all add up to an incredible whole. I think of the well-crafted story, the nail-biting cliff hanger, the desire I had walking out of the theatre for simply MORE. And I think of how much better this could be if the artists making it were paid more fairly and given more breaks. Look at how beautiful this movie is - IT COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL IF THE WORKPLACE WAS LESS TOXIC. I reject any narrative about this film that says that, somehow, all the blood sweat and tears made it what it is. No. Absolutely not. This move is what it is because of hundreds of people toiling *despite* the invented hardships. It is so symptomatic of what is wrong in Hollywood, why so many people are striking now. They are being hampered from making their work excel because of these greedy people at the top who project their insecurity and petty rage all the way down.

Anyway. I love Miles. I love Gwen. I love all my Spiderfriends. Hope to see them again some day under less toxic circumstances.

1. What’s Up, Doc?

1972 - Peter Bogdanovich

I’ve been studying the screwball comedy this year. It’s an oft-used term without a great definition. It’s got romance and laugh, it has some odd personalities… but what else? Does it need an aggressive woman? A reluctant man? Do they need to be thrust together by fate? Do you *have* to have an outstanding ensemble, or does that just happen by coincidence? As I try to pick apart these elements I watch this on a whim one day and see that Peter Bogdanovich has already done all that research and found his answer. Screwball comedy? It looks like this. It’s What’s Up, Doc?

From the old-Hollywood opening credits that’s a hand turning a book, to the delightful absurdity that is its central premise - what if a spy, a jewel thief, and some dude all had the same luggage? - everything about this is finely tuned to make you laugh. Barbara Streisand is more or less literally playing Bugs Bunny. How amazing is that? There are so many things that will make you well up laughter that I hesitate to try and explain them more. Just watch this incredibly funny, charming movie. I have a private litmus test for how good a movie is. Often I’ll watch stuff with my wife sitting next to me as she plays video games. If a movie drags her attention away from the game and keeps her locked in the whole time, that is a great film. It was that way with this. Highly recommended.

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

Thank you for reading! If you liked any of these thoughts feel free to follow me on Letterboxd, where I post reviews and keep meticulous track of every movie I watch. Look forward to more posts like these next month!

#movies #film #cc oc #letterboxd #movie ranking #What's Up Doc?#across the spider verse #Asteroid City #Once Upon A Time In America #The Cameraman #Battling Butler #Step Brothers #Bend of the River #Bringing Up Baby #Night Moves

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nagdabbit · 2 years

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LONG ANSWER, PLEASE. Come through callin' broke me and put me back together, I want to know EVERYTHING

yall are fast this morning! 💜

im sorry for how long and overshary this is gonna be

so, like, i really haven't been shy about talking about my mental health and shit, and especially how writing this fic kinda became part of my therapy, right? like it really became "how do i talk about burnout, this thing that i have no fucking words for because at no point in time have i ever let myself recover from it and have spent literal decades of my life letting it compound to the point that i have no idea whether or not ill ever be able to really heal?"

so this kinda came about in talking with my therapist about, like, how to move on and forward and start actually healing. and the fic definitely didn't end up a 1:1, cuz i still had to translate therapy into science fiction and romance. and obviously this is in no way a universal experience, this is just how my brain works. kay? kay.

the thing is i just get absolutely bogged down in the "this is whats happening and i need to stop it," not "this is what's happening to me and i need to start recovering from it." ive got a brain that likes to get extremely bogged down in the thing (burnout, depression, anxiety, etc) and not the broad causes of the thing (overworking, trauma, etc). i fixate on an unsolvable problem and don't allow myself enough room to actually think about myself as a person experiencing said problem—and therefore tend to ignore the limits of what i can actually take before i fall apart. i am absolutely the type to see a massive crack in the side of a dam and put a batman bandaid on it, thinking that'll fix it and it's safe to carry on business as usual.

preserving kayfabe and all that, in the lead up to revolution mox is getting terrorized by kenny, still missing his best friend who he's gone to war with, got betrayed by the bucks mid-match, oh were about to put on one of the most iconic gimmick matches of all time i hope it lives up to the unreasonable hype, etc. like, if wrestling were real life, i would need to lie down for a long time after all that. the start of the fic, we find mox in "i cannot fix this singular thing, so i have stopped trying" instead of "i am going to try and heal the things that caused this." cuz moxs life is now just sunday. saturday doesn't matter, only sunday. he's fixating on the thing, and not thinking about fixing what caused it.

cuz jeezy, and i cannot stress this enough, chreezy, it is nigh impossible to see the problem when you're in the middle of it. especially when you're isolated, by choice or circumstance.

i also struggle with asking for help in any kind of normal way. like, i with either bottle things up until they overflow, or i put way too much on another person with no real regard for what they can actually carry. and when that support system that i have piled on top of fails, i get angry a blame myself and everyone within reach and then cycle back around to the not talking about it with anyone, ever part. i am all for being selfish, humans need to be selfish, but not at the detriment of the health of the people they care about. it's a real fine line that i often forget exists until i cross it.

mox spends the fic placing too much on people who have no way to carry it all. once again, not exactly 1:1. there's a lot that he does, and conversations that are had, that would be so much healthier if the fic weren't, you know, a time loop. it's the "i am going to hang absolutely everything i have left on this sliver of hope that you have provided me" thats fucking him over. none of these people, no matter how well he explains it, are going to be able to fully understand what hes experiencing. and through no fault of their—or his—own are going to let him down. whether he admits it, or not. see: the final conversation with eddie at the end of chapter one. every conversation pervious has yielded no change in his circumstances (because he's not analyzing himself, so much as the space he's occupying) so he goes into that conversation angry and frustrated that eddie can't fix or fully understand this impossible thing.

a thing my therapist has tried very, very hard get me to understand in a very practical sense is that doing something that feels good is still healing. that thing that makes my bandaid-on-the-hoover-dam coping mechanisms not work is the amount of guilt ill throw at myself at the idea that im just ignoring the problem—which just adds more pressure trying to break through the dam.

mox spends this entire fic finding ways to feel better and heal emotionally, and then writing them off because they aren't the Big Bad. he noticeably feels better after talking to eddie and cooking with renee, but because those don't fix the issue, they don't matter. he chases those moments, and then feels guilty that he's found these moments of respite because he thinks he's not fixing the actual time loop part—even tho he very clearly is. he gets bogged down going after science and brain scans, not realizing that talking through those trials with renee is the part that's actually helping.

so the time loop finally breaks the day he gets up and says "i have decided to feel good today" and doesn't try and punish himself for it. the previous cycle to that, he still gets in his head about that guilt. another not 1:1 part, he has guilt of realizing that he's using this to break the cycle, and not because he wants his two people together.

that bit in the sessions where he was like, "i make a point to have my fake beer, and make it specifically a part of my routine, so i don't just accidentally forget and have a regular beer." that is, objectively, an extremely adhd fucking thing to say. do you know how often i accidentally buy grapefruit juice even tho i am on zoloft, and have been for years? that's also not a thing that simply happens in a physical sense, it can happen in an emotional one, too. to get back to the personal oversharing bit, decemeber of 2020, i got so excited to get a care package from my brother that for like ten minutes i forgot i had covid and that both my parents had died of it just weeks before. brains are stupid.

so, like, "i got so caught up in the euphoria of loving these people that i forgot i was trapped in an unknowable hellscape." it wasn't so much that he remembered that kept the cycle from breaking that day, it's the guilt of thinking he's ignoring his problem and then taking two steps backward. again. because thats kinda the theme of the fic.

the loops well and truly start to unravel when he sees them together in the kitchen and just goes fuck it. im gonna enjoy tonight and not punish myself for it. but it breaks when he gets up the next cycle and let's himself have it. the shadow of these loops is still there, and he knows it, and he acknowledges it to himself, but he's not feeling feeling guilty for letting go himself have a nice day.

and going back to the putting too much on people, it's that final conversation with eddie that really fixed it. there's a thing i kinda started to examine in an earlier fic i wrote, lamp-bright rind, about healing as a person so there's room for the people you care about, and not building yourself around those people. that people are people, not scaffolding, i guess. you can rely on people, but you can't build yourself in an image that will make them love you, cuz you're a person not a painting that's going to hang in the house of someone's life.

that last morning, he realizes that every conversation he's had, outside of renee (and even a couple of those), has been for his own gain in a way. like, he's spent so long talking about himself and his problems and what he needs, that he forgot that eddie is also living a life and that he always wants to hear about it. "i got so fucked up by groundhog day that i forgot that i care more about who you are than what you can do for me." brains. it happens. hell, speaking from experience here, i am old fucking hat at this revelation.

the "oh, hey, i love you and i love knowing about you, and i am extremely tired of not actually indulging this thing that i love, which is just having a no-strings conversation with you."

so, long therapy short, the thing that broke the loops was mox just letting himself have a healing moment without the guilt of doing so. letting himself go "hey, this feels nice and i am going to let it feel nice and accept this, and not feel bad about it." because that is recovery. that really is healing, and it's small and it can feel insignificant, but it is actually extremely fucking huge.

so.

i have no idea if that all is coherent or makes as much sense laid out as it did in the scrambled mess of my brain. but. that's the logic i kinda built this fic around.

anyway, my best friend refers to mox as their "emotional support wrestler" and i really have started to feel that. especially after reading his book and that most recent episode of renees pod.

is this healthy? i do not know or care, but my therapist gave me a gold star sticker, so it doesn't fucking matter.

thank you for letting me overshare my thought process

#asks!#more come through callin shtuff

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heartsleevemag · 8 months

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Haley Blais' 'Wisecrack' searches for culmination in a changing world

Written by Shea Roney

“Can I be responsible for things that I did years ago? / I guess it could be good for just a laugh,” sings Haley Blais on the song, “Coolest fucking bitch in town.” It’s never easy to put into words the feeling you get from the soft limbo of adulthood. It can become something of the existential sort, but Blais finds a much easier approach when you can laugh about it regardless of how objectionable your childhood may have been. On her new album, Wisecrack, Vancouver singer/songwriter Haley Blais walks down the infamous memory lane, less to elucidate nostalgia, but more searching for a reason to grow up.

“I’d kill to be a sensitive person” is what Blais opens the album with. It comes from the song “Soft Spot for Monarchs,” that kicks off as a folk pop tune but soon melts into an absorbing collage of sound. Like our own memories do as we grow older, the accent of cymbal crashes, pitching saxophones and abundance of vocal recordings begin to clash with each other, each a singular piece fighting for its fleeting existence.

Wisecrack, as a whole, sees the growth of Blais, both as a storyteller and a sonic composer. Coming off of her 2020 debut, Below the Salt, we find Blais in an expansion into grander territory. Before then, she was known for both her ukulele covers on YouTube as well as a decade-long career of singing classical opera. Below the Salt was an album of lively bedroom pop songs. But focusing on some heavier topics, Wisecrack sees Blais maturing. Covering topics of aging, burdensome self doubt, and the conundrum of morality, Blais takes these eleven songs to try and find some sort of culmination in her changing world.

In a real cheeky and raw approach to storytelling, Blais masters irony on the most delicate subjects. On the lead single, “Coolest fucking bitch in town,” she sings, “I want my therapist to think I’m cool,” a song in which Blais sings about playing into the charade of being okay, when in fact she is pushing down feelings of doubt and insecurities. The explicit confidence is there, but can it be manifested into existence? Or is it about embracing who you are — no matter how “uncool” you may feel? On the track “Matchmaker,” a gentle groove about relationship pressures, Blais sings, “Then I’ll be the bitch who ruined your family line.” Opening up about societal expectations in a soft and catchy pop melody seems to take off some of the heat.

Looking backwards seems to be imperative on Wisecrack. Recounting the memories that stuck with her as she developed with them, Blais looks to learn understanding and moderation. Reminiscent of the time spent mourning the death of the family dog, the track “Survivor's Guilt” pulls out these early painful acknowledgments of mortality. “Can’t a girl mourn the death of her dog in the back of a theater in peace anymore?” Blais asks, in a way that is as sarcastic as it is disheartening. One of the album’s highlights, “Baby Teeth,” is a pivotal moment of the album that comes towards the end. Blais opens up about a sentimentality for simpler times — or perhaps a fear of getting older. “I want my baby teeth back,” Blais sings on the chorus, ending with “I wanna know what it’s like / Pull out my front one on my own time.” With a rejuvenating chorus that lays back until it needs to climax, Blais mourns for having to grow up too fast.

With attention to dynamics and textures, Wisecrack is as unexpected as it is comforting. With songs like “The Cabin,” dynamics are front of mind when ripping guitar and pounding drums swerve in and out of controlled punctuations. “The Cabin” portrays stories of sweaty summers spent at a Cabin where Blais rode speed boats, conducted summer romances, and was given her first sip of beer. “A beer soaked memory - who gave me beer in seventh grade?” she sings in retrospect. “Winner” is a slow burner that holds up the melody. It eventually turns into an insanely gritty guitar solo blanketed by Blais’ distorted scream. With slight minor intonations, the song opens up to a possibility of emotions.

The album comes to its conclusion with “Beginner’s Guide to Birdwatching.” In a sense, this song is Blais’s acceptance of what is to come in the future. Beginning as a choral arrangement of vocals all souped up with autotune, the track fades into the demo phone recording that it started as, capturing the raw moment when Blais sang, “One minute she wasn’t there / Then the next minute there she was” to her newborn niece. Accompanied by her brother, sister-in-law, and other friends gathered, the song boasts sincerity. The track fades as the sound of bird songs enters the scene. But in the midst of the blissful noise, a single fly can be heard buzzing around, showcasing an incredible theme: life’s imperfections live hand in hand with its beauty.

Wisecrack releases next Friday, September 15, on all streaming platforms. You can pre-save the album HERE, place your pre-order HERE, and if you’d like a glimpse of Haley Blais’ world, be sure to follow her to keep up with all things Wisecrack. Blais is also on tour – if you’d like to catch her in your city, check out the list of remaining dates HERE.

#music #heartsleeve magazine #music publication #haley blais #wisecrack #new album #new release #pop culture #new music friday #new releases #new music #by shea roney

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the-hot-zone · 3 years

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Too Old To Play With Toys: The Sad Truth Behind Sokka's Boomerang

This is Sokka’s boomerang:

[ID: a screenshot of Sokka’s boomerang from Avatar: The Last Airbender. It has just been thrown, and it whips through the air in a rapid, whirling motion. End ID.]

And as we all know, it always comes back. This characteristic makes Sokka’s boomerang a returning boomerang, rather than a hunting boomerang. This is an important distinction to make, and it’s where the heart of this headcanon lays. Let me explain.

Accuracy: What’s the Difference Between Hunting and Throwing Boomerangs?

There are three types of boomerangs: the hunting boomerang, the returning boomerang, and the cross boomerang. We’re only going to be discussing hunting and throwing boomerangs, but feel free to learn about cross boomerangs and their construction--they’re really cool. As a general note: the following sources and information pertain to Aboriginal Australian cultures. Boomerangs were used elsewhere, but mainly as throwing sticks, not returning boomerangs.

So, hunting boomerangs, also known as throwing sticks or kylies, have this basic shape:

[ID: a black silhouette of a hunting boomerang. It is shaped like a skinny tear drop, with a slight curve along its form, and it widens asymmetrically at its ends. End ID.]

[ID: an overhead shot of three hunting boomerangs. They are carved from glossy, light-brown wood. End ID.]

Artist: Aboriginal Elder, Joe Skeen Snr. Buy here.

The hunting boomerang is straighter, larger, longer, and deadlier than the returning boomerang. “With it,” states the Britannica, “animals were maimed and killed, while in warfare it caused serious injuries and death.” This is due to its shape, which allows it to travel in a relatively straight line. With its capability for distance and force, the hunting boomerang is a very powerful tool.

According to Boomerang: Behind an Australian Icon by Philip Jones, a hunting boomerang can travel around 100 meters. If the boomerang is heavy enough, and the throw forceful enough, large prey, like kangaroos, can be killed. If you want to see a hunting boomerang in action, watch sections of this Youtube video. The range and accuracy of this tool are amazing.

The returning boomerang, which was used in eastern and western parts of Australia, is very different:

[ID: a black silhouette of a returning boomerang. It has two arms that widen towards the middle and connect, forming an angled shape, like a triangle with two sides. End ID.]

[ID: a painted returning boomerang. The base is formed from a smooth, light-colored wood. Designs are painted at the end of its wings, in the middle of its wings, and towards its center. At the center is a stylized turtle. End ID.]

Artist: unknown, but sold by Aboriginal-owned business Murra Wolka. Website here.

As you can see, the returning boomerang is shorter, smaller, and angled sharply. The shape of it allows it to trace an elliptical path, thus returning to the thrower. But this property is not without its drawbacks:

“A hunting boomerang needs to fly well and nearly straight to strike prey some 200 metres away. The trouble is that the best-flying boomerangs tend to return, rarely departing beyond fifty metres from the thrower. With the returning form ‘there is no certainty of hitting the mark. It may come back too quickly and may hit your own friends standing near you.’ While recognising that the best-flying boomerangs do return, Aborigines defined a technological problem. They needed to strike a compromise between flying ability and hunting requirements...” (Australian Museum).

Now, the returning boomerang could still be used to hunt, but not to kill or maim prey. Its application was craftier:

“When hunting ducks, for example, nets were set up at either ends of a creek or river. A boomerang was then thrown out over the ducks which gave them a scare so that they took off up the river and flew directly into the nets. From there they were collected. At other times during the hunting of birds the returning boomerang was thrown horizontally along the ground into a flock, and, as they took off the boomerang would follow them into the air. This may or may not kill the bird and a harder way to hunt” (murruppi.com).

Still, this wasn’t the main application of the returning boomerang. In actuality, it was used as a toy:

“The returning boomerang was not primarily designed for hunting as it is too light and wouldn't guarantee a kill. Rather, it was designed as a toy for young aboriginal boys. The toy would allow a youngster to practice throwing skills but still make it fun” (murrippi.com).

So, Sokka’s boomerang? A plaything.

Let’s Bring It Back to ATLA: What Does This Mean?

With the above information, Sokka’s use of his boomerang in canon becomes almost tragic. His boomerang was probably given to him by Hakoda when he was very young. He used it to learn how to throw; one day, when he was older, he would have carved his own throwing stick, and used it to hunt alongside his dad and the other adults of his tribe.

Instead, Sokka’s boomerang is another aspect of his childhood that was twisted by the war. His boomerang is--should have been--nothing more than a toy. He shouldn’t have had to use it to fend off Zuko, attack Azula, and defeat Combustion Man. Regardless, it did become a tool he used to help defeat the Fire Nation, and that’s pretty fitting when it comes to ATLA’s ideas of childhood and war: Sokka spent years acting as his tribe’s protector; Katara spent longer acting as a mother. Thus, his use of his boomerang throughout the show displays how Sokka was forced into a war-torn world at an incredibly, unfairly young age. As a result, he was forced to adapt in ways that took from him.

And we’ve all seen Sokka’s boomerang in action. Here’s a video of his greatest hits--literally. His accuracy is insane, and he catches his boomerang every time. He’s more than ready to have a hunting boomerang, yet we see him use his returning boomerang throughout the show, and long after he earns his ice dodging mark. Tbh? I think that Sokka didn’t want to carve a hunting boomerang without his dad guiding his hands.

So, you might be wondering, what happens post-war?

Eventually, I think Sokka retires his returning boomerang and carves his own hunting boomerang, but the shape of it is particular:

“Some scientists argue that a throwing-stick, commonly used by indigenous hunters around the world, is the precursor of the boomerang... Through trial-and-error the boomerang was refined to a point where the most desirable size, proportions and curvature were established. This refinement brought one serious problem: any improvement in flying resulted in a tendency to return. There is little doubt that indigenous hunters brought this experiment to its ultimate conclusion, by producing the perfect returning boomerang” (Australian Museum).

In short, making a good hunting boomerang is hard. Lots of trial and error, and still, hunting boomerangs come in a wide array of shapes. Thus, I headcanon that Sokka carves his hunting boomerang differently, as compared to the other members of his tribe--it’s more curved. This would show that although he's grown up and is in a post-war world, he's changed in some ways that can't be completely undone.

In other words, Sokka eventually moves on, but the way he throws and uses his boomerang is going to be a little different.

Conclusion

TL;DR: Sokka’s boomerang is a plaything, and this has sad implications. But also? He never should have had one in the first place. Firstly, boomerangs were traditionally made from green hardwood, which I don’t believe can be found in the South Pole. I on god can’t find any authentic sources for bone or metal boomerangs. To be more accurate and still keep with the trend of throwing weapons, I would’ve given Sokka a nuqaq and darts or a bola.

Also, as far as I can tell, Sokka’s boomerang is the only aspect of Aboriginal Australian culture Bryke used in ATLA (I can’t get a confirmation on Hakoda’s name). This is cherry-picking to the max, and it perpetuates the harmful ideas of pan-indigeneity wrt one large, singular culture.

So, if you enjoyed this, please consider supporting aboriginal artists and charities. You can buy aboriginal art from murrippi.com and Murra Wolka. This article here provides a list of charities as well as active GoFundMe’s for families affected by police brutality against Aboriginal Australians. Thank you.

Sources

“Hunting Boomerang - Extreme Range - The Aboriginal Karli” by Throwsticks Channel

“Boomerang Information“ by Murruppi, Djirrbal/Ngadjonji Tribe

“Boomerang” by the Encyclopaedia Britannica's editors for the Encyclopaedia Britannica

“It Comes Back ... What a Nuisance!“ by Stan Florek for Australian Museum

Boomerang: Behind an Australian Icon by Philip Jones from Wikipedia

Murra Wolka

Gonna tag @atlaculture because I think this is of your interest. <3

#atla #avatar the last airbender #sokka #atla meta #atla headcanons #atla hc #YES this is angsty shhhhhhh #am I doing meta right?

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its-not-a-phase-mom-i-d8-demons · 3 years

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"Are you just using me for my body?" feat. Asmodeus

pairing: Asmodeus x Female!Reader

warnings: mentions of smut, distrust, mentions of cheating

A/N: this got REALLy emotional...

Being the Avatar of Lust and all, Asmodeus couldn't help but have desires outside his absolute adoration of you and you alone; other than himself that is.

He was so sweet all the time, never once forced you to do anything with him, and waited patiently until you knew you were ready.

You loved Asmodeus with your whole heart and had confidence that he wouldn't cheat on you.

Asmodeus was many things, but a liar was not one of them.

Until now, it had been especially hard to keep a steady relationship with his desires rampant and constantly filling up his mind. Ever since he started to get to know you and realize his feelings for you, he stopped sleeping around as much until it came to a complete halt.

He really wanted to be with you, he realized, and he'd give up anything if only it meant he could spend every minute you were here with him.

Here you were, completely in tune and comfortable with each other, but come comments from demons at school today had flooded you with doubt.

You hated yourself for mistrusting your best friend and boyfriend, especially after working so hard to get where you are.

That thought alone makes you burst into tears.

Asmo, who was snuggling happily against your chest, had noticed something off about you and decided against asking if you wanted to fuck. He simply pulled you into bed with him, shared a kiss with you, and planted his face on your pillowy chest, hands caressing your sides oh so gently.

You were so pretty...

What was he going to do with you?

He should see what was the matter.

Maybe it was a test coming up, or an unfinished homework assignment, possibly a teacher being rude to you again, but worrying causes wrinkles! With or without them you would continue to be divine, but still!

At that moment, he heard a choked sob slip past your lips.

Worried, he regrettably peeled himself off of you and saw that you were hiccupping into your hand, trying to stop yourself from crying and making a mess of yourself and Asmo's bed.

"Oh, sweetie..." Asmo murmured, pulling you into his lap, "You can go ahead and cry, don't hold it in like this!"

With his permission, you start crying like a baby into his shoulder.

He held your head, pressing kisses to your temple and rocking you gently from side to side.

"Oh, baby..." He whispers, patting your back, "You have to tell me when you're feeling bad... Don't bottle everything up."

You sob an 'I'm sorry', but Asmodeus wouldn't hear it.

"Don't you dare apologize for crying. I'm right here for you, always. Okay?"

That only made you cry harder.

'Worried' could describe Asmo when he first gathered you into his arms. 'Panicking' is how the demon was feeling when you refused to stop sobbing into his shoulder.

Something was seriously wrong and he needed to get to the bottom of it before it became difficult for you to breathe and you got even more panicked.

"Baby, hey, look at me sweetheart," He murmurs, lifting your head up to face him, "You've gotta stop crying, okay? Can you try and calm down for me? I know you can do it, just take deep breaths for me, kay?"

You wiped your eyes on your sleeves way too harshly for his liking, and he grasped your wrists and put them in your lap.

"Inhale with me, come on sweets, you can do it."

You try to inhale, but your lips trembles and you can't help but let out another sob or two, covering your face in your hand, muttering apologies and trembling.

Asmodeus tried again, pulling your hands down and holding his face in his hands, showing you how to take deep breaths and holding your gaze and refusing to let it go.

"Yes, good job!" He smiled rubbing your lower back when you began mimicking his example, "I knew you could do it, hey, don't stop yet honey, you're really wound up..."

You pull your eyes away from his with great effort as it was unbearable to stare into those earnest sunset eyes any longer.

You were repulsed at the thoughts clouding your mind.

How could you call yourself a good girlfriend? You were terrible really, doubting the man you called your boyfriend and lover the moment the shadow of jealousy turned into a rumor.

You apologized again, gripping his hand tightly.

"What did I say?" He says gently, patting your thigh, "No apologies for showing emotion. Got it?"

You nod mutely.

"Asmo?"

"Yes baby?"

"Are you... Are you just using me for my body?"

You felt him stiffen.

Tears flooded your eyes again, dripping into your lap before you could stop them.

Asmo opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Of... Of course, he wasn't... He didn't need anyone else, only you.

Why didn't you trust him?

All these months of bonding behind closed doors, Asmodeus fighting his sin so vehemently he forgot who 'Asmodeus' really was, and hours upon hours of just thinking about how beautiful you were and that you deserved better than him. He had just begun to believe that maybe, just maybe he was worthy of your limitless affection, but it was not so.

You... You never trusted him in the first place, did you?

"A-Asmo I know what you're thinking and I'm sorry-"

"No apologies." He whispered airily, eyes locked on a singular rose, one of many that had wound their way up the bedpost.

The response was empty of emotion, as was Asmodeus's face.

"Oh Asmo, you've always been so good to me. I know you'd never cheat on me after going through so much pain-"

"Who said it?"

"Wha-"

"WHO SAID IT?" Asmodeus had flashed into his demon form, angry tears spilling from his eyes as he stood in front of you, exuding rage, hatred, and most of all, despair.

Out of everything he was feeling at the moment, none of those potent emotions were aimed at you.

"YOU'RE TOO PERFECT TO COME UP WITH THAT IDEA ON YOUR OWN." He screeched, "YOU KNOW I'D NEVER BETRAY ANYONE I LOVE, WHAT DEMON IS SPREADING BULLSHIT ABOUT ME AND COSTING ME YOUR TRUST?"

You were terrified, staring up at the enraged demon, tears soaking your cheeks once again, "Asmo, please! Calm down! You're above them!"

Mascara tears lined his cheeks, and he was just about to shout something else at you, but the door to his room was suddenly blown off its hinges, giving way to six more demons with their horns out, Lucifer in the lead.

He looked absolutely livid, especially after seeing the state you were in.

Asmodeus had the nerve to shout at you? Under any circumstance?

Not in the least.

"Stop this at once, Asmodeus!" He growled, standing his ground in front of you, "Any reason you have to be angry at MC can be taken up to me! Control yourself!"

"Lucifer stop!" You plead, "Don't yell at him like that-"

"Quiet, MC." He hissed, "You need to get out of here. He's too high-strung at the moment. He needs to be alone."

The larger demon grabbed you by the arm and started pulling you out of the room, but you fought against him, punching and crying and yelling at him to let go.

Mammon tried to step in and explain that Lucifer was "jus' tryna keep ya safe!" but you weren't having it and slugged him in the nose.

He screeched as blood started pouring out of his face, Lucifer loosened his grip when he heard his brother in pain he hadn't caused and you managed to tug your limb away from him and rush to your boyfriend who had collapsed onto the floor, face in his hands and sobbing.

His wings and horns were gone, but you wouldn't have cared either way as you tackled him in a hug and refused to let go.

Asmodeus latched onto you as well, and the brothers knew there was nothing they could do about it.

Lucifer pulled Mammon away to fix his bloody and possibly broken nose, and the others stood at the ready outside the door in case something else went wrong.

For a long time, you and the Avatar of Lust simply lay in each other's arms and cried.

It felt good to comfort and be comforted.

After a few hours, both of you were dried up, holding hands and staring sadly at the ceiling.

Asmodeus spoke first.

"Do you... Do you really think I've been using you for your beautiful body all this time? I'm not accusing you of anything, I need to know."

His voice was hoarse and quiet; tentative almost.

"I never thought that, Asmodeus. I the human world, there were some bad guys I was with and I guess I was prepared to accept it if you were. You've changed vastly since I first met you and you're nothing like those swine up there." You whispered, squeezing his hand before turning to look at him, "It was a stressful week and then, on top of that, I heard some demons talking about you so I stopped to listen. They were saying such terrible things about you; how you cheat on me every chance you got, you're just using me as an exotic fleshlight, and shit like that. We... We haven't had sex in a while so I just wondered if you'd gotten tired of me. Then, when we were cuddling, I just couldn't push those thoughts out of my head and I couldn't stop myself from crying..."

Asmodeus nursed at his lower lip, scooting closer to you, suddenly cold.

"I could never grow tired of you, MC. You have and continue to inspire me to be better for you and myself. I actually..." He giggled sweetly, resting his forehead against your own, "I was gonna ask if you wanted to bang when you first came into my room. Sex really is the answer to everything, isn't it?"

You smile and shake your head, "Not now though, you need some dinner and some rest."

He pouts cutely, ticking your sides, but he knows you're right.

You snatch his hands away from you and kiss his knuckles, "I never meant to make you think of yourself any less, because you really are perfect, Asmo. No one has ever tried to make me happy like you do and willingly spent all of this time with me. You make me feel so loved... I don't know how to thank you. I just want you to know that I love you."

He's literally glowing at your words, wrapping you tightly in his arms and whispering, "I love you too MC. More than I could possibly say."

July 7th: TWO. MORE. DAYS!!! (for us VIP members)

could you imagine being loved that much?? holy FUCK. is my giant single pringle ass showing? is it too obvious I'm lonely?

the shit I write... it surprises ME sometimes

Countdown Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#obey me! shall we date?#obey me!#obey me swd #obey me shall we date #swd obey me #obey me imagines #obey me smut #obey me asmodeus x reader #obey me asmo x reader #asmodeus x reader #om! asmodeus #obey me! asmodeus #obey me! asmo #obey me asmodeus #obey me asmo #asmodeus #asmodeus avatar of lust #obey me asmo x mc

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roger-that-cap · 3 years

Text

tolerate it

part 2/2 of cardigan!

so, this is the follow up to my first ever one shot (guess not anymore LMAO) up here! i sincerely hope that you guys like this, because it was like pulling teeth for this one. every now and again i’d find a golden one and smack it in there and hope that one decent line made up for all the others.

natasha romanoff x fem!reader

this was the hardest thing ive ever had to write (simply because there was so much emotion in it and it was hard to reel myself back in just to cast out again) and i had to write a paper on nathaniel hawthorne.

warnings: pretty angsty for me, bittersweet, um- why do i write angst, DRAMATICS hahaha

word count: 4.5k!

would like to remind you that i do not own taylor swift songs! this one borrows a little from tolerate it, the best song on evermore imho (tied with coney island).

You knew that opening the door was going to be a hard part, but what you didn’t prepare for was actually listening to her. You could have stared at her for eternity in silence, just harping on everything good and bad that ever happened between the two of you. You could imagine a thousand different scenarios where the two of you were happy and none of this had occurred, but that wasn’t the case. She didn’t come to you to stare and leave.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, her voice throaty as she took a cautious first step into your space. Your space. It sounded weird, and you knew that it felt weird to her. You two had shared everything for the longest, and now you had your own place to live in. “Thank you for letting me in.”

“You came to talk,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively, and she didn’t miss the obvious tell of your body language. “I won’t make you waste your time. Say your piece, and then...” you trailed off, both of you knowing full well where you were going with it.

“Can I just start with the fact that I’m so sorry,” she blurted, and you have her an unamused look as you sat on your couch, and she sat on the edge of it. “And that I don’t know why that happened. I don’t expect for you to ever forgive me, and I don’t forgive myself. I won’t ever forgive myself for hurting you so badly, and having such a lapse in judgement. I’m sorry.”

“What was it that was different?” You asked, the question that had been haunting you for a while now finally escaping your lips. When she gave you a confused look, you stared back at her. “What was so different about whatever happened on the mission?”

You didn’t ask what you did wrong, because you didn’t do anything wrong. It took you weeks to know that, weeks to come to the conclusion, but you knew. It wasn’t anything that you lacked, it was something that Natasha did. Whether it was loyalty, restraint, a moral compass, or even something else, you didn’t think that it was you.

“There was nothing different.”

You were trying to hold it together, but you knew that you were seconds from falling apart right in front of the person who had destroyed you. “You don’t have to lie.”

She made a face. “There wasn’t. There was nothing about her that was better than you, I swear.”

But there was nothing different. There was nothing different in the way that you held her to the way that Abigail did, then. There must have been nothing different in the way that you kissed her in the morning. Nothing special about how you would dance with her on the third of the month simply because you liked the number three. There was nothing special about the way you held her hand and rubbed her back and sometimes sang her to sleep when she needed it. And there was certainly nothing different or special about the way that you let her put her head on your chest, just so that she could hear your heart beating.

Maybe what you did was different or special to you and not to her. And maybe it was time for you to finally realize it, whether it hurt or not.

Your emotions were threatening to come through, and you couldn’t have that happen. “I thought you came to talk. Talking requires truth.”

“I did,” she rushed, and then she sighed and wiped her palms on her thighs. You knew what that was. Of course you knew what she was. That was her being nervous. “I just wanted you to know that I love you, I love you so much, no matter what you choose. I never meant for any of it to happen, and I hate myself for making you feel that way.”

“You knew what happened with the others,” you said, and you knew that she knew that you were talking about the men who used to cheat on you without thinking twice. You saw her wince. “You knew how I felt about dishonesty. You knew how long it took me to be fully trusting of you, and you ruined it for two months of fun?”

“I know I did.”

“Do you know that, Natasha?” You asked, your voice starting to raise a bit. “I trusted you, and then I gave you everything I had. There wasn’t a piece of me that wasn’t for you, don’t you get that? I painted a portrait of us with the best colors I had and you opened the door on me doing the finishing touches and threw black paint over it.”

She was surprised that you were actually allowing yourself to be angry, and that made you even more upset. You were allowed to be pissed. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out, a thin layer of tears in her eyes.

“I did- I had everything lying out on the table for you emotionally. It was wrapped so pretty for you when I helped you through your own stuff, and it waited until you were ready. There wasn’t a thing you didn’t know, not a secret kept from you. And I still can’t believe that you returned me being in love with you, with that.”

“It didn’t mean anything to me. None of it meant anything to me at all, I swear.”

“It meant something to Abigail,” you said, and you saw her flinch. “It meant something to the girl that told you that she loved you. And if I’m not mistaken, you told her the same. So did it really not mean something, or are you an even larger liar than I thought?”

“It didn’t mean anything.” For a spy, she was quite easy to read. Or maybe you just spent so much time knowing her that it was impossible to not know her inside and out. You knew her every movement that she made when she lied, and you knew what she looked like when she was telling the truth. This, this wasn’t it.

And it destroyed you.

“Don’t you understand how that feels? It feels like being cut a thousand times by the fancy blade that you made yourself. It feels like being bitten by your own dog. It feels like being nearly drowned in the oceans that you’ve swam in for forever. We were so close! We were so close that I was sure that we were predestined or some of that cheesy shit, Natasha. I could have sworn that we were meant for each other, but now I know that we were, because the betrayal that you did cut me down into a million pieces. That was something that neither of the others were able to do. That’s something that only you could do, and I trusted you not to do it. I never thought you could do it. I thought that you loved me far too much to pull the shit that you did.

“Maybe I was foolish enough to make the knife right in front of you, but I trusted you to know it was there and not use it against me. And you still stabbed me with it.” Your voice cracked and you could feel warm tears falling into your hand, but you didn’t care. You had to keep going. “How could you see me give and give and give to you, for you, and then tolerate it and go see someone else?”

She was breathing heavily after your rant, like she had spoken the words instead. A singular tear came down her face, and you thanked whoever was sitting above and watching for the crack in her mask. You were begging to see her half as emotional as you, half as hurt by her own actions.

You knew that it was different when you saw her wipe her tear. She never wiped her tears around you. You were the only one who got to see them, but you supposed not even you were allowed to see it anymore.

“I can’t even begin-” her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I regret what happened.”

“How do you regret-” you pursed your lips and shook your head, closing your eyes for a second as your heart clenched. “How do you regret falling in love with someone?”

“I don’t love her-”

“Do you love me?” You asked.

“More than I love anything else in the entire world.”

“You loved her more if you risked me losing me, Natasha.” You said, and her brows shot up at your conclusion. “You know what would happen if you did that to me and I found out. You knew you would lose me, and you did it anyway. So you two must have had something special. Congrats.”

“No, you’re-”

The temper that you tried to keep in check was bubbling over again, and you realized that there was no checking yourself. “Do you know how long I waited for you and never cheated? Never had sex with anyone else, never went on a date with anyone else? For just as long as you were supposed to! And I managed! So what’s wrong with you?”

“Y/N, I think we should calm down a little. Let’s talk it out for a second.”

“I’ve been talking it out. All by myself, actually, because you’re too afraid to do a damn thing and admit that you fucked up for two months straight.” You closed your eyes again as you felt the hurt come back up. “How do I know it was just that time? How do I know that?”

There was a silence that spoke volumes. “You don’t.”

“And what if we got back together, after all of this?” It was hypothetical, but seeing the hope perk up in her sparked something that you hadn’t felt towards her in forever. Or, you had, it was just smothered by the heat of your fury. “How would I know that you aren’t off pulling the same thing you did earlier?”

“You’d have to trust me.”

“Well, I can’t do that. I literally can’t,” you cried out, putting your head in your hands and shaking you head. It was quiet except for the sounds of your cries, and it was ominous. There was never a quiet moment between you and Natasha, but you were dying out, fizzling away. You already had your Big Bang, now you were creating black holes that would forever remain on opposite sides of the universe. And you both knew it.

“You- you humiliated me,” you shook your head from left to right again, face still hidden. “You had an affair with a younger girl, you did it in front of the people I shared a living space with. You did it shamelessly in front of the people I cooked meals for every day, the people who’s fucking uniforms I ironed! They were my friends too, Natasha, and you humiliated me. You made them keep your dirty secret, did you apologize to them?”

“I haven’t spoken to them much.”

“I had to figure out from Pepper in front of the wedding dress store,” you continued, your throat tightening. “I was there getting the dress that I was going to walk down the aisle in. Everything was perfect, and then you did something that shattered what I thought couldn’t be broken.” You had thought that you and Natasha were rock solid, the hardest stone. You two were diamonds that sparkled and prevailed together, until you learned that you were truly just glass.

She leaned forward, giving you a look that you knew meant honesty. But it was far too late for that, and it wasn’t going to do Natasha much good now. “I wish every second of the day that I didn’t do it, Y/N. Every second of every day.”

Your lips turned into a scowl. “Wishing doesn’t do anything for us. We’re not little kids and we’re not princesses.”

That word, wishing, must have been the one to do her in, because she was sobbing right into her own sleeve, an arm covering her eyes from your sight. Your tears were subsiding, and you watched her with thinly pressed lips. Watching her cry was never pleasant.

“I’m so, so sorry. I can’t- I can’t imagine how you must feel, but I’m so sorry. I don’t know why- I can only apologize to you and beg that you’ll welcome me back to you, where I’m supposed to be.” Your eye twitched as you listened, and told yourself to keep your strength up. “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, baby, but I know now. I know who I’m meant to be with, and it wasn't her. It’s you, it always has been.”

You knew that. You had always known that. It was a fact, something that had always rang as true as the beating of your own heart. You knew that it was written in the stars for you by some gracious god who decided to reveal what could have been your present and future to you, but you guess the other half of the tale never saw it herself. She knew now, sure. But she learned a little too late for your taste.

“Please, you have to know. You have to know that I didn’t- that I would never do it again.”

How could you tell someone that their apology wasn’t enough? How could you reject someone when they were at their lowest point? How were you going to find the strength in yourself to turn down the woman that you still very much loved? The one that you thought that you lost to another was right in front of you, begging for a second chance, but was it right for you to give it to her?

But how could she see you at your most vulnerable every day and know that you loved and cared for her with your whole heart and still do what she did? How was she okay with ruining you after all that you had been through? How did she not feel bad for two months about betraying the one person who she knew would be forever in her corner?

Whatever her method was to do things that hurt the people she supposedly loved, she found a way. And so would you.

“Have you said what you needed to?” You asked, your tone slow and deliberate as you fought for your tears not to ruin your words. Just as slowly, she nodded. “Then, please leave.”

A noise left her throat. “Please, wait. Wait.”

“There’s nothing left to say, Nat. We said it all.” You stood up, and she followed. “Fix your relationships at the tower, alright?”

“Don’t,” she muttered, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t tell me that you don’t want to try and then act like you care about me.”

You both walked to the door, because you knew that I the end she would do what you asked of her. “We were friends first.” You insisted. “We were friends first, Natasha, so I care. So, because we were friends first, I’ll tell you to get better. Work on yourself. Fall in love with someone else. Maybe not with two people at the same time.”

Her face was utterly pitiful. Her eyes were watering in a way you had never seen them do before, and her hands were shaking. You had seen the most of Natasha that anyone had in the entire world, yet you had never seen her so torn apart, so open. She laid it all out for you like you had been doing for her for years, and now you were finally the one to ruin the pretty picture. “Please.”

As soft as a gentle breeze came your next word. “No.” You yanked your apartment door open, and then you were both shivering. She looked up at you, her face full of an expression of the most shattered you had seen her yet, and the part of you that still ached prayed that it would be the last time you would ever see her at all.

Your body moved on its own. It asked for one more point of contact, just one more before you deprived yourself from the person you loved the most. Your lips pressed against the crown of her head as you told yourself it was for your own good. Your eyes shut as you put your hands on her shoulders, and tears were turning spots of her red hair dark. She was shaking underneath you, crying even harder than you were. You pulled away from her and opened the door wider.

“Wish you all the best, Nat.”

She walked away, off of your porch and into the night. You shut the door.

§§

You figured that you would miss her, but it wasn’t as bad as it was in the early part of leaving. By the time you moved on, it was far past the date of the wedding and even further past your anniversary. Sometimes it still hurt to think about how your life could have been had she chosen to stay faithful, but you learned that the scenarios hurt more than they helped and stopped.

You had a steady job, could keep up with the rent on your apartment, had enough for groceries and even had spare to get your nails done if you wanted to. You were doing it all, and you were doing it well after being attached at the hip to someone else for years and years.

There was a time where you would have thought that living without Natasha would be excruciating. The first night after you stormed out and cried yourself to sleep, you were sure that it would be painful, every night without her next to you would be like a stab in the gut. But after a while, it really wasn’t.

At first, it was. You missed her terribly, and, a part of you still did. You missed the good things that happened, but you realized that the good didn’t erase the bad, and that the bad didn’t erase the good. So, after a long time of thinking about her, your stance on Natasha Romanoff wasn’t hateful, or upset, or vengeful. You barely had one.

You thought about her and saw a book that you had finished reading a long time ago. Impactful at the time you read it, of course, and it could leave a longing imprint, but it was over. You could never relive that exact moment ever again that you read her, not a good one or a bad one. The hardest, most intense part of it was over, so far behind you that you could breathe again.

And damn, did it feel good to breathe.

§§§

Seeing her was awkward, and it was something that came straight out of your outdated imagination. You were by yourself buying apples at the market that you always went to because you adored fresh fruit, checking for bruises on them that were never there. You were carrying four in a bag with a content look on your face, just walking around and looking at other fruits and vegetables when you felt someone’s eyes on you. You looked up.

Sam Wilson was looking right at you, his jaw a little slack as he recognized you. You hadn’t seen him since you stormed out of the compound god knows how long ago. Within seconds, your life at the tower and memories with him flashed in your head. You two would cook together side by side often, and that's where you would do most of your bonding and talking with him. Your heart clenched for a moment, and then you raised the hand that wasn’t occupied and gave him a wave and a half smile, one that you hoped told him that you weren’t angry.

You looked back to the vegetables and then at the sign on the table. Damn, that’s kind of expensive. You shrugged your shoulders and put the greens on the weighing machine anyway, and pulled the money out of your purse for it. You smiled at the vendor and left with your new bag, wiggling your eyes at the strawberry table and starting your approach.

“Hi,” an achingly familiar voice called out while you were steps away from the table of deliciously red strawberries. You could smell them from where you were at. You turned around still, even after easily identifying who the voice belonged to. “How are you?”

She was as beautiful as ever, the top of her head under a blue ball cap and her eyebrows perfectly done. Her eyes were hidden by shades, but you didn’t need to see them to know what she was thinking. Her arms were loose at her sides, but her fingers were moving strangely, and you noticed them immediately as her nervous tick. You took in a deep breath.

“I’m good, how about you?” You asked Natasha back, and she gave you a pained smile.

“I’m alright.”

“Oh, sweet,” you said, and then gave her a parting smile before turning towards the strawberries.

“Wait,” she called out.

You stopped and turned your head, even though you wanted more than anything to forget that you ran into her. “Yes?”

There was a moment of silence between you two, and then she took a step forward. “Are you still upset?” She asked, voice lower in volume than usual.

You almost scoffed at her. “I’m an adult, I can’t really be sad for long or I’ll forget to pay a bill or something.”

“Can we talk?” She started, and you held up a hand.

“Let’s not open up old wounds,” you said, already knowing exactly where she was going with all of her hesitance and fiddling with her thumbs.

“I need to apologize for what happened.”

You shrugged. “I forgive you. Actually, I forgave you weeks and weeks ago. It’s okay. We can move on from it.” We need to move on from it.

You saw your old lover’s face light up in just the slightest, but just as fast as you saw it, it was gone. Her lack of wanting to express to you didn’t hurt anymore. “We?”

“We can move on,” you repeated, “just not together.” Her face dropped at what you said, and you shrugged your shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, I fucked up.”

Yes, you did. “It’s in the past now.”

There was a pause, and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. You wondered when your heart started to beat on its own again and not for the woman standing so close yet so far away. You wondered when you started to do anything for just yourself, and you wondered when you had stopped doing that in the first place. Her voice brought you out of your thoughts. “Is it?”

You almost had to ask her to remind you what the conversation was about. “Oh. It is,” you said gently, but your voice was still stern. “All good things must come to an end, and what we had was good. It was great, and that must have meant that we were destined to end fast.”

She shook her head slightly. “If you- if you forgive me, it doesn’t have to be over.”

“It does.” You looked at your phone and sighed. “I have to leave.”

“Okay,” She said softly after a moment, and finally took a step back. It was a small one, like her body was trying to override her brain. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you, Nat.” You saw her wince, and if you hadn’t made peace with everything, you would have, too.

She took another step back and cleared her throat, just as Sam started making his way over. She nodded at you, and you gave her a small smile, almost encouraging. Just walk away, this is the last time you’ll have to do it. “Later,” She said, her voice a little hoarse as she turned on her heel and walked right past Sam.

“Later” meant never. And you didn’t know if you were supposed to feel nothing or everything about it.

§§§

The last time you saw Natasha Romanoff was a year later, when you were holding hands with a pretty woman from an art show that you went to. She stole your heart with her work, and she turned out just as beautiful on the inside as she was with a brush, and on the outside. Her name was Julie, and she was great. She was honest.

You really liked Julie. She wasn’t Natasha, though, and it was both refreshing and saddening, because you knew that what you felt with Natasha was a one time thing. You two had one chance to keep the bond that was seemingly inseparable and stronger than steel together, and everyone was rooting for you. And then, it just fell apart.

You knew that Natasha was your first actual love, and the only person who was ever going to be able to love you emotionally like you needed to be. The two of you were, in your mind, made for each other. If soulmates existed, Natasha would have been yours, and you would have been hers. You knew that even five years after not being with her, and while the hole in your heart wasn’t hollow, you had a feeling that a little something was always going to be cold, like a cavity that was never filled. Someone saying her name or asking about her was like chewing ice on it.

But people moved on. Just like you did. And you had moved on from the beautiful yet icy mountains of Natasha and into a soft and whimsical meadow, and that meadow was Julie.

You were holding hands with Julie, arms swinging as you were leaving the donut shop and talking about silly things that made the both of you grin when you caught a familiar flash of red. Out of instinct, you looked over your shoulder, and what you saw made you freeze.

Natasha Romanoff was with a girl with brown skin and black hair that was glinting in the sunlight, and she wasn’t focused on the way that you and Natasha locked eyes in that moment, the moment that seemed to last years. You didn’t think you were still moving, and it certainly didn’t feel like you were taking a step, but you were. You saw her blue-green eyes blink at you, and like you were still stuck on the same wavelength after all that time, you both raised a hand and gave a timid wave, small smiles gracing the both of your faces.

You saw the girl tug lightly on Natasha’s arm, and your grin stretched. Natasha looked over at the girl, and an immediate smile, one similar but not quite the same as she used to give to you, was on her face. You turned your head forward, a light smile still on your own face as you watched it all happen in a split second.

You both kept walking.

*****

ahahaha wow, that hurt really bad actually - never doing angst again i’m a fluffy type of gal

so i’ve never done a taglist before! so i hope i’m doing it right otherwise this’ll make me look incredibly dumb-

@messuhp @username23345 @fishlikestuff @thelastavenger-3000 @grievingfortheliving @madamevirgo @dontmindmejustreading @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @sourpatchspinster @fayhar @sarcasticallywitty15 @normanijauregui

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #marvel fanfic #natasha romanoff angst #gay!natasha #this saddened me #my fics

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ocean-in-my-rebel-soul · 3 years

Note

“I thought you didn’t want me.” for Meribela?

Thanks for the prompt!...that I'm filling six months later... Welp, better late than never! I don't write these two much, so here's hoping it works!

@dadrunkwriting

Merrill x Isabela

Rated: G

Tags: angst, immediately after the Arishok duel, iffy coping mechanisms

===

Smoke still lingers, heavy and soggy like a wet blanket dragged over Kirkwall's buildings and stairs as Merrill slogs her way back to the alienage. Blood still pools in the streets from the Arishok's assault on the city. Creators, everything in her aches, something bone-deep and exhausted; too many people needed help, and she needed something to pull her mind from the battle at the Viscount's Keep, so she exhausted her healer's kit and her remaining strength stitching up every wound she found.

Bela had come this close to dying; Merrill knows she'll be out of town on the first ship she can find. Hawke had almost died trying to save her, and it's still touch-and-go whether or not they'll survive their wounds. Merrill's mishmash little family is trying to shrink again. Maybe it's the way of her life, that she is to lose everyone she loves. The thought settles like rancid halla milk in her belly and raises her hackles with what promises to be another dry-heave.

She stumbles on the final stair into the alienage. Lancing pain shoots up her legs when Merrill falls to her knees. "Fenedhis—I'll fall and break my neck at this rate." She rubs her knuckles into her eyes for a moment before heaving herself to her feet.

"Careful there, kitten, careful." Warm hands land at Merrill's shoulders when she sways unevenly. "Looks like a stiff breeze could knock you over."

Merrill glares at the ground. "Thanks," she says, clipped, and shakes herself from Bela's grip. Merrill crosses her arms over her balled fists and stalks off toward her little cottage.

"Kitten, wait."

Merrill speeds up into a half-jog across the broken cobblestones. Bela swears and her jewelry chimes together discordantly as she follows. The cottage is a scant hundred feet away, and Merrill breaks into a run. Her heart bolts rabbit-fast in her ears.

"I just want to talk!"

Merrill flings herself at the door. There hadn't been enough time to lock it earlier in the afternoon when the Qunari had attacked, and in Mythal's mercy, it is in remarkable shape. The door groans as Merrill barrels inside, torn askew on its hinges in the assault, and it sticks in the frame when she slams it shut behind her.

Bela pounds on the other side a second after Merrill throws the latch and locks the door. "Merrill, come on—let me in!"

"I don't want to talk to you!" she yells back. Tears sting her eyes, and Merrill roughly wipes them away on her knuckles. Her nails bite half-moons into the heels of her palms. "Go away!"

A thud hits the door, followed by a long slide. Bela sighs. "I know I messed up, Merrill," she says. "And I—I've thought about it. A lot. You and Hawke must have... must have rubbed off on me or something. So I came back."

Another thump on the door, lower now—Bela slumps against the door and bangs her head lightly on the wood. She's staying, for now.

It hits Merrill dully, from a distance. Her own legs shake and she catches herself on the door. Sliding to the dusty floor, she lands hard, legs splaying before her.

"You made me feel like you didn't want me."

The tears come down in earnest. Merrill tips her head back and lets them drip down her cheeks. "You—you left that night. You've talked about returning to the sea and taking me with you, and you left me here." Her voice warbles and she wipes angrily at her face again. "I said I loved you, Bela, and I woke up alone."

Long fingers inch into the gap under the too-short door. They quest and find Merrill's hip, pet awkwardly at the hem of her shirt. "I know. I spent a long time ignoring it. And then a long time thinking about it."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, I—" Bela knocks her head against the door again and curses a low streak. She sniffs roughly. "Merrill—oh Maker's taint, I'm not crying, for fuck's sake," she mutters to herself, so quiet that Merrill only just catches it. "Get it together."

Bela sighs. "I couldn't stop thinking about it, you know, once I started. Feelings are dumb, kitten, and here I am, having them. You know, this morning I wasn't sure what would be worse: having to face the Qunari and return the stupid tome, damn the consequences, or having to do all that and then face you," she says with an incredulous snort.

"People died because of them," Merrill mutters. Because of you, she doesn't say, because Bela knows that already and it's not helpful to bring it up right now. Bela can talk about that with someone else. Merrill is too tired to do it. She wipes her eyes and draws her knees to her chest, bends down enough to rest her head on them. "What do you really want, Bela?"

Silence meets her question. Merrill gnashes her teeth. "At least do me the kindness of answering me," she calls through the door.

"Believe me, kitten, I'm trying," Bela grunts. The door thumps again. "What—" She cuts off on a cough, clears her throat, and tries again. "Do I still... Is this still safe harbor?"

"Safe harbor," Merrill murmured. Her hand found Bela's and she laced their fingers together. Bela blinked, almost like she was surprised, but surely she knew, right? Merrill had said it in all the ways she knew how—murmured against her skin in the night, woven in the living shield Merrill casts in battle to protect her back, hammered into the fine edge of the dagger she'd saved for over most of a year to have commissioned for Bela's last birthday. Tonight she whispered it into Bela's heart, skin sweat-slick and chest heaving, feverish. "Ar lath ma, Bela, ma vhenan. You always have a home with me."

Bela smiled. "C'mere, kitten," she said, and she pulled Merrill into a bruising kiss, her trembling hand wandering down Merrill's ribs and over her belly with a singular purpose.

And then Merrill woke up alone.

"I want to come home, Merrill. If you'll let me." A beat. "If you'll have me."

"Bela—"

"I know I'm bad at this, kitten. I know. And I want to try anyway. For you. For our misfit family."

Merrill knocks her forehead on her knees and squeezes her eyes shut. "And I'm just—I—Creators, Bela! What am I supposed to do?"

"Let me in so I can apologize properly, I hope. It's dark and fucking cold." She falls silent. "I really am sorry, Merrill, and I want to make it better."

Something twists in Merrill's gut, wounded and hurting and full of aching rage. She drags in a shaking breath. "You'll have to talk to the others," Merrill says. "You'll have to, you'll have to apologize, and explain, and all that. And you'll have to ask them for forgiveness, too, especially Hawke, and maybe they'll all be nice and give it to you. Then maybe..." Merrill sniffs and wipes her face on her trousers. "Then maybe you can ask me for forgiveness, too. Later."

"...that's fair," Bela sighs. She thumps her head on the door again. "Really screwed everyone over, didn't I?"

Merrill unfolds herself and stands up with a groan, wobbles against the door. She scrapes her nails down the wood. "You'll need to talk about that with all of them. I'm—I'm going to bed."

She gets a step away before she turns back, some needy thing scraping at the inside of her ribcage, and yanks open the door. Bela scrambles to her feet; she barely has time to protest before Merrill's got her hand wrapped around Bela's wrist and pulls her, hard, into the cottage. Merrill kicks the door shut behind them and leans back against it, tugging Bela to follow until her arms bracket Merrill in.

There's no doubt as to what this is. Surely Bela knows. Surely Bela understands. Merrill can't say it any plainer, not again.

"I thought you said you're going to bed."

"I am. We are. If you want."

Bela searches her face. "It's not this easy," she whispers, her brows pinching lightly in confusion.

"No," Merrill says. She reaches up to cup Bela's cheek, rubs her thumb along the edge of her bottom lip. "But it has been a long, terrifying day, and I'm tired, and I—" her voice warbles again "—I've missed you so very much."

Relieved warmth pools in Bela's gaze when it flicks to Merrill's lips. "I've missed you, too, kitten." She dips her head and gently, more than Merrill expects, presses their mouths together.

She sighs into it and lets her hands fall to the neckline of Bela's tunic, curling into the fabric and anchoring her pirate queen to her. "If you stay, we're going to have to talk about all of this in the morning," Merrill murmurs.

Another wave of tears threatens to fall. If.

She shakes her head against the thought and winds her arms around Bela's neck. Her heart hammers in her chest, breaking it open; Merrill has to hold it together, smother everything down against the lean lines of Bela's body to keep her heart from pelting into Bela's hands again.

"I know."

It's not fair that Bela could just leave like that, before. That Merrill wants her anyway, now. Bela trails kisses along the edge of her jaw, nudges her into tipping back enough that she can trail her lips down the sensitive skin just below her ear. Her laughter ghosts over Merrill's skin when she can't help the shudder that trembles through her.

It's not fair. Bela was gone for months, and Merrill loves her just as much now as then, even though it burns.

She closes her eyes at the frisson of selfish want that bolts through her. I know, Bela says, and Merrill desperately wants to believe.

But Bela always told her she's too trusting, too open-hearted, and where has that gotten Merrill so far? Empty-handed, empty-hearted, and lonely.

Merrill drags in a shuddering breath. The morning will come soon enough, and she can't waste any more time worrying about the inevitability of Bela's coming departure.

"Take me to bed," she whispers, and she lets herself be hauled off, curled tight into Bela's embrace, unable to let her go for even a moment.

She’s survived the dawn of every morning before. She will survive it again.

#da drunk writing circle #Merrill #Isabela #Meribela #prompt fill #ocean writes #dragon age 2 #da2

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shurisneakers · 3 years

Text

shut in [8]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, guns, anxiety

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: oh my god oh my god sam stans how are we feeling djkghdfjkhgdf. no thoughts only sam wilson in ep1 of tfatws <333

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!!

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Hey, I’m just going to step out for today.” You looked up from the doodle you were making on the corner of the paper. “Catch you later? Just find me if you need anything.”

“You okay?” You automatically sat up straighter, blanket creasing under you. Something was amiss in his body language.

“Yeah, just-” He seemed like he was struggling for words. “-Brooklyn.”

You didn’t get what he was making a reference to until it suddenly dawned on you.

It was the codeword he had suggested right at the beginning of your time in the house. If he was in danger you were sure he’d tell you, at least an inkling of information.

But no, this was for some time alone, further confirmed by the distant look in his eyes.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here if you need.”

He gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, turning around and leaving the room.

You were left staring after him, the drawing you were making of the house layout discarded on the bed. You were working on strategies, vantage points- anything that could help in case something went wrong.

Was it because of the dumb ‘moment’ you had shared two days ago? It didn’t seem like it because he hadn’t brought it up at all and God knows you would never. Was it something else that had happened, something you did?

Stop overthinking. He probably just needs a day to himself.

You had spent almost a month in each other’s company and he had never once complained. He had a tendency to be petty about minor inconveniences, like you trying to watch a movie when his favourite segment on the local news channel was going on. He liked the cooking show they hosted.

He had never made it a point to specifically tell you that he needed some time to himself, much less use the word.

“Get yourself together,” you whispered to yourself, shaking off the nagging feeling you had.

If he had an issue, he would have voiced it. He never shied away from doing that before and you knew he wouldn’t start now.

You forced yourself to think about something else, grabbing the copy of American Gods you had already gone over once before but were subjecting to a reread. Opening the page you had last left it at, you were determined to distract yourself.

Nearly twenty minutes later and exactly zero pages since you had started, you realised that no matter how much you forced yourself to get into it, you went over the same line over and over again, not a single word registering in your head.

“Motherfucker,” you groaned, letting the book fall on your face. You took a long look outside the window, mind drifting.

It was a nice day out. Maybe some sun would help.

You lifted your legs off the bed, taking your book with you to the kitchen. You could get a nice sandwich-- the same as the last three fuckin’ weeks but you digressed-- a glass of water, and you could sit outside for a while. A mini picnic.

You opened a new packet of sliced bread, taking two out before stopping. You pondered over whether you should make him a sandwich for when he returned, knowing that he didn’t eat lunch before he left.

You thought about it for a good minute before rolling your eyes, pulling out two additional slices to make him one as well. It was just a sandwich. It wasn’t a big deal.

Tucking your book under your arm, you carried your lunch and a glass of water to the patio around the back.

The wind rustled the leaves and the sun wasn’t harsh. The low buzz of insects was the only sound that kept you company.

The air was crisp and you instantly felt better than you had all day in the room.

Setting your stuff down on the bench, you sat down, inhaling deeply.

The book suddenly didn’t seem so impossible to complete as you tried once more, slipping into the pages easily. Even after you finished your food, you continued to lounge about there, too engrossed and content to move.

You didn’t notice the afternoon go by, evening coming and going just as swiftly. You swatted at the occasional fly but nothing else bothered you.

It felt like summer break. At least what you thought it would feel like. You never had one, being homeschooled about things from various people in the organization. There wasn’t a singular, long break. You were just forced to adapt.

You didn't know how to deal with the suffocating realisation of knowing there were so many things you missed out on. It grew the longer you spent time away. You just shoved it away, forcing yourself to deal with it another day.

He comes back when the sky is slipping into shades of orange, a backpack on his shoulder. There was a patch of sweat around his neck and his head was hung low as he walked.

“Hey,” you hoped it didn't look like you were waiting for him. It could easily be taken as you camping out there, waiting for your husband to return from a hard day in the fields.

Sam looked up at your greeting. You noted that the bruise on his nose was starting to change colour but the swelling had reduced from how bad it used to be.

“Left you a sandwich on the counter if you’re hungry,” you added. He nodded in acknowledgement, making his way up the stairs and into the house without another word.

You let out an exhale, feeling a little better knowing that he was at least back in one piece. No reason to believe otherwise other than the anxiety you had developed over imagining the worst case scenarios.

You picked up your book again, intending to finish off the last bit before you went back inside for the day.

About half an hour later Sam re-emerged from the house, your attention snapping to him as the door opened and shut. He had changed into a new pair of clothes, looking a little cleaner like he was fresh outta the shower. He had a sandwich in his hand that he had already taken a few bites out of. You wondered if it was the one you left for him.

You didn’t expect him to take a seat next to you on the bench. He didn’t look at you or open his mouth to talk so you followed suit. You continued reading, or at least tried to, as he just sat there, finishing his sandwich without any kind of other interaction.

There was a strange tension he wasn’t addressing. He instead leaned back, arms crossed behind his neck to support his neck and closed his eyes. His foot tapped against the wooden floor and rather than getting annoyed, you found solace in the repetition.

“They recruited me on this day,” Sam said to no one in particular. His eyes were still closed and his feet still tapped against the ground. “Parents died when I was a kid, I got shifted around orphanages and homes a lot. Finally Ransone had someone pick me up.”

You closed your book softly, setting it down beside you. That’s what was bothering him.

Secret adoption is what they called it officially in the business, but around the organization it was just known as the recruitment process. Every record of Sam being alive would have been destroyed to maintain anonymity.

To the world he just… disappeared.

It was a day that clearly brought with it so much pain. You were too young to remember when you joined, and no one had kept track either. You supposed it was for the good.

It was supposed to be a happy day, one filled with new beginnings. Maybe that’s what he would have thought when he got picked. It’s what you did.

“I’m sorry,” you said, not having anything else to offer. You relieved your memories everyday in your head. Having a morbid anniversary of sorts would no doubt drain the life out of you; remembering one singular day that would trigger the rest of the decisions you made in your life.

He didn’t say anything in return. You turned your attention to the sky, finding it easier to look at that than the disturbed look on his face.

“Do you regret this?” he asked out of the blue.

“All of it,” you replied, without skipping a beat.

“Every single one, huh?” Sam’s one eye opened to peer at you.

“It wasn’t up to me to take someone’s life away.” You were just a child. You knew nothing other than what you were taught; so then why was it so fucking hard to forgive your past self for straying into this. “Even once I realised that I couldn’t leave.”

You didn’t form any relationships while you worked with Ransone. Whoever you did allow yourself to care for ended up dead or worse, sometimes as a cruel lesson to not make friends in the organization you worked in because all they served as were distractions and liabilities. Others were plain scum; people who you knew were using you but you didn’t care. The loneliness hurt worse.

“What about you?”

“I’d give anything to go back and change things,” he admitted. He didn’t have a say either. It didn’t make things easier.

“You regret all of ‘em too?”

“Mostly,” he said. “One of them I don’t.”

“That one must have deserved it then,” you deduced. It was the only logical explanation you could think of; the worst of the worst.

“Nah. I let him go.”

It took a while to register what he said.

“What?” You twisted your body to look at him.

“First mission I ever did.”

His hands were shaking lightly, barely holding on to the gun. This wasn’t what he was taught. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

He had already managed to get his way into the house through the back. His partner had taken care of most of it and Sam only had to knock people out. He hadn’t had to kill anyone yet.

But now his partner was injured outside the door. Quick shot to the leg, a punch in the face and he was out cold. Sam was already in the master bedroom by the time it happened. He had no idea about where his partner was, only the crippling fear of being left alone and the nerves from the threat posed to him if this didn’t go right.

He knew he didn’t have enough time. He had only a few minutes to kill him and get out of there before his family returned.

The man itself was sitting at the study table, his back towards Sam. Just pull the trigger and get out of here. It was deadly silent.

“I know you’re here to kill me,” the man said suddenly. Sam nearly jumped but instead tightened the grip on the gun.

“Stay where you are.” He sounded confident.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere.” His chair swiveled around, letting him face Sam. His hair was white with a beard that matched. He was dressed down in his pajamas, a robe covering him. He didn’t look nervous.

“Stop talking.”

“You’re younger than what I expected,” the man observed, not paying heed to what Sam was in. He was a considerable distance away. “You’re not even legal yet, are you? I got kids, I would know.”

Sam didn’t say a word, only lifted his gun up to align with his forehead. “I said, stop talking.”

“I’ve made mistakes. Several, actually,” he mused, “It’s why your boss sent you here. I’ve accepted my fate.”

“Then it should be easy.”

“Oh, it never is,” the man chuckled. “It doesn’t get lighter. You learn to ignore it but it’ll weigh on you for the rest of your life.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. It would get easier. It had to.

“I doubt that’s what you heard, however,” he continued. “Ransone’s a bit… unstable. It’s in his blood, but you- you don’t look like you could live with it.”

Ransone’s history was well known enough that rival gang leaders knew it too, apparently. The man would have been delighted at his infamous reputation.

Just shoot him. Just shoot him and end this.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, taking a sip from the tumbler he had in his hand. “You’re going to be the last person I talk to. It’d be nice to have a name.”

“Sam,” he whispered, inwardly cursing himself.

“Sam. That’s a strong name,” the man said, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Sam?”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t have a choice.” He hated how defeated he sounded. It was a weakness.

“They want you to believe that. It takes away your freedom. I would know, I’ve used it.” The man smiled, setting down his glass. “I’ll tell you this though, Sam. You always have a choice.”

“Stop talking, man.” Sam pulled the safety off.

“Once you go down this way, there’s no way you can escape. Someone will always have to die; either him or you.”

“That’s not true.” He could leave at any time. He just needed-

“You’ll see for yourself.” The man leaned back on his chair, resigned. “But for now, go ahead. I’ll make it easy for you.”

He simply closed his eyes and sat back.

You waited for Sam to continue.

“Couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “Son of a bitch got in my head and I knew what he was doing too. Told him to get the fuck out before my partner shot him in the face.”

“Does Ransone know?” You were still reeling from the incident he recounted. You didn't know what else to say.

“Holds it over me every damn day,” he scoffed. “Some fucked up way of saying that I owe him one.”

To be frank, you were surprised Sam was still alive to tell you. Everyone knew that Ransone forgiven the first mistake someone made, but this was huge. If it were anyone else, he would have had someone try out a hundred different ways to push Sam to the brink of death and back; having him begging for the release that death would bring.

“He hasn’t ever cashed in that favour?”

“He did. Had me take out the leader of the Ten Rings after that.”

“So then why did you still continue?”

“I did something extremely dangerous a couple of years ago that he found out about recently. Used that to get me to come for this mission.”

He didn’t elaborate what he meant and you didn’t ask him to. You supposed it was a story for another day. This was heavy enough.

“He wants to get rid of me as much as I want to get away from him, trust me. We’re the weird, toxic relationship those self-help Instagram pages warned you about.” Trust Sam to make a dumb joke during a conversation like this. “Probably the only time someone from the gang let their target go and not died.”

That wasn’t as true as he thought he was but you didn’t want to seem like you were one-upping him. You didn’t want him to think you were making this about you.

“You remember the big break you were talking about?” you tread carefully, gauging his reaction before you continued. “The one that pushed me up the ranks or whatever.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgement, bringing his hands from behind his head to fold across his chest.

“Similar story, ‘cept Ransone doesn’t know.”

“What?” His eyes shot open. “How?”

“I was so tired of him treating me like a child. Everyone around who joined after me was out there doinghardcore missions and I was stuck with petty shit.” You didn’t know any better. You wished you had. “So he told me if I made it through this one, he’d send me on more.”

This wasn’t your first mission. You had handled hits before, mostly in the shadows, from a distance.

This was different. It was broad daylight, waiting behind a wall near the gated entrance of the house for a car to pull up.

A challenge, Ransone had posed, with strict instructions to do it in broad daylight. If you got out of this undetected, he’d consider sending you on more sophisticated missions.

“Highly stealthy. They’re dangerous,” you were warned. “You won’t know what hit you if you’re caught off your game.”

The low rumble of the car outside the gate alerted you of your target’s arrival. The gates weren’t going to open, the guards were dead.

The car stopped, waiting for the path to open up. When it didn’t the car’s engine slowed to a stop. The man in the driver’s seat got out to open the gate, giving you a clear shot.

You took a deep breath, clenching your eyes shut for a second before taking aim.

The body hit the gravel and you quickly made your way to the car. You could see the woman in the backseat gaping at where the man was standing a few seconds ago. She was struggling against the door, trying to escape.

She finally succeeded, the door opening suddenly as she stumbled over herself trying to get out.

“Stay there,” you commanded. She slowly looked up at you, face white as a sheet.

“Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt us.”

“I’m sorry.” You truly were.

Her face changed, dropping the facade immediately. She just looked on in acceptance, not making an effort to move. Manipulative. She almost had you convinced

You held the gun over her, pulling the trigger. A single shot. Her body slumped over.

You stared at her in silence, expressionless. You let out an exhale, tucking the gun back into the waist of your pants, stepping over her body to leave.

A small, staggering breath made you stop in your tracks. It was so slight you barely heard it. You took a step back, trying to trace where it came from.

You ducked your head to peer into the car, your heart stopping. Your hand instinctively reached for your weapon.

“What the-” you muttered, facing a boy who looked only a few years younger than you. He was staring straight ahead, muscles in his jaw tight.

The son wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be abroad, according to the case file. Unless there were two of them you didn’t know about, this boy wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Listen,” you began, but he didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, body trembling. He was scared. He didn’t show it.

“Show no mercy,” Ransone’s voice rang in your head.

“He’s a child,” you murmured to yourself. Your gun felt heavy in your hand.

Show no mercy.

You could only imagine what would be in store for you if you returned to Ransone with some tale of sympathy. This boy was only a few years younger than you. He didn’t have anything to do with this.

Show no mercy.

“Kid,” you called out. He slowly turned his head. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“What?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Leave. You can’t be seen if someone comes back,” you urged. “I won’t be able to help you.”

“You killed my mom,” he jeered, unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I had to.” Your voice was quiet. Your hand clutched at the hood of the car to keep your balance. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Go.”

When he didn’t shift, you slammed the hood of the car, scaring him enough to pull at the door and stagger out of the car.

You turned your back to him, not waiting to see where he was going. The more deniability you had, the better.

“Did he make it?”

“He did,” you divulged the information you had found out a while ago. It was a messy confrontation to say the least but you got out unscathed.

“And Ransone doesn’t know.”

“There’s no record of this kid. He thinks he was at boarding school.” You shrugged. “Wasn’t going to correct him either.”

“If he did find out-” Sam trailed off.

“I’d be dead,” you concluded. “Being his favourite wouldn’t matter.”

“Why was it such a big deal, this mission?”

“She was a part of a major gang that Ransone was losing to.”

Sam just nodded knowingly, looking ahead again. You knew he’d done missions like this as well. Things like this were common so it didn’t need further elaboration.

“This job sucks,” he let out.

You gave a short laugh. That was an understatement.

“I want out. Can’t keep doin’ this for much longer,” he continued, however, to your surprise. “Don’t wanna keep doin’ this.”

You bit your lip, eyebrows knitted in concern. “You will.”

“How?” You hadn’t seen him like this before, this hint of desperation in his tone that left as quickly as it came. “I’ve tried, everything just comes up short.”

“I’ll help you.” You wanted to, God you did.

“You gonna kill him for me?” He looked at you. “‘Cause that’s really the only way out of this.”

If you were pushed to the limit, if he was on his knees in front of you and there was a gun in your hand pointed at him; would you be able to pull the trigger? Would you be able to kill the only constant you’d had for more than half your life?

“I can’t,” you muttered, dejection making its way into your thoughts.

“I know,” Sam said softly, “I wouldn’t ask you to either.”

You took a moment to observe him. The sun did him good. There was a soft glow to his skin, the colours of the sunset dancing in his dark eyes. Laugh lines were becoming more prominent around them, only adding to its charm.

He was a good man. He deserved better.

“I’ll find a way,” you sounded determined, “I promise.”

You didn’t say that very often. Your word didn’t mean a lot to people in the business, but it seemed to, to him.

“Thank you.” He appeared taken aback but didn’t show it in his words.

You simply sent him a smile, a reassurance. You knew what you had to do, just weren’t sure how.

He was right. There wasn’t a way out of it other than the one he proposed, but it wasn’t an option. You had to find another.

You would. You’d figure it out.

“It’s Cinnamon, by the way,” he said without any context.

You looked at him in question.

“My embarrassing nickname.” This was not where you saw the conversation heading but you were delighted all of a sudden. “My ma used to call me that all the damn time. Mortifying.”

“Cinnamon and Buttercup.” You didn’t bother hiding the grin that spread across your face. “World’s best assassins.”

“If that name ever leaves this conversation, I’ll know who to murder.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” you said playfully, nudging his shoulder.

He shrugged, face relaxed. “T’was worth a shot.”

An unintentional pun you snickered at. You didn’t tease him any further, just filed the name away as a memory. Maybe you’d use it later.

“Have you ever let anyone go after that?” You didn’t want to keep coming back to this conversation but you liked having someone to relate to.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Didn’t want to test my luck.”

“Me too.” One had been enough. You lived in fear for so long, waiting for someone to pull the plug and tell him what you’d done. That fear only grew everyday, finding a place at the deepest corner of your mind to fester.

“It’s what I meant when I said Serpentine had a motive to want me dead,” Sam said, piquing your interest once more.

“Huh?”

“The man I was supposed to kill- he was their old head. He disappeared after that and no one heard from him but it pissed off everyone, right from Ransone to their stupid gang’s janitor,” he explained, your eyes going wide with every word. “So the irony is, if we’re right, I might have led us into this situation. They’re looking for revenge.”

“Holy shit,” you uttered under your breath.

“I just assumed he died of old age if someone didn’t get to him first. He looked like he was one birthday away from the grave anyway.”

“How are you still alive, Sam?” you asked in wonder.

“I’d do it again.” He laughed, a deep one from his stomach.

He was reckless, clearly. Happily and unashamedly so. And if you continued to hang out with him after this was over, he’d probably get you killed in some stunt or two.

But maybe you’d deal with that if the time came.

He leaned back again, this time no creases on his forehead from stress. He looked at peace.

You sat together in silence. You occasionally stole glances at him as the sun set in front of you, a small smile on your face.

You leaned your head on his shoulder tentatively. You could feel him tilt his head to look at you and you prepared to have him ask you to move.

It never came. Instead, he scooted closer to you, letting you rest against him more comfortably. Your heart skipped a beat; barely but surely.

A realisation quickly hit you, suddenly before consuming you. Your stomach sank.

“Fuck.”

Next part

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pascalpanic · 3 years

Text

Pilot’s Hands (Frankie Morales x f!reader)

Summary: Frankie takes you up flying in his helicopter. You can’t help but focus on those goddamn hands of his.

W/C: 2.4K

Warnings: SMUT (18+), finger penetration/fingering, language, lots of dirty talk and innuendos, please forgive the multiple puns I made, a singular smack to the ass. afab reader. talk of flying in helicopters and being rlly high above the ground. reader is nervous about heights.

A/N: Frankie smut is the best smut. This was requested by @notabotiswear!! I hope it’s what you were feeling, love!

Your hands grip the chair as the helicopter slowly lifts from the ground. There’s an urge deep inside of you to jump from it now, while you’re low, so that nothing can happen, that you can’t be lifted up. You want to scream and shout and rip these headphones from your ears and make it all stop, but you don’t. You grip the seat even harder and squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the pressure in your ears start popping and changing.

The anxiety eases instantly as you look to your left. There sits Frankie, guiding the helicopter. He looks absolutely fucking gorgeous, as usual. Today he wears a warm flannel over a t-shirt with his favorite beer’s logo. On top of his brown waves, which were extra unmanageable this morning, sits his favorite ball cap. He’d spent an unhealthy amount of time picking out just the right outfit today, since it was technically a date.

You smile a little at how focused he is. There are lines of concentration between his two thick eyebrows, his stubbly jaw clenched in concentration. His large hands navigate around the dashboard, controlling the massive machine as it pushes you up into the sky. It’s soothing when he’s the one doing it.

Frankie has always talked to you about his love of flying. It’s something you’ve never quite understood. He talks about it like it’s beyond any other experience. Flying is his happy place. He’s never more content than when he can control the big machine and soar through the sky. You’re the opposite. Flights usually required you to take an anxiety med and pass out. The feeling of being so far above the ground makes you panic and fills your brain with the worst possible scenarios.

There’s something better about it when the man you’d trust with your life- are trusting with your life- is the one piloting the machine. He sneaks you a smile as he notices you staring, but in an instant is back at the controls. You giggle and lean back in your chair, enjoying the view. Frankie’s got you.

The ascent continues. You’re still gripping the sides of the chair with all of the force your hands can create, and the anxiety seeps in. You close your eyes and force yourself to focus on your breathing. Even this high in the air, Frankie is your solid ground. You reach over and grab his thigh, knowing his hands are too busy to hold. Your fingers dig into his leg, but it’s no distraction.

Finally, Frankie slips one hand beneath yours and laces your fingers together. “Open those eyes, baby,” he asks, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re at the cruising altitude.”

Your eyes open and are filled with nothing but blue sky surrounding you. Looking to the sides, you can see your city surrounding the two of you. Everything looks so small. You’re unconsciously beaming, and when you turn to look at Frankie, he’s grinning back. “Cool, right?” He asks with an equally big smile.

“The coolest,” you nod in agreement and laugh. It’s astounding, really.

“Just one second, babe,” he tells you and drops your hands, pressing some buttons and flipping some switches. His hands are skilled, flying across the controls with practiced ease. His voice is smooth and even in tone as he talks to someone in his headset. He continues even as he talks to the controller, reaching over you to hit a far button.

He’s good to just steer now, you can tell, and you wrap both of your arms around one of his. He signs off from the call and looks over at you, then down at the arms on your hands. “You need something to hold onto?” He asks, leaning over and kissing your head briefly.

“You look sexy flying,” you chuckle and slide your hands down to his, holding it happily as you look around. “You’re just… so good at it,” you shrug and look around the cockpit.

He laughs softly. “I wonder how it happened,” he teases, pulling his hand back to he can use it to navigate. “Are you okay? Sure you’re not too anxious?” He asks. His eyes aren’t on you- they can’t afford to be right now, while you’re in the air- but his words are sincere.

You nod, beaming. “I trust the pilot more than I ever have.”

He shakes his head and smiles, adjusting his cap before flipping a few more switches. “You just keep telling me, okay? Let me know if you wanna be done early.”

“I think I can handle thirty minutes in the air, watching you be all cute and smart.”

“Smart? I don’t know about that one, baby,” he shakes his head but smiles down at the gauges he checks.

For a few minutes, it’s silent between the two of you. The hum of the engine and the spinning blades fills the space between you. You’re content to look around while Frankie pilots the two of you, snapping photos. At one point, you sneak a few photos of him, giggling at how cute he looks. You lean over and kiss his jaw through the stubble, which makes him grin and blush slightly. “Babe, I’m working,” he whines, but it’s all teasing, you both know. Frankie loves nothing more than some physical affirmation.

You chat quietly when he has the time to do so, when the machine doesn’t require as much of his attention. He’s fantastically skilled at multitasking, you notice, which makes you smirk a little. He’s so fucking good at what he does, those calloused hands dancing around the dash like a skilled piano player reciting a sonata, like an artist creating a masterpiece. And you suppose, to Frankie, flying is like an art.

“Do you know any tricks?” You ask at one point.

Frankie nods. “I can do barrel rolls and shit. I don’t think you’d want to feel that,” he chuckles, his hand resting on top of yours, which sits on his thigh.

“Oh fuck, not now,” you laugh softly. “But that’s really cool.” And hot, your primal brain, the one that seeks the best mate, tells you.

As the time in the air dwindles down to a stop, Frankie once again has to pay full attention. You return to your previous position: gripping your chair. Your hands aren’t as forceful now, far more trusting of Frankie and his skills. You can even look around as the world grows bigger and bigger as you approach it. Not long after, the helicopter lands, and you let out a deep sigh of relief. “Wow,” you laugh, a little bit of anxiety still in your voice. “Now I can tell you everything that I wanted to say in the air.”

Frankie looks over at you, tilting his head in confusion. “And what was that, exactly?”

“That you look so fucking hot,” you grin at him. “You do, really. You know what the fuck you’re doing, and that’s hot. And your hands, you’re so good with them,” you muse as you pick one up and play with the thick fingers attached.

This time, Frankie’s smiling. “Oh yeah?”

You nod happily. “Mhm. Just look so good when you’re using them. Makes me think of other things they’re good at.”

He’s a little red, but he grins. “Really?”

“You know that. I’m never quiet about how good you are with them, am I?” You tease and laugh.

Frankie’s face tinges with red, and his Adam’s apple bobs hard with a gulp. “Don’t do this to me yet, baby,” he chuckles and shakes his head. He removes your headphones once the blades have stopped rotating, then his own, and unstraps the both of you.

Frankie gets out then helps you down from the chopper. One of the other men who works at the field comes over to say hello, and he snaps a photo of you and Frankie for you.

The picture is perfect: the blue skies in the background contrast the dark metal of Frankie’s helicopter. He has both arms around you, and you have one hand pressed to his chest. You’re both grinning, both wearing flannels and each in one of his ball caps: you stole one this morning before you left his house.

He walks away after you both thank him, and Frankie leans in close. “Gotta get some shit done in the hangar. Won’t be more than ten minutes. Go wait for me in the car, baby girl,” he murmurs in your ear. He gives you a little smack on the ass, which makes you start to scamper off.

You grab his keys from his pocket, then toss a flirty smile over your shoulder as you walk to the parking garage.

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting shotgun in Frankie’s truck. He removes his cap and runs a hand through those curls before putting it back. You watch it, noticing the way the knuckles bend and fold. He looks over at you and notices the expression on your face. “You still thinking about them, baby girl?” He asks with a growing smirk.

You nod, the wetness in your panties growing. “Mhm. Think you could pilot me?”

Frankie rests a hand on your thigh, tracing circles into the skin. “Unzip those jeans for me, baby. Let’s find out.”

You’re in a parking garage, and no one else is around. It’s early on a Saturday morning, but the risk is just as exciting. You do as he says, and Frankie slides his fingers beneath your panties.

The pads of his ring and middle fingers start at the top of your folds, tracing down the damp skin until they reach your entrance. “Fuck,” he groans at how wet you already feel. His fingers swirl around just millimeters inside of you, taking the wetness and removing his hand, bringing it up to your mouth. “Gotta get them ready for me first, honey. You’re already plenty wet, but I wanna make it good for you.”

You oblige and take his fingers in your mouth, sucking on them dutifully and moaning around them. They’re so thick and strong, and the thought makes you spread your legs wider. “Good girl,” Frankie almost growls before bringing his fingers back down to your entrance and slipping them inside of you.

You cry out, your hand gripping the side of your seat once more; this time, it isn’t from anxiety, but from pleasure. They scissor you open slowly, those thick digits reaching deep inside to that spot you can never quite reach with your own. “Ah, fuck,” you whimper as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. “I was thinking about this the whole time we were flying, Frankie. Your fingers and how good they feel inside me.”

He bites his lip, curling his toes in effort to not get hard right here and now. As much as he loves doing this, loves the risk, this is all the two of you can afford. It’s too late: he’s already got a semi tenting in his jeans.

“Yeah? That’s what you were thinking, dirty girl?” He almost purrs, his voice deep and desperate. “I’m trying to keep us from falling and dying, and all you could think about was how good it feels when I do this?”

As he says this, his fingers curl deep inside you and brush against your g-spot. “Fuck, yeah,” you nod, panting now. You’re sweating, probably through your t-shirt, but you don’t care. It feels too good. One hand of yours grips his wrist, as if it could keep him from pulling away. As if he ever would in the first place.

“Such a good girl, so wet for me,” he groans as he forces himself to stop his hips from bucking into the air, against nothing. “I could do whatever the fuck I wanted to you and you’d let me, couldn’t I?” He murmurs. “You’d even let me fuck you in that helicopter. No anxiety when you got my dick inside you, huh?”

You nod. “You could, yeah,” you groan, your other hand digging into the leather seat. “Anything you want, you got it,” you nod. “Feels so good, anything you do does.”

He smirks. “Maybe I’ll have to try that sometime, huh? Have you keep my cock warm while I fly?”

“Anything,” you repeat breathless, shuddering beneath him. The heel of his palm grinds harder into your clit and it’s all too much. “Frankie, baby, gonna cum, almost there.”

“That’s it, baby girl,” he nods, working his fingers harder. “Cum for me,” he demands, and who are you to disobey such a wonderful order?

Your walls clamp down hard on his thick fingers, the pleasure overwhelming you. “Frankie!” You cry out, head falling into the headrest of the seat.

Everything in your body is pulsing, desperate, pumping red-hot blood that feels like it’s infused with some kind of illicit drug to produce such a high. You whine his name again and again until it’s all too much, and you squeeze his wrist gently, asking him to be done.

He complies, tracing his fingers through your folds before they press against your lips again. “Clean me off, baby.”

You nod and take them in your mouth, lavishing them with your tongue the way you would with his cock, which you’re now growing more and more desperate for.

He pulls them out with a pop and dries them on his flannel, smirking over at you. “Goddamn, honey,” he murmurs as he looks at how wrecked you are just from his fingers. Before you can say anything, Frankie whips the truck into drive and peels out of the parking spot.

The sound of squealing rubber startles you, making you jump and squeal as you button your jeans and zip them. “Frankie!” You gasp and smack his arm. “What the fuck was that?”

His eyes are dead-set on the road, determined not to look at you, not to detract from his mission. “I’m getting us home as soon as I physically can so I can feel that around my dick,” he says, teeth grit in concentration.

He’s rock hard, you can see, and you offer a soft rub into his crotch. “Oh, baby,” you chuckle excitedly, staring at the road ahead of you. It’s going to be a long ride home for the two of you.

It’s safe to say that your anxiety over flying has lessened.

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