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shurisneakers · 3 years

Note

if you're taking ideas for harmless drabbles, i'd love to see one of bucky on one of those dates he mentioned and reader's shenanigans. if you aren't, feel free to ignore this!

a/n: are we really going to let a word limit define what a drabble is? is the vibe and spirit not enough? i say this bc this is 5.7k words long im so sorry. also hey thank you to everyone who piped in with their knowledge of violent geese and how apartment security works in new york!! also thanks to my bby @spiderrpcrker for reading this and telling me to publish this bc i wasnt going to fkjghfkj

warning: swearing, bad luck, dates, frustrated bucky, anxiety, mentions of gore but like only a sentence

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

Catch up with the rest of the series here: Harmless Masterlist

Bucky returns only two weeks later. His mission lasted longer than expected and all he wants is to lie down and sleep for forty eight hours straight.

“FRIDAY?” he mumbles, kicking off his shoes. His jacket had already been discarded by his bedroom door when he walked in.

“Yes, Sergeant Barnes?”

“How are ya?” He doesn’t miss a beat in asking, even though he’s exhausted.

“As good as ever. Did you have a successful mission?”

“If by successful you mean one sprained limb instead of two, then yeah.” He wasn’t really cribbing. His ankle was already starting to heal anyway and it was worth the roundhouse kick to a Nazi's face. “Do I have anything scheduled for this weekend?”

“You have a meeting on your calendar scheduled for this Saturday.”

“Could you send a text to Y/N and ask if we can push it to the next day?” His muscles feel sore and God, he could definitely use a hot shower but all of that becomes secondary the minute he feels the sheets under him.

“Would you like me to reschedule the other one as well?”

“What’s that?” He opens one eye in confusion. “There’s another one?”

“It’s on Sunday. You’ve labelled it ‘date’.”

Ah, fuck.

“Would you like me to change it?” FRIDAY never sounds like she’s judging him, which is nice. It also reminds him about how she, as an AI, can’t judge him, which is a rude wake-up call to how he doesn’t have friends.

“No,” his voice is muffled against the pillow, “no, let it be. Where is it again?”

“You’ve only specified diner, Sergeant Barnes.”

Public space, daytime, plenty of escape routes. Good on his less delirious self for selecting a diner.

“Thanks, FRIDAY.” Now that he’s a little more relaxed, he can feel himself slip in and out of consciousness.

“One last thing," her automated voice commands his attention again. "Y/N replied. She says sure and to take care.”

“Yay.” Not even a second later he’s out like a light.

____

“Did you bring me any souvenirs?” Is the first thing he hears as he marches into your lair.

“What could I possibly get you?”

“A postcard, a t-shirt.” You don’t look up from your tinkering.

“Decapitated finger, used bullets,” he continues, “cement blocks.”

“Ew.” You snap the lid shut on the thing you’re working on, spinning around on your chair. "That's not nearly romantic enough."

“That’s all you’re going to get from a Russian underground bunker.” He does a mini jog up the stairs of the platform to where you are.

“Does the finger have a ring at lea- oh hello?” You raise an eyebrow at the sight of him. “You look different.”

He peers down. The outfit was still all black. As always.

“Not your clothes, dummy,” you interrupt, making him look back at you. “Your face. What’d you do?”

He unconsciously raises a hand to his cheek.

“Did you wash your face? Is that it?” you squint at him. “Has it been a few months since the last time?”

“Wow, you’re so funny,” he drawls sarcastically. “Top tier comedian right there.”

“No wait, it’s the beard.” You snap your fingers in realisation, completely ignoring his comment. “You trimmed it.”

“So what if I did?” He leans on your table.

“You going somewhere?” you ask, elastic snapping against your hands as you remove your gloves.

“It’s none of your busi-”

“Hold on a second.” A sly smile begins to make its way onto your face. “Are you going on a date, Bucky Barnes?”

His comeback dies down in his throat. That didn’t take you very long for you to figure out.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” You look smug, to say the least.

“Shut up.” A ray of light glistening distracts him. He traces it to the thing you were working on earlier.

“Where are you guys going?” You cross your arm across your chest, a small smirk on your face.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” It’s a silver box, engraved intricately with swirls that, when he observes carefully, looks like a skull. Wow, terrifying.

“I’m literally asking you.”

“What are those?” He shifts the conversation towards a more productive angle instead.

“Evil in a box and some other stuff.” You shrug offhandedly. “Is it a lunch date or just coffee?”

“Like Pandora’s Box?”

“A discount version, sure,” you confirmed impatiently. “Stop changing the topic, listen to me.”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“Do you need a chaperone?” The sincerity in your voice for such a bullshit question has him scoffing.

“Good God- no, I do not need a chaperone. I’m 106 years old, I can go out unsupervised.” He reaches over and plucks the box off your table.

“Sir, you’re a geriatric."

“What are those?” He points to a few ray odd ray guns.

“Minor stuff you don’t have to worry about right now.”

He shakes the box in his hand. “What’s gonna happen if I open this?”

“Very bad things,” you whispered ominously before your volume returns to normal. “How’d you meet this person? Online?”

“She’s Natasha’s friend.” He turns the box over, seeing a small latch at the side. “What bad things?”

“Bad luck and misery. Don’t play with it, it’s dangerous.” You pull the box away from him. “Aw, is it a blind date?”

“Why do you care so much?” he shoots back, tugging the box back towards him.

“Just lookin’ out for you, Bucko,” you huff, adjusting your grip on your device. “Need to keep my favourite senior citizen safe.”

“I have a vibranium arm.” Whose force he could use to grab the box once and for all, but wasn’t. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“What if she has one too, huh? Then what?”

“She doesn’t.” As far as he knows, he’s the only one alive with a metal appendage made out of the strongest metal in the world. That could very well change by tomorrow but he's keeping the title for now.

“But what if she does? I swear to- stop trying to take the box!” You pull a little more forcefully, but he doesn’t relent.

“I want this to get over before this evening.”

“What time’s your date?”

“Why do you care?” He’s sure anyone who saw the dumb tug-of-war you both were playing would just automatically assume he was an absolute manchild, not an Avenger.

“Because.” You don’t explain further. “Tell me what time your date is, you weirdo.”

“Five o’clock, now let go.”

“Fine,” you say, suddenly loosening your grip. Clearly, it doesn't make much of a difference since he isn't struggling to keep his balance from the sudden loss of force.

“Fine.” He clears his throat, straightening up.

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t either.

A putrid smell creeps into his nose, one all too similar to spoiled milk and decaying seaweed. He has to physically stop himself from gagging.

“Have a good day.” You smile and lean far back. Too far. It looks like you're almost going to fall out of the chair.

Through the tears that are threatening to line his eyelids, he looks down at the box whose latch you somehow managed to lift, leaving the box open.

“What the fuck is this?” He coughs, swatting at the air in front of him to clear it.

“I told you; bad luck in a box.”

“You can’t scientifically create bad luck, that’s bullshit.” He tosses the box back onto your table. You watch it slide past you, not making any effort to stop it. “What is it really?”

“I’m not lying.” You pull open a drawer, brandishing a small table fan that you set down beside you. “If you open it, you’re going to have terrible luck for the day.”

He glowers at you when you turn the fan on, forcing the fumes back towards him.

“Besides, that’s all I was doing today.” You kick your feet up. “So you can leave now.”

He doesn’t care if you’re lying about not having anything else to do today. You could burn down the world if you wanted to but he needs to take a stupid shower. Again.

“You’re the fuckin’ worst.” He tries airing out his shirt, hoping that the smell would dissipate as soon as possible.

“Have fun on your date, sarge!” you encourage him as he stalks out of the lair. “Remember to wrap it befo-”

He turns it into a sprint before you can finish.

____

Six hours later and he’s absolutely convinced he fucked up.

He isn’t used to having his weekends free.

He realises that this is the first time in months that he’s actually stepped out of the Tower for something that wasn’t directly mission-related. He should probably get some air. Touch some grass. See the sun.

His shirt thankfully manages to rid itself of the odour from the dumb box so he didn’t have to go take a shower. With nothing much planned and a few hours to spare, he heads to the coffee shop instead.

It’s a small place, bustling and alive with a crowd of people. They have a little bookshelf that usually is full of books donated by patrons, free for anyone to read.

The barista smiles at him. The coffee costs more than his high school education. He awkwardly smiles back.

He’s not a regular, but they’ve seen him enough times to know that he usually asks for black coffee in a to-go cup, later adding a sugar or two according to his own taste. They're nice to him, occasionally throwing in a cookie or something on the house. He can't tell if it's because of the Avenger status or the sizeable tip he leaves.

He picks up a random book from the shelf, fully intending not to read it but to just sit there and think. The book acted as a shield for his resting bitch face, resting murder face and his resting rage face. More often than not, a good combination of the three.

He sets the coffee down at the corner table he manages to nab in a quick second, along with the two sachets of sugar.

“Is this seat taken?” Someone asks from beside him. He earnestly shakes his head in a ‘no’, gesturing for them to take it.

They give him a quick thanks and drag the chair away from his table.

He does a quick overlook of the book he picked up.

The Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot.

Well, now he’s too anxious to put it back. YA fiction it is.

He reaches for the sugar while glossing over the summary. He reaches a little further when it doesn’t come to his hand immediately, blindly running his fingers across the table.

Bucky peeks over the book, eyebrows knitting together when he notices that they’re missing.

He was sure he picked it up.

He looks underneath the table. It wasn’t there, neither under his seat. Strange, but okay. He picks up the book and the cup, walking back to the station to grab two sugars.

This time he makes sure to tuck it into his pocket, double-checking before going back to his table.

Which was now occupied. He wanted to groan.

His mind automatically reverts back to the box from that morning.

“Come on,” he scoffs quietly to himself. It was a coincidence. “Get yourself together.”

“A seat at the counter just cleared up,” the barista from earlier offers when she sees him standing in the middle of the store.

See? Good luck.

He shoots her a grateful look, venturing over to the barstool to take his place. It’s not the most comfortable, but then again, he wasn’t planning to stay there for very long.

He empties the sugar into the coffee, stirring slowly before opening a random page in the book.

He takes a long sip, ignoring how hot the drink was.

He chokes immediately. Because either he was losing his mind or his order had somehow got switched from ‘no sugar’ to ‘diabetes in a cup’.

He takes another small sip and his face immediately twists in disgust. Definitely too sweet. The sweetener he added only made it worse.

He catches the eye of the barista. She looks on in concern.

“Is everything okay?”

Fuck.

He’s not one to make a scene. He just wants to live as imperceptibly as he could.

“Yep.” The sweetness sticks to the back of his throat. “All good.”

He just closes his eyes and downs the rest of it without thinking twice, trying to hide the grimace in his face. He gives her a weak thumbs up. She doesn't look convinced.

He leaves the shop soon after, hands shoved in his pocket. Maybe he could go sit by the lake at Central Park, watch the clouds. It reminded Bucky of the lake in front of his hut in Wakanda and the hours he'd sit in front of it, feet dipped into the water as his goats fed. He misses it.

He makes a sharp turn at a corner, still thinking about his options when his ankle abruptly twists under him.

He stumbles rather ungracefully, almost hitting the ground, but manages to save himself through the newly built up immunity he has towards falling thanks to all his encounters with you.

His gaze lands on his hardcore combat boots. Their laces had come undone.

Now he just knew that was horseshit. He always double knots them; they had never loosened in the past before.

The box.

He shoves the thought out of his head, crouching down to tie them again. He tugs on them to make sure they’re secure before standing up again.

Central Park is a few blocks away but he’s glad he didn’t bring his bike. The weather was rather nice and the wind in his hair felt good.

He wanders around the park for a while, looking for the lake. He pauses at a board with a map of the park on it, assessing how far it was.

Once he's ascertained which path to go towards, he turns on his heel to go.

He fucking trips again.

“Are you serious?” he says furiously under his breath. “Cut it out.”

He’s half-convinced that he should tie it around his ankle like a sexy lace-up set of heels. He ties a triple knot this time, glares at it until he’s sure it’s fine and checks to see if anyone saw him humiliate himself.

Only a person on a nearby bench who looked like they were passed out drunk, given that their hoodie and sunglasses clad self was slumped over.

No witnesses. No 'You won't BELIEVE what the Winter Soldier did! Critics say it's his biggest blunder yet!' articles the next day on social media.

He manages to make it to the lake in one piece and no more falls, partly because he keeps his eyes fixed on his shoes to ensure no fuckery occurs.

There are a few people rowing and plenty of others lining the bank at scattered locations. There’s a mom and her kid at the place he ends up. She sends him a small smile in greeting and he returns the favour.

There’s a secluded bench that he takes a place on, letting out a small sigh. If he ignores the traffic and the skateboarders and the people in general, it’s actually kind of peaceful.

There are geese and their little goslings swimming around the water close to the shore. Maybe he should have brought some birdseed. Or kale.

The kid beside him is busy fashioning something out of leaves, only occasionally erupting into giggles when it doesn't pan out. His mom watches him fondly, pointing at twigs he could use. Everything seems kind of picture-perfect and his body automatically relaxes, easing further into the seat and closing his eyes for a second.

Until there's a large splash and loud distressed honking. He whips his head around to find the same kid staring straight ahead at the goose with a wide grin. His mother curses quietly, picking herself up off the ground and grabbing his hand, half chastising him for throwing something at an animal and half urging him to walk faster.

The goose turns to Bucky. With no one else to blame for the sudden attack, it logically launches itself at him. His smile drops.

He gets up in a rush. The dumb bird nearly comes for his head, but he deflects with his metal arm.

“I didn’t even do anything.” He swats at it swiftly, trying not to cause any real damage. The goose, understandably, does not speak English.

He flinches when one of them bites at his knee. He can punt it to the sun but he doesn’t want to.

“Stop that.” He sticks his hand out to shove the stupid thing away, retreating back to the road. “Jesus, why are you so aggressive?”

Among the barrage of feathers showering on him, he prays his damn shoelace doesn’t unravel as he shields his head with one arm, the other fending himself while he moves hurriedly away.

The goose honks angrily at him. He scowls at it, not exactly pleased with the reminder that these fucking overgrown ducks were constantly bloodthirsty.

It doesn’t leave him alone till he’s significantly away from where he was sitting. He wants to call it profanity but that’d probably piss it off more.

The box and its effects were definitely starting to feel real.

Fuck it, no more day out for him. The best plan he can think of is to just go to the diner he’s supposed to meet his date at.

The waiter greets him with a courteous nod, which Bucky can only imagine was the best he could muster when a dishevelled 200-pound man walks in covered in goose feathers and irritation.

He won't admit that he’s too scared to eat lunch at this point because he can’t rule out food poisoning. He spends the next two hours on his phone playing Fruit Ninja and plucking feathers that accented his all-black outfit.

Several glasses of water later and a second before he’s about to beat his high score, someone taps on his shoulder, breaking him out of his concentration.

Motherfu-

He clenches his eye shut, inhaling deeply before turning around.

“James?”

“Hey, yeah, that’s me.” Bucky almost falls over the table with how fast he stands up, clearly underestimating his size. “Leah?”

“Hi.” She smiles and he finds himself smiling nervously along with her.

“Hi.” He steps out to pull out her chair for her and she laughs. "Nice to meet you."

“How long have you been waiting here?” she asks while setting down her bag.

“Around ten minutes.” He clears his throat to hopefully hide the fact that he was lying through his teeth.

“Just give me a second, I need to tell my friend I reached,” Leah pulls out her phone and he nods.

“Another glass of water for you?” The waiter seems less enthusiastic about Bucky’s 8th refill.

“Yes,” he answers, hoping he doesn’t call him out on it, “please.”

“You must be really dehydrated."

Bucky turns to look at him slowly. “I like the taste.”

He can’t really blame the guy. Bucky’s been there for hours without ordering anything solid, just leaching off their free water and complimentary bread basket.

“So, James.” She tosses her phone back into her bag, leaning forward on her palms easily. “Tell me about yourself.”

He had rehearsed this a million times. He could do this.

“I, uh,-”

“Menu?” Okay, so someone clearly had a vendetta against him.

“Thank you.” She takes it with a smile.

His morning debacle with the coffee flashes through his mind. Suddenly the idea of a diner didn’t seem so smart.

However, she’s already placed her order and George is standing beside him expectantly, daring him to ask for another glass of water, so he places his usual order and hopes that your stupid bad luck thing wore off.

He quickly learns that his date is laid back, and it isn’t hard to fall into a rhythm with her even though she’s the one asking most of the questions.

“How’d you meet Nat?” Is his attempt at one.

“She used to come in for lunch every week at the place I work.” Leah leans back in her chair. “She can really handle her alcohol.”

He’d be worried about Nat day drinking if he didn’t know about her complete inability to get drunk. She might as well have been downing glasses of lemonade.

“Yeah, she’s-” Intimidating, scary, cool “-really something.”

“She mentioned that you like movies.” He definitely spends a lot of time watching them. “You got any recommendations?”

It’s easier to figure out how different things are or how much he missed out over the years through them. He’s glad he sat out the early 2000s, judging by their fashion sense and hairstyles.

He's watched several movies over the past few months, a few of them critically acclaimed and others who were just there for the cult following.

But now everything goes blank and the only thing that he can remember are the biopics made about Steve that were somehow hilarious for gifting him the mental image of Freddie Prinze Jr. dressed in the stars and stripes, and highly distressing for the number of historical inaccuracies. Contrary to popular belief, Stevie did not, in fact, consider running for president after he took up the shield, nor did he start his own bar chain.

He can’t name Oh Captain, My Captain starring Channing Tatum as his favourite movie on his first date and hope to make a good first impression.

“Despicable Me was kinda fun.” He wants to kill himself. “I mean, it’s the last one I saw.”

Her face twists in mild disgust, but he can tell it isn't ill-intentioned. “It's a good movie, but God, that just gave me some intense flashbacks to my aunt’s Facebook page. Don’t think I can look at a minion ever again.”

He sniggers with her. He doesn’t know what the context is.

He’s a little awkward, and he can definitely tell he isn’t the most open book but she laughs at some of his attempts at jokes. There’s a distinct discomfort he has lingering at the back of his mind prodding at him, telling him over and over again that he isn’t ready for something like this. A warning bell, asking him to leave as soon as possible because he was in a dangerous situation.

He remembers what his therapist told him about breathing and remembering that the resources he had available were greater than his anxiety and he tries to get out of his head. It takes a few minutes of acting like he's fine but he manages to do it.

Other than the one time he scalds his tongue on the coffee but played it off with a pained smile, shoving down thoughts of your stupid invention, things actually went okay.

It was nice, even though they decided by the end that it was better if they both gelled together better as friends. It lifts the strange fear he feels and he can hear Dr. Mendoza say she's proud of him for taking this step before spending three hours psychoanalysing why they decided to stay platonic.

Bucky promises to visit her sushi shop with Nat soon and she says a bottle of sake awaits him for a drinking game. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that Nat and he share the same tolerance for alcohol.

He makes sure to leave George a tip. A big one. It’s the first time he sees the guy smile the entire evening.

He’s waving goodbye to Leah outside and he thinks that maybe it was a good end to the day and that things actually turned out fine.

Until he turns around to leave, only to have someone walk straight into him with an iced tea.

The cold comes as a bit of a shock, making him jump slightly. He stares at his shirt, using his fingertips to pull it away from his body.

The person melts into a series of apologies immediately, offering to dry clean his shirt but Bucky just forces a shake of his head and says it’s okay even though he can feel the sugar making the shirt stick to his chest. Goose feathers and iced tea. Was there anything else that would like to attach itself to him?

His fists clench and his teeth grit and he has to physically control himself from sprinting to your lair because God knows what else is in store for him and he didn't want to add in any way.

The door to the lair is locked. Fuckin’ brilliant.

When no one answers after minutes worth of waiting, he fishes for his phone and realises that maybe two hours of Fruit Ninja was not the best idea, especially on a phone known for having shitty battery life.

There’s roughly 2 percent left. By the time he opens his app to give you a call, his phone screen goes black.

He groans. He’s desperate at this point and under any other normal circumstances, he would have never, ever considered doing this.

But ten minutes later he’s outside your apartment building. You’re aware that he has your address; no doubt that it was in the SHIELD file he had gotten, and he knows that you know but it was still weird.

The buzzer has your last name listed next to it. He’s sure that he’ll break it if he keeps pressing it at this rate but he really needs you to let him in.

“Who the fu-” your voice comes through the intercom.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this, my phone died and I couldn’t reach you,” He breathes out as soon as he hears you. “But I need you to fix this.”

When he doesn’t hear a reply, he wonders if the thing actually worked. He’s about to start pressing it again-

“Bucky?” You sound a little surprised to hear him. “You’re at my house. Why are you at my house?”

“I need you to fix whatever this is.”

“What are you- fine, I’m buzzing you in,” your voice, initially confused soon trails off into something more dismissive.

There’s a soft click from the door, allowing him to push it open. The elevator is already on the same floor as him so he just uses that.

The elevator goes up a floor or two. His feet tap restlessly against the carpeted floor.

The lights turn off and everything comes to a standstill. His foot stops tapping.

He should have known. He should have fucking known.

Thirty seconds pass. He’s still in pitch darkness with the elevator showing no signs of moving.

In fact, he’s resigned to his fate. He sits down on the ground, only one step away from completely laying down and hoping someone finds his body here someday.

It’s six minutes of plain silence. He might as well get comfortable if he’s going to get stuck here for the rest of his life. Did he change his will? Does he even have a will?

There’s finally a whir. He thinks that maybe he’s going to plummet to his doom as the perfect end to this day, but then the light switches on and it starts moving upward.

It stops at the floor with a ding. He doesn’t get off the ground, only eyes the door wearily. With his luck, it wouldn’t open.

But it does and within a second he’s on his feet, scrambling to get out before it changes its mind.

He remembers your door number, basically charging down the hall to get to it.

The door is white and the paint is starting to chip off it. The handle itself is dented in a few places and he wonders if it was your fault or someone else's.

His knocks are rapid, agitated even. He doesn’t stop until he hears your loud shouts telling him to cut it out.

“What the hell were you doing, trying to break down my door?” It swings open, revealing you in your pajamas. “Haven’t you done that already? And where were you, I’ve been waiting for like, ten minutes.”

He honestly feels bad for showing up uninvited and highly flustered. He can’t imagine it’s a pretty sight either. "This bad luck shit- fix it. My whole day’s been fucked up.”

“What are you-” Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, taking in his appearance.

It takes you a second to realise what he’s talking about but when you do, your face settles.

“How was your date?” You lean against the door frame, arms crossed over your chest.

“Really,” He glowered at you, “that’s what you care about?”

“Yes.” You nod. “Did you have fun?”

He hesitates. “I guess?”

“Was she nice?”

“Yeah.” Where was this going.

“Good, I’m happy for you.” The smile on your face is genuine. “Look at you go, Casanova.”

“We agreed to be just friends, but that’s not the point here. Y/N,” he whines. “I have a mission next week, I can’t afford to fuck up. My whole day was off and I don’t want it to carry over.”

“Your whole day?” you questioned, standing up instead of leaning against the wall. “Buck-”

“Just fix it.”

“Okay.” You lift your hand up, extending it towards his face.

He waits for you to do something.

You flick him on the forehead.

“There,” you declare, going back to your previous position. “you’re cured.”

What.

He says exactly what he’s thinking.

You laugh. “Dude. I was fucking with you.”

Huh?

“Well, actually maybe just like, three things and then I got bored.”

He’s confused.

“You know,” you begin when he doesn’t reply, “taking the sugar packets, switching your coffee order when you were looking under the table, took your place when you left, the shoelaces.”

“The shoelaces?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “That’s the other ray gun you saw this morning. Unties your shoelaces. I stopped after that because I thought you figured it out.”

His face scrunches in puzzlement.

“I mean, you looked right at me and told me to cut it out.”

He racks his brain about what you could possibly be talking about before it hits him. The hungover person on the goddamn bench in the park.

“You were the one in the hoodie and sunglasses.”

“I just followed the Avengers’ code of disguise.” You shrug. “Turns out it kinda works. Also teleportation. So helpful.”

He forgot about the teleportation. That's why you could do all of it so fast without him noticing you were even there.

“What about the fucking geese?”

You pause for a second. “The geese?”

“And the elevator.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The confusion on your face is apparent. “What geese and elevator? I have no idea what you’re saying right now.”

“Everything’s been a mess today,” he grumbles. “I don’t know what’s real or not.”

“I swear I had nothing to do with it other than what I mentioned.” There’s indignation on your features that quickly gives way to delight. “Holy shit, did I just accidentally invent portable bad luck?”

“Okay-” his palm finds its way to his forehead in exasperation, “-then what the hell was the smell?”

“What smell- oh, the one from the box?”

He nods briskly.

“Secretions Magnifique.” You snorted. “It’s a perfume. The worst rated one I could find.”

“Perfume?”

“With notes of milk, seaweed and sandalwood.”

“It wasn’t an inator?”

“No, it wasn- did you get vibe checked by a goose at the park?” You stifle a laugh when you notice a stray feather on his thigh.

“What does that even mean?” he asks in despair.

“I can see why it attacked you. You got bad juju.” You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe if you stop staring so much-”

“So I just have shit luck.” Is that a fucking relief or even worse?

“Well,” you begin but decide not to continue.

Even with all the irritability masking it, you could see that he genuinely was just not having a good time.

“Wait here a second.”

You leave him at the door. He shifts his balance and sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He still had to walk back to the Tower. Maybe he could grab a slice of pizza along the way since he skipped lunch.

“Okay, here.” You return with a large glass of water. He only looks at it. “It’s just water, I promise. You look like you ran a marathon."

He takes it from you sceptically, pushing away the urge to sniff at it. It’s gone within a few gulps.

You wait until he’s finished to point at his arm. He draws his eyebrows together, but you only curl your index finger and beckon for him to give you his hand.

He reluctantly extends it towards you.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn him, taking his metal arm. “This usually helps me.”

You tie a small bracelet around his wrist. It has a few beads, which he realises represent the colours of the solar system.

“Keep that for good luck.” You pat it gently after securing it. “I think you just had a bad day; those don’t last very long. Do you want to charge your phone before you leave?”

“Uh-” The bracelet’s pretty, the colours shine against the dark vibranium. “-no, I’m good. I’ll just leave.”

“Okay. Anything else I can help you with or will you be fine?”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re being suspiciously nice.”

“I’m not evil all the time.” You huff. “My hours are in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he says again. “I’m gonna go then.”

“See you next week.” You give him a little wave. “I’d say break a leg on your mission but knowing your situation...”

He scoffs. “Thanks.”

You make a move to close the door when starts walking down the hallway towards the exit.

He adjusts the beads slightly so he can see them better. The Earth one has glitter in it. He thinks it’s cute.

“Bucky.”

He turns around.

There’s a hint of a smile on your face.

“Take the stairs.”

He doesn’t have to be told twice.

Next part

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mcu fic #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes angst #harmless fic #winter soldier x reader #Winter Soldier #bucky barnes #bucky

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jade-parcels · 3 years

Note

idk if you did this already, if you did sorry for asking. but lately my period cramps have been killing me! could you do some comfort headcanons for period – cramps, sensitivity, chest pain, headaches, feeling more insecure than usual – involving childe, diluc and maybe zhongli (and, well, anyone else if you feel like it). it can be either in a modern au or in genshin universe. anything is ok. thank you so much!

Helping you on your period

With Diluc, Zhongli, Childe and Baizhu

I think the universe matched us up! In sync cycles gang!!

—————————

Diluc:

Thank the Pyro Archon!!

Diluc already has a high body temp but when he activates his vision and holds it against your stomach? Say bye to those cramps

Since it’s just the two of you, he’s more than happy to cuddle with you and read to you while holding you close against his chest

Anything you want, just name it. You want a hot bath? You want something sweet? You want pain killers? His staff is on it!

It hurts him to see you in pain like this cause besides letting you use his vision and giving you pain killers there really isn’t anything he can do :( so he’ll apologize a lot to you even though it isn’t his fault

If it starts to get really bad he’ll take you to the cathedral! I mean…Idk what they could do for you but he’s trying his best

Whatever commission work you had planned before your period started is finished rather quick. When he goes to check on the tavern, he’ll complete your commissions for you and bring the mora back for you! He knows how hard it can be to get good paying commissions nowadays so he wouldn’t want you to miss out

If he sees that you’re feeling down, he’ll put more effort into complimenting you and being more affectionate than usual :)

Zhongli:

Ah yes, he is experienced in this area

He’s been around for so long, he knows all kinds of tips and tricks to help make symptoms not as severe

However his remedies are notorious for taking forever to make. His sobering tea takes 6 hours to brew…and his pain killer tea takes 9. By the time he finishes making all of his herbal concoctions, your period will be over lmao

Zhongli will put a lot of effort in to make sure you’re comfortable. He’ll get you as many pillows or blankets as you need, open the window for fresh air, close the drapes if it’s too bright, read to you if you’re bored. He knows you’re miserable so he’ll do his best to entertain you and keep you as comfortable as one can be in this condition

He’ll offer to do yoga with you if you’re up for it. Certain poses can alleviate pressure in the pelvic area so he’ll do it with you! (Squats always help me out too when it gets really bad!! Doing squats, drinking water and applying heat never fails! But everyone’s different!)

When you sleep, he’ll play with your hair and rub your back :) he loves how peaceful you look while finally getting some rest :)

Childe:

He’s a little clueless but he’s got the spirit!

See, when he received his education from the fatui they didn’t really give him a course on female anatomy so…he is aware of periods and what they are but he has no idea how severe symptoms can be

So when you’re in so much pain that you can’t get out of bed?? He’s super worried about you, he’s about to go get a doctor to come here to see you

It’s kinda funny to actually go in depth and explain how bad symptoms can be, how much you bleed, how awful cramps are cause he just…doesn’t know. Most men don’t actually know! He’ll genuinely feel bad for you and by explaining it all to him, he’ll learn and become a very reliable helper :)

“You should probably take a bath, right? I’ll go warm up some water” “Stay with me…just for a few more minutes” “Okay but then we’re gonna take a bath together. I’ll make the water extra hot too, that’ll help with cramps right?” “Mhm”

He’ll try to get you up and moving when you allow it so you don’t feel stiff from sitting in the same position for too long

Ajax is very affectionate already and will become even more affectionate if he sees that your self esteem is low. He’ll make sure to reassure you that you’re still so beautiful to him :’)

He’d think you’re pretty no matter what. You could have greasy hair, hormonal breakouts and eye bags from being tired and he’d still look at you like ‘wow…’ :’)

Baizhu:

As a medical professional, he’ll insist on being at your side when you show any indication of being in pain

He’ll make you some herbal pain relievers, they’ll taste super bitter and make your tongue numb for a minute but they’ll kick in pretty quick!!

Baizhu cant afford to take full days off but he’ll take half days in order to make sure you eat breakfast and lunch, drink water and rest.

You help him out when his own illness kicks in so he has no problem helping you out :) he’s content to rub your shoulders and coach you into sitting/laying positions that may be more comfortable

If you’re more cranky or sad than usual he’ll make you something warm and cuddle with you :) when you don’t feel well, you get to see his excellent bedside manner in action! Though he is far more affectionate with you than he is with his other patients lmao

If you’re someone who worries about their symptoms and fears they have suddenly developed a rare disease over night (looking up symptoms on the Internet is a terrible habit :’) ) He’ll be there to assure you that nothing is seriously wrong

“Honey, my side has been hurting a lot” “I know dear, I’ve already told you you don’t have appendicitis” “Maybe my liver is gonna rupture!!!” “That’s higher up, I’d be able to tell due to swelling and a fever. You don’t have either of those” “But what about that pain in my neck? What if it’s a tumor Baizhuuuuu!” “Darling, I think you just need to go to sleep” pffttt

#threw baizhu in for the starving baizhu stans #they get no food #I’m here to provide #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact writing #genshin baizhu #genshin childe #genshin zhongli #genshin diluc #diluc x reader #childe x reader #zhongli x reader #baizhu x reader #answered requests!

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writingwithcolor · 3 years

Note

I'm writing an AU of a movie that takes place in the 1880s USA, where a travelling white character and a Jewish character are waylaid by Native Americans, who they befriend. Probably because it was written by and about PoC (Jews) the scene actually avoids the stuff on your Native American Masterpost, but I'd still like to do better than a movie made in the 1980's, and I feel weird cutting them from the plot entirely. I have a Jewish woman reading it for that, but are there any things you (1/1)

2/2 1880s western movie ask--are there things you'd LIKE to see in a movie where a white man and a Jewish man run into Native Americans in the 1880s? I do plan to base them on a real tribe (Ute, probably) and have proper housing/clothes and so forth, but right now I'm just trying to avoid or subvert awful cowboy movie tropes. Any ideas?

White and Jewish Men, Native American interactions in 1880s

I am vaguely concerned with how you only cite one of our posts about Native Americans, that was not written by a Native person, and do not cite any of the posts relating to this time period, or any posts relating to representation in media.

Sidenote: if you want us to give accurate reflections of the media you’re discussing, please tell us the NAME. I cannot go look up this movie based off this description to give you an idea of what my issues are with this scene, and must instead trust that the representation is good based off your judgement. I cannot make my own judgement. This is a problem. Especially since your whole question boils down to “this scene is good but not great and I want it to be great. How can I do that?”

Your baseline for “good” could very well be my baseline for “terrible hack job”. I can’t give you the proper education required for you to be able to accurately evaluate the media you’re watching for racist stereotypes if you don’t tell me what you’re even working with.

When you’re writing fanfic where the media is directly relevant to the question, please tell us the name of the media. We will not judge your tastes. We need this information in order to properly help you.

Moving on.

I bring up my concern for you citing that one—exceptionally old—post because it is lacking in many of the tropes that don’t exist in the media critique field but exist in the real world. This is an issue I have run into countless times on WWC (hence further concern you did not cite any other posts) and have spoken about at length.

People look at the media critique world exclusively, assume it is a complete evaluation of how Native Americans are seen in society, and as a result end up ignoring some really toxic stereotypes and then come to the inbox with “these characters aren’t abc trope, so they’re fine, but I want to rubber stamp them anyway. Anything wrong here?”. The answer is pretty much always yes.

Issue one: “Waylaid” by Native Americans

This wording is extremely loaded for one reason: Native American people are seen as tricksters, liars, and predators. This is the #1 trope that shows up in the real world that does not show up in media critique. It’s also the trope I have talked about the most when it comes to media representation, so you not knowing the trope is a sign you haven’t read the entirety of the Native tag—which is in the FAQ as something we would really prefer you did before coming at us to answer questions. It avoids us having to re-explain ourselves.

Now, hostility is honestly to be expected for the time period the movie is set in. This is in the beginnings (or ramping up) of residential schools in America* and Canada, we have generations upon generations of stolen or killed children, reserves being allocated perhaps hundreds of miles from sacred sites, and various wars with Plains and Southwest peoples are in full force (Wounded Knee would have happened in 1890, in December, and the Dakoa’s mass execution would have been in 1862. Those are just the big-name wars. There absolutely were others).

*America covers up its residential schools abuse extremely thoroughly, so if you try to research them in the American context you will come up empty. Please research Canada’s schools and apply the same abuse to America, as Canada has had a Truth and Reconciliation Commission about residential schools and therefore is more (but not completely) transparent about the abuse that happened. Please note that America’s history with residential schools is longer than Canada’s history. There is an extremely large trigger warning for mass child death when you do this research.

But just because the hostility is expected does not mean that this hostility would be treated well in the movie. Especially when you consider the sheer amount of tension between any Native actors and white actors, for how Sacheen Littlefeather had just been nearly beaten up by white actors at the 1973 Academy Awards for mentioning Wounded Knee, and the American Indian Religious Freedom Act had only been passed two years prior in 1978.

These Native actors would not have had the ability to truly consent to how they were shown, and this power dynamic has to be in your mind when you watch this scene over. I don’t care that the writers were from a discriminated-against background. This does not always result in being respectful, and I’ve also spoken about this power imbalance at length (primarily in the cowboy tag).

Documentaries and history specials made in the 2010s (with some degree of academic muster) will still fall into wording that harkens Indigenous people to wolves and settlers as frightened prey animals getting picked off by the mean animalistic Natives. This is not neutral, or good. This is perpetuating the myth that the settlers were helpless, just doing their own thing completely unobtrusively, and then the evil territorial Native Americans didn’t want to share.

To paraphrase Batman: if I had a week I couldn’t explain all the reasons that’s wrong.

How were these characters waylaid by the Native population? Because that answer—which I cannot get because you did not name the media—will determine how good the framing is. But based on the time period this movie was made alone, I do not trust it was done respectfully.

Issue 2: “Befriending”

I mentioned this was in an intense period of residential schools and land wars all in that area. The Ute themselves had just been massacred by Mormons in the Grass Valley Massacre in 1865, with ten men and an unknown number of women and children killed thanks to a case of assumed association with a war chief (Antonga Black Hawk) currently at war with Utah. The Paiute had been massacred in 1866. Over 100 Timpanogo men had been killed, with an unknown number of women and children enslaved by Brigham Young in Salt Lake City in 1850, with many of the enslaved people dying in captivity (those numbers were not tracked, but I would assume at least two hundred were enslaved— that’s simply assuming one woman/wife and one child for every man, and the numbers could have very well been higher if any war-widows and their children were in the group, not to mention families with multiple children). This is after an unknown group of Indigenous people had been killed by Governor Brigham Young the year prior, to “permanently stop cattle theft” from settlers.

The number of Native Americans killed in Utah in the 1800s—just the number of dead counted (since women and children weren’t counted)—in massacres not tied to war (because there was at least one war) is over 130. The actual number of random murders is much higher; between the uncounted deaths and how the Governor had issued orders to “deal with” the problem of cattle theft permanently. I doubt you would have been tried or convicted if you murdered Indigenous peoples on “your” land. This is why it’s called state sanctioned genocide.

This is not counting the Black Hawk War in Utah (1865-1872), which the Ute were absolutely a part of (the wiki articles I read were contradictory if Antonga Black Hawk was Ute or Timpanogo, but the Ute were part of it). The first official massacre tied to the war—the Bear River Massacre, ordered by the US Military—places the death count of just that singular massacre at over five hundred Shoshone, including elders, women, and children. It would not be unreasonable to assume that the number of Indigenous people killed in Utah from 1850, onward, is over a thousand, perhaps two or three.

Pardon me for not reading beyond that point to list more massacres and simply ballparking a number; the source will be linked for you to get an accurate number of dead.

So how did they befriend the Native population? Let alone see them as fully human considering the racism of the time period? Natives were absolutely not seen as fully human so long as they were tied to their culture, and assimilation equalling some sliver of respect was already a stick being waved around as a threat. This lack of humanity continues to the present day.

I’m not saying friendship is impossible. I am saying the sheer levels of mistrust that would exist between random wandering groups of white/pale men and Indigenous communities wouldn’t exactly make that friendship easy. Having the scene end be a genuine friendship feels ignorant and hollow and flattening of ongoing genocide, because settlers lied about their intentions and then lined you up for slauther (that’s how the Timpanogo were killed and enslaved).

Utah had already done most of its mass killing by this point. The era of trusting them was over. There was an active open hunting season, and the acceptable targets were the Indigenous populations of Utah.

(sources for the numbers:

List of Indian Massacres in North America Black Hawk War (1865-1872))

Issue 3: “Proper housing/clothes and so forth”

Do you mean Western style settlements and jeans? If yes, congratulations you have written a reservation which means the land-ripped-away wounds are going to be fresh, painful, and sore.

You do not codify what you mean by “proper”, and proper is another one of those deeply loaded colonial words that can mean “like a white man” or “appropriate for their tribe.” For the time period, it would be the former. Without specifying which direction you’re going for, I have no idea what you’re imagining. And without the name of the media, I don’t know what the basis of this is.

The reservation history of this time period seems to maybe have some wiggle room; there were two reservations allocated for the Ute at this time, one made in 1861 and another made in 1882 (they were combined into the Uintah and Ouray Indian Reservation in 1886). This is all at the surface level of a google and wikipedia search, so I have no idea how many lived in the bush and how many lived on the reserve.

There were certainly land defenders trying to tell Utah the land did not belong to them, so holdouts that avoided getting rounded up were certainly possible. But these holdouts would be far, far more hostile to anyone non-Native.

The Ute seemed to be some degree of lucky in that the reserve is on some of their ancestral territory, but any loss of land that large is going to leave huge scars.

It should be noted that reserves would mean the traditional clothing and housing would likely be forbidden, because assimilation logic was in full force and absolutely vicious at this time.

It’s a large reserve, so the possibility exists they could have accidentally ended up within the borders of it. I’m not sure how hostile the state government was for rounding up all the Ute, so I don’t know if there would have been pockets of them hiding out. In present day, half of the Ute tribe lives on the reserve, but this wasn’t necessarily true historically—it could have been a much higher percentage in either direction.

It’s up to you if you want to make them be reservation-bound or not. Regardless, the above mentioned genocide would have been pretty fresh, the land theft in negotiations or already having happened, and generally, the Ute would be well on their way to every assimilation attempt made from either residential schools, missionaries, and/or the forced settlement and pre-fab homes.

To Answer Your Question

I don’t want another flattened, sanitized portrayal of genocide.

Look at the number of dead above, the amount of land lost above, the amount of executive orders above. And try to tell me that these people would be anything less than completely and totally devastated. Beyond traumatized. Beyond broken hearted. Absolutely grief stricken with almost no soul left.

Their religion would have been illegal. Their children would have been stolen. Their land was taken away. A saying about post-apocalyptic fiction is how settler-based it is, because Indigenous people have already lived through their own apocalypse.

It would have all just happened at the time period this story is set in. All of the grief you feel now at the environment changing so drastically that you aren’t sure how you’ll survive? Take that, magnify it by an exponential amount because it happened, and you have the mindset of these Native characters.

This is not a topic to tread lightly. This is not a topic to read one masterpost and treat it as a golden rule when there is too much history buried in unmarked, overfull graves of school grounds and cities and battlefields. I doubt the movie you’re using is good representation if it doesn’t even hint at the amount of trauma these Native characters would have been through in thirty years.

A single generation, and the life that they had spent millennia living was gone. Despite massive losses of life trying to fight to preserve their culture and land.

Learn some history. That’s all I can tell you. Learn it, process it, and look outside of checklists. Look outside of media.

And let us have our grief.

~ Mod Lesya

On Question Framing

Please allow me the opportunity to comment on “are there things you'd LIKE to see in a movie where a white man and a Jewish man run into Native Americans in the 1880s?” That strikes me as the same type of question as asking what color food I’d like for lunch. I don’t see how the cultural backgrounds of characters I have literally no other information about is supposed to make me want anything in particular about them. I don’t know anything about their personalities or if they have anything in common.

Compare the following questions:

“Are there things you’d like to see in a movie where two American women, one from a Nordic background and one Jewish, are interacting?” I struggle to see how our backgrounds are going to yield any further inspiration. It certainly doesn’t tell you that we’re both queer and cling to each other’s support in a scary world; it doesn’t tell you that we uplift each other through mental illness; it doesn’t go into our 30 years of endless bizarre inside jokes related to everything from mustelids to bad subtitles.

Because: “white”, “Jewish”, and “Native American” aren’t personality words. You can ask me what kind of interaction I’d like to see from a high-strung overachieving woman and a happy-go-lucky Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and I’ll tell you I’d want fluffy f/f romance. Someone else might want conflict ultimately resolving in friendship. A third person might want them slowly getting on each other’s nerves more and more until one becomes a supervillain and the other must thwart her. But the same question about a cultural demographic? That told me nothing about the people involved.

Also, the first time I meet a new person from a very different culture, it might take weeks before discussion of our specific cultural differences comes up. As a consequence, my first deep conversations with a Costa Rican American gentile friend were not about Costa Rica or my Jewishness but about things we had in common: classical music and coping with breakups--which are obviously conversations I could have had if we were both Jewish, both Costa Rican gentiles, or both something else. So in other words, I’m having trouble seeing how knowing so little about these characters is supposed to give me something to want to see on the page.

Thank you for understanding.

(And yes, I agree with Lesya, what’s with this trend of people trying to explain their fandom in a roundabout way instead of mentioning it by name? It makes it harder to give meaningful help….)

--Shira

#platypan #genocide #native american #North America #america #history #american history #media #representation #asks

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mandoalorian · 3 years

Text

I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Prologue

Author's Note: *Spoilers for WW84* Welcome to my brand new series coming Jan 2021! December Magic (my first Max Lord series) will be coming to an end in the coming week and I'm finally excited to share with you my brand new series. This series will be my interpretation of what happens after the events of WW84. If you would like to be added to a taglist, please let me know! Merry Christmas everyone.

Word count: 2,000

Permanent Taglist: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth

Masterlist

Previous - Prologue - Next

*gif by: @mell-bell

"I've been lying to you, I'm not a great guy. In fact I’m a pretty messed up loser guy. And I make terrible mistakes. But you... you don’t ever have to make a wish for me to love you. I'm here because I love you. I just… I just wish and I pray that one day I will make you proud enough to forgive me.” Alistair could see the plea in his father's eyes. He could see the promise. And he saw a glint of something he had never seen before. Something so genuine, and powerful. Something so beautiful.

Alistair smiled weakly. “I don’t need you to make me proud. I already love you, daddy. Because you’re my dad.” Alistair revealed, pulling his father into a hug.

"I love you so much, my son." Maxwell croaked out, his hands fondling into Alistair's locks of hair and pressing a kiss into his forehead.

Maxwell's whole life; he had wished for more. Something bigger and better. He had wished for greatness because that was something he had never had. He couldn't afford college education and he didn't have loving parents. He came from a broken home; so when the opportunity arose and he was presented with shares in oil and the potential to start his own business, he took it. He yearned to make someone proud, and after the birth of his son, he'd found that someone.

It had all gone wrong. It wasn't meant to, but it had. Maxwell didn't think he could ever be able to forgive himself for his actions and misdirections, but his own forgiveness didn't matter. He could live the rest of his life in painful guilt if it meant that his son still loved him unconditionally.

Maxwell saw himself as a monster, a beast. For who would love a broken man like him? His parents didn't, his ex wife didn't. He had no one. He needed Alistair more than he could ever know.

"Daddy?" Alistair mumbled into his father's dress shirt, salty tears pricking his dark eyes. His voice was muffled by the way he had nuzzled his face into his father's warm chest, cherishing the embrace.

"Yes?" Maxwell hummed, eventually pulling away from his son, but his hands still set firmly on Alistair's shoulders. Alistair hesitated for a moment, nervously biting his lip as his father searched for an answer. What did Alistair want? Whatever he wanted, Maxwell was ready to give it— ready to give his all. Ready to change and become a better man. Alistair took a deep breath. He had a lot to learn and a long way to go but he was finally ready.

"Can we go home?" he asked, his eyes glistening with hope for a better future.

"Yes." Maxwell sighed, exhaling and letting his entire body deflate as he interlocked his fingers with his son. Alistair's hand was small, but his grip on Maxwell was tight— like he was afraid to let go. Afraid to lose his father. He couldn't lose him, not again.

The helicopter was still in near enough distance but Max wasn't about to hitch a ride a fly home like he might've once done before. Maxwell and Alistair walked through the field hand in hand until eventually they reached the highway. Where there was once plenty of abandoned cars and trucks, the world was finally restoring back to its former ways. But Maxwell swore that he was done being the greedy, selfish, businessman turned TV personality. He wanted none of that anymore. He wanted his family, and his son. He wanted to be a good father.

All he ever wanted deep down was to be a good dad to Alistair. He never believed in himself. How could he, when he had no father figure to look up to? Nobody in his life to give him encouragement, guidance or reassurance— nothing. He had come this far on his own and it was awful, isolating and damaging. He would not let his son make the same mistakes as he did.

They passed through the highway and it wasn't long until they were back at Black Gold Cooperative. Knowing that his company was about to go bust and that he'd have to sell all his assets just so he'd be able to earn enough to live off for a few months concerned him, but it was the least of his worries right now. He reached into the pocket of his tailored suit pants and took out his car keys, unlocking the passenger door and ushering for Alistair to slide in.

"But daddy, don't you have a driver?" Alistair questioned, his fingers fiddling with the knobs and buttons on the car radio. Maxwell slid into the driver's seat and let his hands glide around the wheel as he tried to recall the last time he had driven himself. It had been a long time.

"You know buddy, things are going to be changing very soon," Maxwell said, his eyes glazed as he looked upon the orange glowing skyline. "You might not like it at first. Might be hard to understand but, I promise you that one day you'll get it. I'm never going to hurt you again and I will make up all my wrongdoings. Even if it takes me the rest of my life," Maxwell huffed out a sigh. "Truth is, I was never deserving of the fancy cars, designer clothing and big house. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that we don't need those things to be happy."

"What do we need?" Alistair questioned curiously as Maxwell turned the key and initiated the engine.

Maxwell recalled the words spoken by Diana. "Love," Maxwell responded, like it was the simplest yet most beautiful thing in the world.

Most of the car journey home was filled with comfortable silence as Max kept his eyes on the road ahead, concentrating to the best of his ability whilst Alistair gazed out the window as he seemingly watched society rebuild itself. "So uhm, we still have the weekend together," Maxwell smiled as he pulled into the driveway. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't care, as long as I can spend time with you." Alistair grinned, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. It mirrored his father's. Maxwell took a deep breath and turned off the engine, unclicking his seatbelt and turning to his son.

"I have always loved you," Max admitted. "And I will always love you. Forever."

Alistair paused. "Can you play on the Atari with me? Mom's new boyfriend bought me a new video game and I really wanna try it out! He wanted to play with me but, you know. I'd rather play with my daddy."

Maxwell's eyes lit up ecstatically. He didn't have the first clue about video games, and in the past he would've shrugged off Alistair's request. But in this moment, he couldn't think of anything better. They sat on the floor in front of the nineteen inch television, stuffing their faces with popcorn. "Hey!" Maxwell laughed, huffing his cheeks out in annoyance. "You keep killing me!"

"Daddy," Alistair groaned out with a small giggle, prodding his finger into his father's tummy. "I'm going easy on you!"

"Okay okay," Maxwell chuckled as Alistair restarted the game. "Let's start again, I know I can beat you this time!" Maxwell grinned and pressed 'play' on the controller, his ring clad fingers pushing the buttons desperately.

Maxwell had spent his whole life trying to find his destiny and understand his legacy. He'd spent his life in pursuit of meaning and purpose— but the truth is, his purpose had been right before him this whole time. His purpose was Alistair. And right now, he couldn't be happier. Diana had let him off the hook, but that didn't mean his actions wouldn't have consequences.

The phone rang; a haunting buzz that vibrated throughout the whole house. "Can you pause it for me?" Maxwell asked, ruffling Alistair's hair. "I'll go answer this call and bring us back some more popcorn." Alistair nodded excitedly as Maxwell rose to his feet, his knees aching as he stalked over to the still ringing phone.

Leaning against the wall, he pulled it off the hook. "Hello?" he asked, curling the wire around his finger. "Who's there?"

"Max, it's me," the voice was like a ghost from his past. He felt his heart sink into the depths of his chest as he could practically taste the anger that dripped from her familiar tongue. "Bring Alistair home. You do not deserve him. I don't want you anywhere near my son ever again." she threatened before the line fell completely silent. Dead. Maxwell's shaky hands placed the phone back on the hook and he closed his eyes. He knew that he wasn't deserving of the unconditional love that Alistair gave him, but that boy meant the world to him. He had finally found his opportunity to change and become a better man— a better father. Maxwell padded back down the corridor and leaned against the door frame, watching as Alistair carefully read the words on the back of the box of his video game. Max's lips curved into a small but proud smile. That was his boy, and he wasn't going to let anything take Alistair away from him.

***

"I renounce my wish!" You had heard his voice, but only in dreams. Usually, it was soft like velvet, sweet like honey, but this time, you had awoken in a cold sweat. You pulled the blankets over your body as a chill raced down your spine. You felt his pain, his anguish and hurt. It was unlike anything you had ever felt before. Your scream alerted your mother who raced to your bedside with intentions to comfort you.

"Another nightmare?" Your mother Hesita asked you with concern. She smoothed out your hair as you wiped a tear away from your eye.

"It was him," you whispered, your voice shaky. "He needs me. I know it."

"You have found your calling?" Hestia quizzed, her voice merely above a whisper as she gazed into your eyes. You nodded slowly, never feeling more sure about anything in your life. "How do you know?"

"It is my duty," you replied softly as you looked past the skylight and amongst the stars. "Zeus made me the goddess of home and hearth for this very reason."

"But what makes him so special?" Your mother wondered out loud, her hand sliding into yours knowing that this would be your final night in her company.

"I don't know." you huffed with a tired shrug of your shoulders. It was true: you genuinely didn't know why you had been hearing his voice, letting his words and whispers haunt you over and over again. He consumed your every thought— this mysterious voice from the world of man.

"I renounce my wish!" those four words replayed in your mind like a broken record as you tried to figure out what exactly they meant. But it didn't matter. You felt his heartache. You felt his pain. And now? You were coming for him.

#max lord x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #ww84 #wonder woman 1984

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itsclydebitches · 3 years

Note

Why do people get hung up on whether a gay person in media is a good or bad representation of them? I'm gay and I can tell you we aren't all the same? Being gay is our 1 common trait. So as long as they're gay then you've done it. Gay people can be kind, mean, racist, open, kinky, reserved, shy, outgoing, sexist, and literally anything else under the human experience.

Because I am perpetually hungry, let's tell a story about cookies.

You are a bright-eyed, optimistic, baker in the making. Your goal is to wow the world with your culinary skills, so of course you head to The Best Baking School for your degree. Over the course of your studies you learn how to perfect a thousand different cakes, an equal number of pies, and more versions of brownies than most would even assume exist. But cookies... oh, cookies are your passion! You can't wait to learn about the wealth of cookies you can make too. Then, sure enough, that part of your education finally arrives.

Funny thing is though, it's just chocolate chip.

Surely there's been some mistake? The cookie experience is vast and nuanced! Why in the world are your instructors — supposedly the best in the world — reducing cookies to a single class about baking chocolate chip and chocolate chip alone? Hell, why are cookies so sparse in the curriculum as a whole? You're never asked to bake them as a demonstration, or practice with them, and they're definitely not a given across everyone else's baking experience. Cakes, pies, and brownies... they're the default. Cookies are comparatively rare and when you do get to study them, everyone is super focused on the chocolate chip.

Then you graduate and head out into the world, only to find that pretty much everyone is as cookie-blind as your school. A few years back you never would have found cookies in the average grocery store and yeah, the fact that there's a cookie section now is great, but it's, uh... all chocolate chip! Many bakeries still don't carry cookies at all, but when they do it's - again - chocolate chip. Chocolate chip out in restaurants. Chocolate chip at the bake sale. Your friend invites you over and proudly presents a massive sweets tray that includes a single, sad looking, chocolate chip cookie. They beam at you in pride. Isn't it so great?

"Uh..." you say. "Well..."

Every once in a while someone will switch out milk chocolate for dark chocolate, or add nuts alongside chocolate chips. One bakery was even crazy enough to exclude chocolate chips entirely! Crazy according to the press, anyway. Because for years now you've been shaking your head, wondering what exactly is so progressive about realizing that sugar cookies exist. You've found other bakers interested in cookies and, by god, there are thousands. So many flavors! Gluten free and allergy conscious! Someone even made a sweets tray that was predominantly cookies, can you believe it? The problem is, almost none of them are mainstream. Your friend baking cookies out of their personal kitchen is doing fantastic work, but their baking doesn't have the impact that those grocery chains and established bakeries do. Their work isn't going to fix your school's curriculum. Too many people still think that cookies are exotic somehow. They're not the default. And when they do acknowledge their existence, it's chocolate chip over and over. Until one of them adds those nuts and suddenly the whole country is losing its mind about how inspired, creative, progressive their baking is. Meanwhile, you're ready to scream because that baker doesn't even know that something as "exotic" as a gingersnaps exist!

The worst part? Most of these cookies are... bad. Like they exist, yeah, but good god most don't taste good. And that's the whole point of a cookie?? What is the point of buying cookies if the cookies themselves are awful? You go to these bakeries, these restaurants, your friend's house, and you try the very limited cookies on offer, only to find that they've been sloppily baked. Doesn't anyone care that the baker burned their cookies to a crisp? That another straight up forgot to add sugar? This one dropped his on the floor and still tried to serve it to you! But the overall sense is that you should be grateful for getting any cookies at all. "That cookie is an offense to my taste buds," you say and people shake their head at you, disappointed. "I liked the taste of it," one says. "If you don't like it, go buy a different cookie!" Well... easier said than done. "It's not that bad," another says, shrugging in defeat. "I mean yeah, I don't really like it, and the baker stopped making them two years ago... but I'm just happy to have had any cookie at all, you know?" You do know, but that doesn't mean it's any less frustrating. You look at the hundreds of cakes available, these bakers spending decades perfecting their recipes, and wish cookies had even a fraction of that work put into them. You find people who agree with you, absolutely, but there's this this prevailing sense that a cookie is a cookie. Any cookie will do. Supposedly.

Except go long enough and you feel like you're ready to lose your mind. You take some poor person by the shoulders and go, "Doesn't this bother you? Doesn't this make you furious? There is more to the cookie world than these three flavors, 90% of which is chocolate chip! And we deserve well-made cookies, not the crap they've been upholding as the next culinary masterpiece!"

But this person just shakes their head. "Well of course there's more to cookies than three flavors. There's a huge variety of cookies! I know that."

"Yes, but the world isn't selling that variety."

"Of course they are! Just last week I had an oatmeal raisin. That's amazing!"

"Yeah and how many years did it take you to find that?"

"Well..."

"And how did that oatmeal raisin cookie taste?"

Your prisoner pulls a face. "Ugh, not good. Oatmeal raisin is definitely not for me. It's hard as a rock! I really don't understand why someone would want to eat that on a regular basis."

"But it's not supposed to be hard as a rock!" you cry, waving your arms. "That's the problem! Oatmeal raisin is so goddamn rare and then the one time we get it, it was badly baked. Of course people are turned off by it. Everyone who already loves oatmeal raisin is getting pissed because their favorite cookie is misrepresented, they're unlikely to see more of them now, and everyone is still serving the most tasteless chocolate chip cookies I've ever had, acting like this is the pinnacle of cookie baking! Do you even know that a macron exists?"

The person pats your hand consolingly. "Of course I do. My roommate's sister's boyfriend used to bake macrons, you know. I don't know why you're so hung up on this. Cookies can be whatever the baker wants them to be. Provided they're a flat-ish sweet cake, they're still a cookie!"

You hang your head, giving up. "Yes, they can be so many things, but they're not. Let me know if you ever find a bakery actually making the variety you keep acknowledging exists. Bonus points if those cookies are edible. My soul if they're delicious, as a cookie should be."

"You know," they say, still patting your hand. "There's a bakery making chocolate chip with dark chocolate next year. Everyone is talking about it. You should think about buying one before they take it off the menu!"

You contemplate just walking into the ocean.

Now, incredibly long metaphor concluded... switch out "cookies" for "queer rep"! The representation matters because no, just making them gay isn't enough right now. You're right that queer people can be anything under the sun, but right now media isn't providing us with that variety. It's not enough to acknowledge that such variety exists, it actually has to make it into our books and onto our screen. Taking just characters who identify as gay and putting aside the HUGE variety of other identities for a moment (of which we are mostly lacking in terms of rep), where are the gay asexuals? The gay people of color? The disabled gays? Trans gays? Did your gay character appear for just a handful of episodes? Were they killed off? Are they nothing more than a stereotype or comic relief? Is this the only gay character in your entire story? We need to ask questions like this because though gay people can be anything under the sun, our media landscape has only shown a miniscule portion of that variety.

Today, even in 2021, our representation of gay people is still pretty limited to:

You are only coded as gay and evil

You are only coded as gay and queerbaited

You are canonically gay, but a cis, ablebodied, white person

You are canonically gay, but were written terribly/killed off/punished by the narrative/generally making the real gay people watching you feel awful about their identity

You are canonically gay, but you're not human. Gotta other the queerness by making you an alien/robot/fantasy being

You are canonically gay and that's your entire existence. There is one (1) narrative of how you knew by the time you were four, never questioned your identity after that, suffered through a family that rejected you, and now all your major arcs revolve around being gay. You are gay and that is it.

Despite being a list of six, that's still incredibly limiting. Are there exceptions to such a list? Always, but that doesn't mean the list isn't still dominating. We can look at any individual gay character and say, "Of course they can be evil/white/killed off/a joke/etc. because gay people can be anything at all," but when we look at the trends, when we look at ALL the media together, we see that gay people aren't actually depicted as being anything... they're depicted as being these handful of things, severely limiting how gayness is represented. Bad rep. If you hit up the bakery and question why there's only versions of chocolate chip available yeah, the baker can go, "But cookies can be any flavor! Including chocolate chip!" They are not, technically, wrong. The problem is not that chocolate chip exists, but that chocolate chip dominates and other flavors are rare, ignored entirely, or baked so badly it's actively damaging to that flavor as a whole. Yeah, your gay character can be mean. Or kinky. Or murdered by the story. But when so many gay characters are mean and kinky and murdered by their stories — when you're not getting other versions to balance that out and gay characters are still rare enough that it's just 1-2 characters trying to carry representation for an entire franchise — you start realizing that the claim of "Gay people can be anything else under the human experience" is an easy way to shut down the conversation of whether that variety actually exists in our storytelling yet.

It's not enough for the baker to acknowledge that yeah, of course there are hundreds of cookie flavors and of course cookies taste great! They've actually got to learn how to bake them properly and fill up their store with them.

#queer #mymetas

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Note

Indruck 22 for the meet uglies?

Here you go! I went SFW on this one

you’re on a date with this awful, awful person who keeps getting under my skin because my friend and I have been eavesdropping all night and your date says something that makes me snap … I thought it was a first date, not a three year relationship

“...such a waste of money. I mean, why spend all that to get something tacky on your skin?”

Indrid rolls his eyes at Barclay from across the counter of the Amnesty Lodge coffee shop, the cooks arms and hands sporting a plethora of tattoos rivaled only by Indrid’s collection.

“I dunno, l like the one I got.” The other man--who seems to be on the worst first date of his life--shrugs.

“You honestly think you and Juno couldn’t have spent that money on something else in college?”

“I mean maybe but, uh, we were earnin our own cash, figured we got to decide what to spend it on.”

“Hmmmm” the first guy sips his coffee, “sounds like a typical excuse for someone who doesn’t want to admit a mistake.”

“C’mon, that ain’t fair-”

“Ugh, stop saying ain’t! I can’t take someone who talks like that to meet my family.” Before the target of his disdain can respond, he snaps his fingers, “hey, buddy, can I get a refill or what?”

“The station for black coffee refills is right there, sir.” Barclay indicates the very obvious corner of dispensers, his voice the kind of calm that Indrid knows means he’s memorizing this guys face to warn other staff about.

They earn a brief reprieve while The Asshole leaves the table. When he returns, he’s shaking his head.

“God, have you looked at the photos they’ve got up? Who the fuck wants to look at bones?”

Indrid quickly glances at his friend to be sure he’s permitted to start a fight. Barclay nods.

“Quite a lot of people.” Indrid spins on his stool. “I’ve sold a number of them just from the display here. So perhaps you could keep your rude, unclultured, close-minded, obnoxious mouth shut.”

The man balks, looks to his companion for help. He offers none, mouth trying to form words and only coming out with halves of ones (except for the “fucks” which are plentiful).

“Oh my fucking god, you agree with him! That’s it, I’m out.” The Asshole pushes back from the table and storms out. The remaining man leaps up, panicked.

“Fuck.”

“It’s okay man, shitty first dates happen to all of us.” Barclay offers from beside the bakery case.

“I mean yeah, they do, but that wasn’t one of ‘em. That was my boyfriend of three fuckin years.” He dashes out of the shop, sparing a final glare at Indrid as he does.

Indrid trades a sheepish look with his friend, “Oops.”

-------------------------------------------------

“I’m glad you finally get to meet Duck!” Aubrey grins over her shoulder as she and Indrid wind down the hall at the office Kepler magazine.

Founded by childhood friends, Kepler worked a combination of print and video content that saw its subscribers and revenue climb while other publications struggled to stay afloat. Aubrey was head of the video team, though she contributed content to the magazine in the form of interviews about environmental activists of color and sustainable gift guides.

Kepler has three sections: travel, science, and environmental writing. Indrid now has the honor of being one of their primary photographers. He started two weeks ago and is thoroughly enjoying his work and the company of the other staff. The only person he’s yet to meet is Duck Newton, one of the founders and main reporters, as he was off on an assignment.

Aubrey knocks, gets a friendly “come in” and ushers Indrid into the office.

Looking at him from behind the desk is The Asshole’s Boyfriend, whose face goes from open and friendly to confused, then to perturbed.

“You okay?”

“I, uh, fuck, n-ye.” Duck sighs, “remember how I told you Alex and I split after a shitty date in a coffee shop?” He points at Indrid, “this was the fella who, uh, expedited the process.”

“Ohhhh.” Aubrey frowns, then shrugs with a smile, “whelp, he’s our new photographer. We’ll see you around.” She hurries them outside once more, shutting the doors. As they head back the way they came, she whispers, “his ex was a huge fucking dick, so if word gets out everyone is gonna think you’re a fucking hero.”

“He didn’t seem to see it that way.”

“It was only a few weeks ago, so it’s still pretty fresh. He’ll heal from it okay, Duck’s a tough cookie. And I’m sure you guys’ll get along eventually.”

---------------------------------------

“Juno, please, you gotta come with me.”

“I would bud, except it’s April and I’s fifth wedding anniversary that weekend. And no, we already have plans, so we can’t just take over this assignment as part of the celebration.”

“Fuck” Duck leans back in his chair.

“...You really asked everyone?”

“Ye-no, fuck-”

“Duck.”

“I ain’t asked Indrid yet.”

“There it is.” Juno smirks, “you gotta ask; besides, we were gonna have him do illustrations for the feature, but photos would be even better. And we both know it ain’t his fault y’all broke up.”

Duck nods, promises to ask Indrid after lunch. He finds the photographer flipping through his files from his shoot for next issues cover. His silver hair is pulled back, red glasses sitting on the desk beside him so he can gauge color correctly.

Duck kind of wants to pull the silver locks just to see what happens. It’s not his fault Indrid looks like his Sophomore roommate who he had a raging crush on, only with more tattoos and a much more captivating face. Pity he helped fuck up Duck’s last chance at a stable relationship.

“Hey, Indrid, you got a minute?”

The photographer cocks his head.

“I, uh, so we got a feature on this whole chunk of places touting themselves as ‘sustainable romantic getaways. I booked a bunch of places, but a lot of ‘em will turn me away if I turn up solo. And the person I was supposed to go with ain’t an option any more. Neither is anyone else. You get my drift?”

Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “you realize this is a terrible idea, yes?”

“Hey, we been workin together just fine. Ain’t we? Wait, fuck, I ain’t been treatin you bad even when I’m tryin to be professional, am I?”

“No, you’ve been perfectly polite. But there’s a world of difference between being cordial in an office and going on what’s functionally a vacation together.”

Duck crosses his arms, “I ain’t about to lose eight hundred bucks in deposits.”

Indrid blinks, then chuckles, “Fair. What day do we leave?”

-------------------------------------------------

The temperature rises and the air dries as they speed south on Five. Indrid fiddles with games on his phone as cover for the list of “will this be a disaster or not” he’s mentally constructing. So far the signs are positive; Duck isn’t very chatty, but neither is Indrid. They have similar tastes in music, which makes much more sense when Duck explains he was a burn-out in high school. He also isn’t agitated by Indrid stimming, which makes it easier for the photographer to relax and enjoy the drive.

But they haven’t spoken about the elephant in the car, and Indrid resolves not to be the first to do so. No point in poking the sore spot if he doesn’t have to.

They stop at a Sinclair for gas. Duck reaches into his glovebox for something as Indrid climbs out, comes away with a photo instead. It’s one of those ones from a photobooth, faded but unmistakably him and his ex. His face falls for a second and Indrid scurries into the Dairy Queen attached to the convenience store.

As he waits in line, he turns one fact over in his mind like a picture he’s trying to make sense of; it would be easier to let their awkward first meeting go if he did not genuinely like the other man. He’s charming, in a quiet way, and very friendly. He’s built like the guys Indrid always got useless crushes on in college, usually third tier frat boys or--if he was lucky--a bear a few years older than him who liked his men on the odd side.

He doesn’t like seeing Duck sad. The sadness isn’t something he can fix. The stalemate between these two facts annoy the living hell out of him.

He’s next in line, glances up to confirm what he wants, and gets an idea. Last week, he overheard Duck talking with Aubrey about roadtrip snacks of their youth.

“One chocolate dipped cone, on me.” He holds the treat out to the other man.

“Oh. Uh, thanks. These are my favorite from when I was a kid.” Duck’s smile returns.

“I remembered. Or, ah, that is, I remembered you saying that.”

The smile changes, “you didn’t need to.”

“I wanted to. Shall we?”

“Yep. Uh, you gonna be able to drive and eat that at the same time?”

“Do not doubt my ability to consume ice cream under difficult circumstances, Duck Newton.”

They make it to their first stop unscathed. It’s what Duck refers to as, “eco-bespoke,” a fancy spa and hotel built in a former school, the kind that was made in an era of beautiful instead of grim educational architecture.

“Goats!” Indrid claps his hands, delighted, at the two animals stabled near the main building. One of it’s supposed sustainable elements is the small farm that helps feed the on-site restaurant. Duck smirks and Indrid suddenly feels the gulf in their upbringings, “Ah, I suppose they’re not exciting to someone who grew up in a rural town.”

“Nah, but they’re damn cute.” Duck checks the tag on their room keys, “okay, we’re in the green building, room 2B.”

Indrid snaps some photos as they cross the grounds, more to remind himself of things he wants to come back to later than anything else. He’s busy studying a strange mark on the wall by their door when Duck says, “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Why--oh” he stares at the single bed, “in retrospect, we should have seen this coming.”

“Yeah.” Duck drops his bag near the closet, slides the door to look for spare linens. Indrid summons his courage, finds it lacking, and so bolsters it with nonchalance.

“It’s a king, we could easily share.”

“You’d, uh, you’d be okay with that?”

“It is only narrow definitions of masculinity that mean something like sharing a bed is inherently sexual.”

He’s not entirely sure that made sense, but Duck nods, “You want the right side or left?”

“Right, please.”

“Great. And, uh, Indrid? Thanks for rollin with all this. I, uh, I know it’s fuckin weird but this is a huge feature for the magazine and we woulda been fucked if we had to pull it.”

Indrid gingerly sits on his side of the bed, “You’re welcome. And I don;t know about you, but” he smiles, catches Duck watching him intently in the mirror, “I’m enjoying myself so far.”

------------------------------------------------------

“Why has an activity that renders one incapable of using their thighs been deemed ‘romantic?” Indrid mumbles, face-down on the bed to offer his burning legs relief.

“Fuck if I know.” Duck groans as he sits next to him, “Kinda fun, but if I was doin this to get you in bed, I’d be fucked.”

“I am in bed” Indrid teases.

“And if I tried to put the moves of you you’d toss me outta it. Assumin I could even move myself that close.” Duck nudges him, then clears his throat, “uh, I mean, not like we’d be doin that-”

“Nono, point taken.” Indrid rolls over. The horseback ride was one of the “couples exclusives;” a trot out to a beautiful oasis for a gourmet picnic. Indrid got some excellent shots, including one of Duck with honeycomb dripping down his chin, which he will not be offering up to editors but may keep for himself. For it’s beautiful composition, of course.

Mercifully, their next stop is the pool. Indrid settles himself in the hot tub while Duck types some notes on his phone. Then his friend doffs his bathrobe and Indrid may as well be in a dream. In the steaming, echoing paradise of multi-colored tile and ecstatic shouts, Duck stands like one of the angelic fountains at its heart has come to life.

“You okay there, ‘Drid?”

“Yes.” He hopes his lack of glasses means Duck will mistake his blatant staring for trying to get his vision in focus.

“Then scoot your cu--uh, your butt over so I can sit down.”

Indrid gladly moves aside, finds he’s so comfortable with Duck pressed against him that he begins nodding off in the warm lull of the water. When the other man nudges him, saying it’s time to go, he finds a strong arm draped over his shoulder and Duck’s smile the most relaxed it’s been all trip.

Their last task at this location is to locate the speakeasy somewhere on the premises and order the “lovers delight” (only available to couples). To do so, they follow clues purple light bulbs, doors that lead to tiny, art-filled rooms, secret staircases, and a false supply closet to a dark wooded, dimly lit, incredibly pleasant bar looking out over the property. The drink turns out to be a massive goblet (more a bowl that someone stuck on a stem) of ginger syrup, prickly pear juice, and silver tequila.

It also turns out to be incredibly strong. So much so that when they get back to the room, Indrid loses his balance getting his shoes off, which makes Duck laugh, which results in both of them flopping onto the bed.

“S’fun. You’re, you’re real good at the clues. Should, should go to an escape room when we get home.”

“Wasn’t, hic, that hard. They, they want, hic, want you to find it.”

“Take the compliment, goofus” Duck pushes his shoulder.

“You’re, hic, the goofus.”

“Nuh uh.” Duck sticks his tongue out. Indrid does the same, then licks his cheek just to hear him laugh.

Duck rolls onto his back, giggles dying down to a contemplative sigh, “He woulda hated this.”

“Your ex?” Indrid crawls to stay close to him.

“Yeah. Everythin I like, or, or thought was fun, he thought it was a waste of time or just plain worthless. He, he wasn’t like that at the start. Dunno what changed. Probably me. Probably got borin. Got worse.”

Indrid is not so drunk that he believes he can fix this. But he’s just drunk enough to stroke Duck’s cheek and murmur, “No. Nono, hic, you’re th’best.”

He doesn’t remember falling asleep after that, but he must have, because his phone is beeping at them to get up and face the day. They do so with to-go coffees in one hand and their bags in the other, neither speaking of the night before until Indrid has turned the car into deeper desert.

“Sorry for gettin on a thing about Alex last night.”

“It was a three year relationship; goodness knows you’re allowed to have feelings about it.”

“Even relief?”

Indrid glances at him, “Of course.”

His friend leans back in his seat, sipping from his travel mug, “That’s half the reason I been in such a funk. I feel like I oughta be sad, then I feel guilty for the fact I’m relieved instead. But if I really was that unhappy in it, why did I hang around so long? Maybe that was the best I deserved, y’know?”

“I know the feeling, yes, but I can’t say I agree with your statement. You deserve someone who sees you for who you are and adores it, not someone who loved what you once were and became bitter when you grew.”

Duck looks at the console between them, at Indrid’s chipped black nails and the hand he hopes isn’t shaking. He squeezes it a moment longer than necessary, “Thanks, ‘Drid. It’s nice to hear that from someone who’s still gettin to know me. Juno and them, they’re my friends, I know they’re in my corner but, uh, sometimes I worry that anyone new is gonna find me dull or somethin like that.”

“I’m sure some people would, just as some take one look at me and decide I’m a weirdo who they don’t want to deal with. But I can say with certainty that I don’t find you that way.”

Duck grins all the way to their destination. It’s a quirky trailer park full of amenities and built mostly from salvaged materials, doing it’s best to run off the grid. It also gives each trailer a theme, and Indrid flaps his hands when he sees they’ve been booked in the “The Cramps” themed one.

“Hell yeah.” Duck mirrors his excitement as they open the door. Their haven from the desert sun is full of kitschy horror artifacts and a much smaller bed than the previous spot. There’s no debate this time; Indrid settles on the right, Duck on the left, and they settle in for a nap before venturing out to work.

They take in the bar, the arcade, the mini-golf course, and the “couples supply room” (“damn, didn’t know they made eggnog scented massage oil” “ooh, I like how that smells”), but Duck turns out to be most excited to rent a stargazing kit and guide Indrid out into the dark desert. They’re on their backs, shoulder to shoulder and munching chocolate covered fruit, when he discovers the source of his glee.

“There!” Duck points to a crackling streak of silver.

“A meteor” Indrid wiggles happily as a second one speeds through his view.

“It’s the Perseids, and this is a damn good place to watch ‘em. Look, there’s another one.” He’s breathless each time and Indrid’s heart threatens to beat hard enough to crack the earth at the sound.

“Did you ever wish on stars when you were little?”

“Yep. Never asked for much worth notin, though I’m pretty sure I wished once to just wake up and be a boy. Or, uh, guess for everyone to see me as one. What about you?”

“I wished...I wished for someone to do things like this with, some who’d kiss me and tell me that they didn’t need to wish because what they wanted was right here.. I love the world, I want to see so much of it, that’s half the reason I chose my profession.. But when I was young I thought I’d be with someone when I did. I thought it was easy to find that kind of love. To be worthy of it.”

“Hey now” Duck rolls onto his side. He’s backlit by the moon, meteors zipping behind him as if they, just like Indrid, are pulled to him, “what happened to all the stuff you said in the car about deservin someone who adores you?”

“It’s easy to apply such things to you, harder to believe them about myself.”

“How come?”

“Because you are everything a sensible person could want in a man and I am not.”

“That’s where you’re wrong” He sets a hand next to Indrid’s shoulder, “Can think of at least one sensible fella who wants to get to know you a whole hell of a lot.”

“He’ll get to know me plenty, we’re co-workers.”

“There are different kinds of gettin to know someone.” Duck dips down, brushes their noses together, “for instance, the last few days I’ve gotten to know you’re a damn good travel companion and that Ned was smart to hire you. But I’ve also gotten to know there’s some things about you I really wanna know.”

“Such as?” Indrid’s fingers find Duck’s sides.

“Such as whether you wanna go on a date with me when we get back. No assignment, just the two of us gettin some time together.”

“I want nothing more.” He leans up to kiss him, feels him shudder happily when their lips meet. Indrid wonders how long it’s been since someone kissed Duck like they meant it, and resolves to make up any deficits with an enthusiasm that would put horny eighteen year olds to shame.

Indrid nips Ducks ear, “you know, were it not for the threat of mosquitos and scorpions, I’d suggest we make good use of the non-food items in that basket.”

Ducks grin lights Indrid up like a comet, “Then howsabout we go test just how conducive our trailer is to romance?”

Indrid kisses him adoringly, “Lead on, sweetheart; I’ll follow you anywhere.”

#indruck #indrid cold/ duck newton #meet ugy

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years

Text

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 04 (second part)

(Masterpost) (Episode 04, first part) (Episode 05, first part)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes

Continued from the first half of this very long post!

Lets Go! Gusu

Wen Qing is lovingly exploring the magical wards of Gusu. She tries a little digital penetration on the ward at the waterfall, but gets the hard nope.

Note: Here at Canary3d we don’t ship Wen Qing with any cultivator ladies because we’re too busy shipping her with modern-day infosec-pro ladies, if you get what I’m saying and/or have read my bio.

Meanwhile Wei Wuxian is fishing with Nie Huaisang, using the method of sneaking up and grabbing fish with his bare hands. This actually works, because he is good at literally everything. His “I’ll be the prodigy” speech to Lan Xichen, isn’t actually arrogant.

Aw, Look at Xiao Zhan pretending this fish isn’t already dead.

Nosy Parker Wei Wuxian

Wei Wuxian goes to chat up Wen Qing and none of his crap works on her.

If I want to admire a pretty face I’ll go look in the mirror

His interactions with Wen Qing help to mature Wei Wuxian quite a bit over the months and years. Initially she’s a mystery to him, and he wants her attention and esteem. And can’t get either.

Look how stunned he is to encounter a boundary when she won’t let him touch her needle. “Wards are made to be broken” but she’s not going to let him past any of hers.

Jiang Cheng, Insecurest Boi

Oh you beautiful sad angry boy.

(More after the cut!)

Jiang Cheng is angrily waving the laundry around practicing his angry sword moves without a sparring partner, which is noteworthy partly because it shows how dedicated he is, but also because it shows how much he depends on Wei Wuxian for social interaction and cultivation practice. There must be 40 or 50 kids he could go practice with, but he’s by himself.

Camera Operator: Why you gotta take it out on me?

When he bitches to Yanli about his Dad preferring Wei Wuxian, she gaslights him.

Yanli is so gentle and kind, and she’s been the real mother for both of these boys when she didn’t have to be. But she ain’t perfect.

Yanli found this soup recipe on youtube. The ingredients are: water

Jiang Cheng has such a complex about Wei Wuxian he won't take the fish from him directly. He just looks hungry until Yanli grabs a stick and passes it to him.

Look, Jiang Cheng, we know you have reasons to be upset, but you need to get the fuck over yourself.

Aw, look at Xiao Zhan pretending this fish is cooked/palatable. (note: it is not)

Xiao Zhan deserves multiple awards for this performance. With bonus points for gratuitously eye-fucking Wang Zhoucheng into next week.

Wang Zhuocheng is an amazing actor who plays an incredible range of emotions, but selling the “delicious fish” lie exceeds his abilities. Look how he steels himself before he opens his mouth.

Yanli tells Wei Wuxian to be good starting tomorrow, and WWX gives her his patented lying-motherfucker salute.

This one has 4 fingers, unlike the 3-fingered boy scout salute he gave Lan Wangji on the roof in the previous episode. The extra finger is for extra lying.

Lan Lecture: Goofing off

Wei Wuxian is bored and spends the lecture time goofing off or sleeping like any other smart kid with ADHD.

Eventually he draws a bunny while Nie Huasang tosses him a nut wrapped in paper and he eats it. It’s the same kind of nut he eats at the beginning of his second life, when he remarks that they tasted better 16 years ago.

Don’t mind me, just putting Nie-Xiong’s nuts in my mouth

It’s cute how WWX and NHS are so vaguely gay for each other without bothering to be seriously gay for each other.

Several of the rules that are read out during this part of the lecture are things that Wei Wuxian is doing during this part of the lecture, or will become known for doing in the near future.

sitting improperly

causing noise

teasing others

ignoring others and being undisciplined

borrowing money

being late

Lan Lecture: Showing off

The question & answer part of the lecture arrives, which is when Wei Wuxian gets to show off his gifts.

He is that classic kid who already knows the essence of the material, does not need stuff explained, and is super bored at rote learning.

Lan Qiren makes Lan Wangji show off his skills to the whole class, which would guarantee an after-school ass kicking for the teacher's pet except that LWJ is basically the most aggressive person in the entire Lan clan (thanks Mom for those "I'm going to kill you now" genes!) and is unbeatable.

Lan Lecture: Going off

Next, Wei Wuxian introduces an idea for sustainable energy.

He starts off challenging Lan Qiren's hypothetical scenario, and as Lan Qiren draws breath to answer him, Lan Wangji starts speaking. LWJ has been listening very carefully and is speaking out of turn instead of letting the master speak, which is...probably not how he usually conducts himself?

From Wei Wuxian’s perspective, this is just the run-up to his next outrageous suggestion, but for Lan Wangji, this has to be an enormous moment. This boy who is unexpectedly a good sparring partner with swords and words is also an intellectual sparring partner - someone who can give Lan Wangji an actual chance to debate something.

Wei Wuxian’s answer "it's such a waste" is directed to Lan Wangji, not to the class as a whole. Lan Wangji, Gusu’s loneliest boy, is suddenly in a relationship with an equal. The relationship is adversarial, but it's EQUAL.

Wei Wuxian carries on explaining his idea: How about digging up and desecrating corpses? No no no Not for fun, but in order to have massive, unthinkable power?

Seems like a waste to just leave the dead to their rest when you could be using them for something.

Lan Qiren: I can see we are going to have to kill you eventually, aren't we

Jiang Cheng: oh my god Wei Wuxian you can't just ask about decapitating corpses

Jiang Yanli: perhaps my unwavering loyalty to Dad's methods with my baby brother should be reexamined

Nie Huasang: my dude, conceal don’t feel, seriously

Lan Wangji: hmmm he’s not exactly wrong

Lan Wangji was a LOT more horrified at Wei Wuxian sticking a note on Lan Qiren’s ass than he is at this whole demonic cultivation thing. Lan Wangji is really really attracted to Wei Wuxian’s talent and intelligence, even when it's completely heterodox. You can see it much later when Wen Ning gets his personality back; Lan Wangji is impressed and congratulatory, unlike literally everyone else in the cultivation world.

Punishment

When Wei Wuxian gets sent to copy a chapter 1000 times, Jiang Cheng and Yanli are both horrified, whereas Wei Wuxian’s reaction is totally chill.

Basically he knows that he has reached the part of the classroom discussion where he is inevitably sent for punishment, because he is totally used to that being how things go in his education.

Similarly, kneeling doesn't bother him because Madame Yu made him kneel for everything. Wei Wuxian is the mascot for too-smart bored kids everywhere.

On his way out, Wei Wuxian hits Lan Wangji with this troubled look of yearning. In this moment where Wei Wuxian is sparking Lan Wangji’s interest and tentatively seeking a path toward Lan Wangji’s heart, he is also mapping out the unorthodox path he will follow away from him as they grow up.

Lan Qiren in his rage does the dumbest and, frankly, most irresponsible thing the parent of a teenager can do in this situation; he sends Lan Wangji to supervise Wei Wuxian’s punishment.

"This terrible WWX is a one-man bad crowd. Let me send my deeply conflicted, stubborn, intensely private, teetotling, abstinent and abstemious newphew to spend several days in a private location with him, being bored together."

Lan Wangji responds to this order with 100% calmness, not even an eyebrow furrow.

I'm sure no cussing, pornography, romantic portraits, flirty ink grinding, or changes in forms of address will happen.

Lan Lecture: Blowing off

Wei Wuxian meanwhile has fucked off to go make more friends, and is hanging out with Wen Ning. Wen Ning demonstrates his archery by hitting the worlds slowest falling rock in midair and Wei Wuxian earnestly praises him and offers to trade skill pointers.

I love how sweet and kind WWX is to this younger kid who is obviously a little different.

When Wen Qing shows up, Wei Wuxian takes another opportunity to get into her business, but he skips the charm this time. He also 100% correctly deduces what she is up to.

Swords by the Waterfall

Then comes another sexy sword fight as Lan Wangji sneaks up on Wei Wuxian and almost get his face sliced open as a reward.

Now that the swords are out it’s time for...homework, sigh. Summer school is the worst.

Outro

Writing Prompt: Lan Xichen’s letter to Nie Mingjue after meeting Meng Yao

Episode 05 Restless Rewatch is over here!

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #chen qing ling #the untamed stills #restless rewatch the untamed #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wen qing #lan qiren #weilan #the untamed spoilers #restless rewatch #the untamed meta

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citrusella-flugpucker · 3 years

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All 68 of my SU fics, apparently

((Because @novantinuum did it and then I wanted to do it and then they said “do it” and I took it as a dare

Compiling these gave me a sense of accomplishment. And pain. In my wrist.

Multi-line summaries nearly always squashed to lessen the vertical length of this post, even if most of it is below a readmore))

Multi-chapter fics, regardless of collection status (chronological order--oldest to newest):

And He Doesn’t Wake: My first SU fic, complete; “It can't end like this. Or: Waxing realistic as we examine the events of the episode "Bubbled".” Steven suffers halfway-realistic effects from being exposed to the vacuum of space. Probably not super canon compliant given what we learned in Growing Pains but a fic that branches off at Bubbled and rejoins canon around Mindful Education (and written around that timespan).

Diamond in the Rough: Incomplete; “Connie is in the hospital with a serious disorder, and her biggest chance is an experimental treatment combining minerals with blood transfusions. Little does anyone know...” Originally crack of “Connie gets powers from PD-infused blood” but then ASPR happened and I have to figure out where it goes now (and I want to! but...).

The Results Are In: Incomplete; “Sadie gets a piece of mail from her dad. For most people that'd be pretty mundane, but it's a little more complicated considering who exactly her dad is.” Barb/Blue Diamond crack (it makes sense in context) and affectionately called “Space Maury” internally for reasons that will make sense later. Has a similar but less “it flips the ENTIRE plot” issue with ASPR. I have many idea chunks but almost no connection between them

He’s Gone: Complete (and technically a oneshot with two “bonus chapters”); “Steven asks Peridot to get the shirt Connie got for him for his birthday from his closet. He says he wants to look nice. She's confused by his request. Greg and the Maheswarans are less confused and more terrified. He keeps saying it'll be okay. They'll be okay, even though he'll be going away. It'll just be a couple of days now. Or: Steven and Pink Steven are unable to fuse after being separated on Homeworld. That's not good for Steven.” Steven dies. That’s it. That’s the whole fic. Might potentially get an extra chapter or two still. Or not. Eh.

Thanks, Padparadscha: Incomplete/open-ended oneshot collection; “Stories about the best gem.” Padparadscha oneshots.

Your No-Good, Dirty-Rotten, Gem-Shattering, Rebellion-Leading Mother: Incomplete, little desire to finish; “What if Steven had gone to Camp Green Lake instead of Stanley? Or: If Steven Universe And Holes Were The Same Universe: A Fanfiction (thanks @captainjzh) Or, as the top of my Google Doc I started back exactly a year ago (*2019-01-07) says: SU x Holes: Because the fact that Steven Universe and Stanley Yelnats are both 14 is messing with me”. Wrote this as an exercise after reading the appalling original shopped screenplay for the Holes movie which was basically a nuclear fallout enthusiasts dream world but also quite possibly the worst and most uncomfortable thing ever written and I have had to have whole pages bleached from my memory

It’s Okay to Need Help: Incomplete (three chapters total planned), the last part of the pre-SUF-finale “Steven Corruption Theory” collection; “"Everybody needs support sometimes, and you need support right now, with this. And that's okay." She takes a deep breath. "It's okay to need help, Steven." Or: (Based in corrupted Steven theory as well as taking inspiration/using characteristics from a fic by @love-killed-the-superstar) Sometime after coming back from corruption, Steven sees a therapist to try to hammer out some lingering issues.” Steven has specific lingering issues from corruption due to the way they had to mitigate it, and that affects how he communicates with his therapist some days. Just been blocked on the best way to write it

Waiting is Worse: Incomplete; “Is there anything more awful than the feeling of powerlessness?” The movie mostly ends the same, except Steven doesn’t un-rejuvenate.

Realism: Incomplete, strong desire to complete; “As much as he may want it to be, this is not a dream. He's not possessing anyone. It's not happening to someone else. It's real.” Steven has the same effects happen to him as the Watermelon Steven from Escapism--an arm and a leg are amputated.

The President Kisses Babies, and Other White House Briefs: Incomplete, open-ended oneshot collection with very little overarching plot; “Oneshot escapades of President Connie Maheswaran and her First Man, Crystal Gem and public speaker, Steven Universe.” Inspired by a Tumblr post and with more ideas in the pipeline! Love this fic even if I lost most inspiration for four years!!

Collection (series) oneshots (chronological order):

Citrusella Tries (And Succeeds!) to Write a Fic Each Day of the Bomb: A collection where I tried to write a fic each day of the HotCG (wedding) bomb. I succeeded but also kind of not? XD

Could You Imagine?: “Imagination is wish fulfillment. What are some of the things Pearl has imagined?” Now We’re Only Falling Apart

Partake In New Extraordinary And Pleasing Pizza Lover Experiences (Or: Kiki's Lament): “Kiki rarely hates her job. But she does hate pineapples.” What’s Your Problem? (Also the title spells PINEAPPLE o.o)

Acquired Taste: “Steven has a snack as he helps prepare for an important ceremony.” The Question

My Whole Life: “Some people are just born to go into certain careers.” Made of Honor

We Can Think About Hope: Incomplete multi-chapter with no hope of completion (why it’s not listed in the multi-chapters, BTW... also the “kind of not” regarding success); “What's going on? What do we do now? Can you still hear me? (Or: The end of Reunited plays out differently.) (Or or: And He Doesn't Wake: Part II: This time with weirder angst! And more not waking!)”

Citrusella's "Steven Corruption Theory" Collection: A collection of fics written on the corruption theory premise before it became canon. It’s Okay to Need Help not duplicated here but would be at the end.

Change: “Steven's come back from probably the most serious thing that's happened to him--save almost dying after his gem was ripped out--but that doesn't mean he came back unchanged. (Based on the "corrupted Steven theory".)”

My Skin: “Steven does a mental inventory of what's changed about him since his uncorruption and finds himself starting to fall into a hole of self-criticism, until a song playing downstairs sets him straight. (Based on the "corrupted Steven theory".)”

Eternity in a Moment: “It had only taken a few hours, and yet, an eternity.”

I Can't Say with Confidence: “Over an hour. He's been sitting in the tub, fully clothed, the bathroom a mess… for over an hour.It should be working! Why isn’t it working?!” Based on this art!

It’s Okay to Need Help

Happy Steven's Day!: Just after Steven discovers his mother is Pink Diamond, Mother's Day rolls around...Greg just doesn't want Steven to be in a slump about it anymore.

You Deserve All the Joy: “Because nothing is better than being surrounded by family and love. Or: Steven's once-a-year struggle with a holiday he doesn't exactly have the ability to traditionally celebrate.” It’s Mother’s Day and Steven is sad. Post-ASPR

Universe Day: “"Being your dad is the only present I really need." Or: Greg and Steven talk and realize their experiences with Mother's Day have been two sides of the same coin.” Post-SUF

Citrusella's Comfortember 2020 Fics: Fics written based on prompts for November 2020 Comfortember... not finished with it

Speed Bump: “Steven's first night on the open road isn't as smooth as he wanted it to be. Attempt to combine prompts 2-6 of Comfortember (prompt 1 just couldn't be squeezed in): "first day/night", "nightmare", anxiety", "cuddling", "afraid to sleep"”

In the After: “Steven wonders if it was corruption. Comfortember days 7-10, though only in the most tenuous, technical sense (and by that I mean all four phrases are mentioned): "blanket fort", "lashing out", "confession", "crying"”

Late Night Hot Chocolate (described in next section)

Zombie Club Chronicles: Steven endures a violent accident on Frightnight (Halloween) that changes his life forever.

Beach City Zombie Club

Prompt: [Randomly roll from list: Steven] doesn’t enjoy the Halloween season, but [Fill in: Steven] take(s) them on a well-meaning trip to an old Gem Ruin where they come to realize [Pick from list: They’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here]

On Frightnight when he is 17, Steven experiences the most serious event of his young life. Almost exactly a year later, Steven takes Steven to Lars' ship in hopes of being able to hop off at a truly secluded gem ruin to talk about something that Steven and Steven have been disagreeing on for several months. Lars has an idea, and Steven comes to a realization.

For the Cluster Spooky Writing Challenge!

Late Night Hot Chocolate (also a Comfortember fic)

"Steven? What are you doing?" He stares into the pot.

The gem half's voice comes monotone. "Making hot chocolate."

"It's three o'clock in the morning. Why on earth are you making… hot chocolate?"

The slyness on his face is one pixel away from nonexistent and yet it's practically a traffic cone to his other half, as he remarks flatly, "Because I've lost control of my life."

Or: Steven and Steven both have nightmares that threaten to take them back to... that night... One copes by making the other hot chocolate and pretending he really isn't having any problems.

Comfortember days 16-18: Protective, Flashbacks, Hot Cocoa

Standalone oneshots (reverse chronological order--newest to oldest):

Rumble Strips:

Prompt: [Randomly roll from list: Greg] notices [Fill in: Steven] is in a somber mood lately. Out of the goodness of their heart they try to cheer up the sad soul in the only way they know how: [Fill in: WHO WANTS TO GO ON A ROAD TRIP?!]

"I really thought I could handle myself on my own." He scoffed. "Even my own therapist didn't think I could do it."

"I bet she thought you could handle yourself just fine. She probably just thought you'd do better with your support system close, bud. Like, literally, I mean." His eye weaved through the thin line of gravel past the edge of the shoulder. "You started saying some pretty concerning things."

Or: Greg and Steven stop on the side of the interstate on their way to Empire City for New Year's, to have a conversation.

For the Cluster Christmas Writing Challenge!

Auto-Injector: “In an alternate timeline, Steven meets Bluebird at her welcome party but he cannot, under any circumstances, try her hors-d'oeuvres. Or: Steven ends up with allergies because why not” (I have three more ideas for chapters)

Don't Put Beans Up Your Nose: “"I know you want answers, and I wish I had some for you, really, Steven, but from what you've described… those aren't things to play around with. It's unethical to knowingly subject you to those for the sake of 'experimenting', even if you consent." Or: Steven asks Dr. Maheswaran a question she's not ethically able to answer.”

The Exor-schist:

Prompt: A series of events have led to a terrifying effect on one or more of the series�� characters. [Randomly roll from list: Mr. and Dr. Maheswaran] are now suffering from [Randomly roll from list: Spiritual Possession]. How did this happen?

"This corrupted gem, it has a powerful connection to organic matter. Ones this powerful have been known to overtake and even kill humans."

For the Cluster Spooky Writing Challenge!

It's My Party and I'll Dry If I Want To: “You would dry too, if it happened to you! Or: Steven says he wants a pool party for his eighteenth birthday in Delmarva, after over a year of traveling the country. ...But why isn't he swimming?”

Ace Up Your Sleeve: “Or in your back pocket, same diff. Or: Steven's sad about potentially not getting to go to Pride.” (oneshot and an epilogue)

Milestone: “"Okay, so like, the books aren't, like, useless, but they assume you have like the perfect baby. Maybe consider the following: kids are dorks, man." Or: Steven went to the doctor. Once. Or: Greg thinks Steven, at 15 months, is being weird and missing milestones and is worried he's a bad dad so he goes to Vidalia for help.” May eventually be part of a babby Steeb over the years collection

Full Enclosure: “What am I going to tell you? You're better off not knowing the trouble I'm in. / I don't want you to worry about what I've just seen, about where I've just been. / You don't have to be a part of this, I don't think I want you to be! / You don't need this, you don't need me... Or: Steven defines himself by his connection to others. So when they all leave, then… he's no one. (In short: Steven is crushed by his need to be needed.)”

Vice: “He could stop whenever he wanted to. He just didn't want to. Or: Steven falls into a bad habit and tries to rationalize it as okay as long as he's not completely abandoning the idea of improving his life.”

Stairwell Solitude: “Over ten years, Greg wrote just six letters to his parents. What could they have contained?” Post-Mr. Universe

Striations: “At Connie's behest, Dr. Maheswaran makes a house call to Steven's place after his un-monstering. It's different than his last appointment, but its core is the same.”

Everything Stays: “Ever so slightly, daily and nightly, in little ways, when everything stays... Steven's therapist brings up something she's noticed about him outside his PTSD.”

I Do It For Me: “"Forgiveness is the intentional and voluntary process by which a victim undergoes a change in feelings and attitude regarding an offense, and overcomes negative emotions such as resentment and vengeance." Steven asks his therapist a question. The answer may surprise him.”

A Break in the Case: “Dr. Maheswaran takes a look at Steven's results but quickly finds herself in over her head.” Mid-Growing Pains

I have a couple entries in the @connieswap omake collection (Comic Relief and Same Old Steven)--I’m not linking them

Changing Tastes: “ Steven and Connie share a conversation after watching Crying Breakfast Friends: Under the Butterknife.”

Rejuvenated Regrets: “Someone calls Steven's name from downstairs. He's not listening closely enough to know who it is. He's not sure he cares right this moment. He wants Mom—Rose—Pink—and that's the one person he knows it's not.”

Gut Feeling: “Every time, he has to push his brain off that train of thought--what if she does it again?--but for someone with super-strength, he's surprisingly not very good at pushing.”

Lapis Watches Titanic (1997) ...There’s no summary

The Cluster Halloween Exquisite Corpse 2019 (I only wrote part of this!!): “Lars tells a horror story but loses track of it, or; a bunch of fic writers do an exquisite corpse and hilarity ensues. Written by DocCairo, citrusella, E350, love-killed-the-superstar and br42.”

Drift Away: “There are timelines where Steven fell into the biopoison when the Earth cracked under his feet. Here we see three times Steven (technically) lived despite a dive into pure poison, and one time he didn't.”

The Rose Wilts: “Once upon a time, he knew Rose. But he knew he didn't know everything.Sometimes it feels like he's learned more about her after she died than he ever knew while she was alive.“ Doug and Rose used to be friends

Tying the Knot: “Steven never wears shoes with laces, because he can't tie them. When Connie finds out, he's pretty chill about it.”

Haploid: “You're not sure if this is what being shattered feels like. You don't know if you want to be sure.” Mid-CYM

Thestral: “"How many have you seen?" "All of them." She answered without hesitation. "Oh." Or: Pearl and Steven talk about a type of gem that corruption has given some... special characteristics.”

500 Words a Secret Santa Gift: The Gratuitous Reference: “200 words a day, every day, until Under the Knife comes back. Or Crying Breakfast Friends. We're not picky at this point. Secret Santa edition! (A Secret Santa gift for @e350tb that deliberately and gratuitously references their 100 Words a Day series.)”

Sesimorp, Sesimorp: “A Lapis Lazuli makes a beautiful work of art.”

Ship Talk: “Lars and Steven share a moment on the Sun Incinerator.”

No Way Around It: “An order is an order.”

Give It A Try!: “Steven gets a Diamond to try something new.”

Better Off: “Peedee ponders what could have been.”

Steven x A Nice Calm Life Please and Thank You™: A Case for the Realization of a Bold New Ship: “Steven deserves a happy life free of interplanetary struggle and strife. It's my OTP. So I'm going to give him that! :D”

I Don't Know: “Will this ever make sense? Will this ever feel normal?” Post-ASPR

Force of Nature: “Her diamond gave her orders no longer.”

My Gemmortal (by XXXbloodstoneshardz666XXX): “the escupaids fo steven hardlight amnesia lion universe and his freinds n crushs” (this is exactly what it sounds like)

The Picture of Steven Pink: “It took a lot out of him.” (SU but Steven takes on the injuries he heals)

Self: “In the Connie Swap AU, Steven considers his identity and place in his family, community, culture, and himself. For a kid who at least tries to be all sunshine and rainbows, this isn't exactly the most fun thing to do, but sometimes it's necessary.” (these are different than the things in the CS omake collection)

I Really AM My Mom...: “"When you're singing, you want to use enough air that you could blow a throatful of peanut butter clear across the room." The crackiest of escape-from-Homeworld plots, based on a ClickHole article and a joke headcanon.”

Left: “Of course there's shame in bailing.”

Old shames (chronological order): Stories I just kinda cringe at now

Shrinking Rose: “Steven never felt bad about his stature. Until he did.” (I just don’t love it)

A Rose for Emily: “What if Rose wanted to spend the rest of her life with someone before Greg? ...It's safe to say she has a skeleton in her closet.” (less old shame than the others on this list but was hard to shoehorn in the A Rose for Emily style writing)

Alone: “Steven won't open up about how everything that happened is affecting him. Not even to himself.” (I know I’ve written other dark stuff but this one just hits different)

You Should've Asked Me, I'm Really Good at Naming Bands (November 2019 Unfinished WIPs): “(title subject to change) I did a challenge that I had to write my WIPs in November (revised to November and December) or be forced to post them unfinished. I got some updates done, but several not done. These are those stories. Dun-dun.” (only “shame” because they were things that were never finished--I also had a Connie Swap omake I was supposed to finish or the punishment was not to post it unfinished but to write Steven and Spinel (NOTP) but I just never did that)

#steven universe #steven universe future #steven universe fanfic #steven universe fanfiction #su fanfiction #su fanfic #long post #(it should be considering there are 78 FICS IN HERE)#THIS POST IS ITSELF THE SIZE OF A FANFIC #(68 fics not 78)

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mocnliights · 3 years

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hello friends !! i’m kit ( in est , using she/her pronouns ) and so flippin excited for this !! i bring you nadira , my new child who i’m still learning so ... apologies in advance for any mistakes i make about my own muse y*kes . i will add a wanted plots page here when i can get my life together a bit more to help with plotting , but for now , smash that like button and let’s get this ball rolling and i will stop with the dad cliches now bye !! ( not bye , i’m still very much here )

possible trigger warning ( all just brief mentions ! ) : cancer/illness , parental death & family estrangement . i think that’s it , but if i forgot anything , please let me know and i will add it !

* MISHTI RAHMAN, CIS WOMAN + SHE/HER | you know NADIRA KHAN, right? they’re TWENTY-SIX, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, ONE YEAR? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to GREAT ONE BY JESSIE REYEZ like, a million times this year, which makes sense, ‘cause they’ve got that whole CONSISTENT PLETHORA OF UNREAD NOTIFICATIONS, LACE LINGERIE UNDER SATIN SLIP DRESSES, UNDISTRIBUTED BEAUTIFULLY EMBOSSED BUSINESS CARDS thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is AUGUST 10TH, so they’re a LEO, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( kit, 25, est, she/her )

THE BASICS .

full name : nadira sharmin khan etymology : nadira ( arabic / precious , rare ) , sharmin ( persian / shyness , modest ) nickname(s) : nadi , nadia , didi ( by amir ) birthday & birthplace : august 10, 1994 & los angeles , california sexual orientation : pansexual/romantic hometown : she moved a lot growing up , but would consider new york city & london where she spent her most formative years current residence : aquila drive in irving , north carolina immediate family ( relation / occupation ) : kashif khan ( father ( deceased ) / renowned fashion designer ) , resna khan ( mother / model , humanitarian ) , amir khan ( younger brother , 21 / student ) occupation : for show , she continues as the public face and head of her father’s brand KHAN , but for all intents and purposes , currently unemployed education : bachelor’s from columbia university , business management . took a few design classes at FIT positive personality traits : charismatic , ambitious , loyal , amiable , creative , dutiful , empathetic , honest , innovative , prudent , zealous negative personality traits : competitive , coquettish , preoccupied , materialistic , possessive , resentful , discontented , opinionated , headstrong

THE SUMMARY .

tl;dr : nadira grew up as privileged as they come , jet-setting from los angeles to new york to london to tokyo and everywhere in between for her entire life . with her parents at the heart of the fashion industry , nadira grew up with a love for the finer things and a sharp eye for her own designs . she was primped and primed to take over her father’s empire when he decided to retire to irving . she took the reigns of KHAN post-college graduation and was living her dream until it came to a screeching halt just about a year ago when her beloved father received a grim prognosis . with her mother still working ( and estranged ) and her brother younger and in school , nadira decided to step down from her hectic position and move to irving to take care of her father . now , he’s gone . for the first time in her life , she feels listless and unmotivated , so she’s still here , acting like her dad’s going to walk back through the door .

THE EXPANDED BULLETS .

on a hot august day in los angeles , nadira was born to a prominent couple in the fashion world . with a billboard of resna consequently outside the hospital , it only seemed destined that nadira would also take the fashion world by storm ... one day .

for as long as she can remember , she was always in awe of her father’s work . as much as she admired her mother , she was much more interested in the inner workings of a company and designs coming to life from a blank sheet of paper . so as kashif’s design empire expanded globally , it was only fitting nadira tagged along from city to city , even after the family essentially “settled” in new york city following amir’s birth .

her creativity was evident from a young age , producing her own mini spring collection for KHAN at sixteen . while her brother gravitated towards instruments , nadira was hooked to the cutthroat nature of the fashion industry , the constant grind to create great work , and the power of one day running the company at her father’s side .

speaking with a very faint british accent that comes and goes from her years spent in london mixed with her years in america , nadira had a taste of her dreams in college . staying close to KHAN’s headquarters meant she could step into a bigger role ( don’t we love nepotism ) while maintaining her expected 4.0 gpa at columbia .

seeing his daughter’s success and simply tired , kashif decided to retire upon nadira’s college graduation and move away from it all to irving , north carolina , a town he had discovered and frequented over the years whenever he sought the complete opposite of his everyday .

needless to say , resna was unhappy with the decision . though she had allowed his little beach escapades during their marriage , she could not understand moving there permanently when her livelihood was in new york . without officially divorcing , resna declared she was staying put , much preferring the luxuries of a ritz carlton than the laidback nature of a destination town , and kashif could do as he pleased .

nadira watched her happy , loving family crumble before her eyes , which only meant she threw herself into her work even more than she already would have . in the subsequent years of taking over KHAN , she worked constantly , resulting in her most prolific seasons and an exponential boom in sales , but also incredible burnout .

she kept it up for three years , always on a red eye or in a meeting or sat at her desk over a sketchbook . this way , she could ignore the fact that her parents were living in two different states with her brother in a third now attending college of his own ( berklee college of music , to be more specific ) . but her world came crashing down again when she received a call from her father , informing her that he had been diagnosed with lung cancer .

it felt like a sign . a terrible sign , but a sign nonetheless . she needed to stop . slow down . take a look at her family and deal with what was happening . nadira immediately stepped down , naming an interim head and creative director of KHAN while she uprooted her life to move to irving to take care of her father .

no matter her good-willed intentions when she moved , it seemed only inevitable that the young fashion star who had had it all would grow to feel trapped . she wasn’t going anywhere , not when her mother rarely came down to visit and her brother dropping out of school wasn’t even something anyone would let him consider , but she couldn’t help her growing feelings of resentment - not towards her father , just her situation .

sometimes , even when money can buy the best , it simply isn’t enough . kashif passed away in july , effectively ending nadira’s obligation to stay in irving , but she hasn’t left . she could step back into her role full time at KHAN , get back to designing and running a global powerhouse , but she fears she’s lost the ability to . for now , she doesn’t see herself going anywhere - physically , mentally , figuratively , literally - despite the growing number of sketches in the notebook she carries everywhere .

#irvingintro #cancer tw #death tw #we're just going to agree to ignore this trash right ?? Thank you #𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐚 𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐧 ✩ ━━ about .

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spxllcxstxr · 3 years

Note

Congratulations on 300 followers! 🖤

I was wondering if I could get a male marauders ship please?

My pronouns are she/her and I’m a Hufflepuff.

I’m quite shy until you get to know me and after that I am probably one of the loudest people on the room once I’m comfortable. I love reading, music, film and going on little adventures. I love parties even though I’m quite shy, I often come out of my shell after a drink or two.

I’m quite an insecure person and often get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I like to stick to what I know so only have a small group of friends and usually don’t like to try new things (I’d love to find someone who can help me do that though).

I’m quite a trusting person and always want the best for those around me, I’m quite a caring and empathetic person too.

Physical features: tall-ish, glasses, long curly hair

(I hope this is enough but message me if I need to add anything)

Congratulations again, you deserve it 🖤

Thank you so much!! This is perfect don’t worry ❤️❤️❤️ (Under the cut)

Celebration

I ship you with: Sirius Black

Ok hear me out

I just get Sirius vibes here

So, I know you’re wondering how shy and Sirius works out, but hold on

Sirius isn’t always this smooth badass

Sometimes he is just so soft 🥺

And he is always soft around you

He just enjoys your presence even if you two aren’t talking

Loves being close to you

“Can I hold you, love?”

Sirius likes playing with your fingers and when you play with his

You guys can just lay on his bed or by the Black Lake in silence and he’ll just love it

And we all know that Sirius can be loud as fuck

The two of you together are chaotic

Like switch has been flipped

Sirius doesn’t really read much

Muggle magazines and all that, but really doesn’t read much

But he loves laying his head in your lap while you’re reading

Even if you’re not reading aloud, he just finds you comfy

SIRIUS! LOVES! MUSIC!

Introduce him to anything

And rant about music

And experiment with music

Even if you have different music tastes, he’s down to listen to whatever you want

Because he was raised in a pureblood family, Sirius doesn’t know what Muggle films are

Please educate him

He would honestly love them

I think he’d like horror the best

(You get scared and bury your face into his chest—that’s his favorite part)

“Aw pup, you scared?”

Sirius loves adventures as well

He’ll take you up on his motorcycle

Wants to go exploring see dragons

Discovering secret passages together in Hogwarts

Going out late at night to find new rooms

Always searching for the room of requirement

It’s very very cute

You are always invited to the Gryffindor parties

If you don’t feel like going, that’s ok, Sirius will spend maybe an hour or two there but then make his way to your dorm to cuddle

But when you do want to party

Oh jeez

You guess are insane

Drinking, dancing, singing along to songs

Sirius mostly stays by your side

In case it gets overwhelming for either of you

Sirius totally understands your insecurities

His family had definitely ingrained some terrible thoughts into his head

But listen

You’re amazing

And Sirius will always remind you of that

He loves you so fucking much

You may have some bad days

And you guys will spend them together

Cuddling in bed or in the kitchens

Anywhere

“I love you. I love you so fucking much, pup. I adore you.”

Hopefully you’ll be comfortable enough with the Marauders, but if you’re not, that’s totally ok!

Sirius won’t force you to hang out with them

If you have your own friend group, he’ll happily hang out with them and talk to them

While Sirius will never pressure you to try new things

He’s always down

He’s very adventurous

And will help you out if your comfort zone

Sirius admires you

And completely trusts you

You’re his best friend

He talks to you about his family and his feelings

Sometimes he pushes you away

But he always feels guilty

And comes back

He allows himself to be vulnerable with you

Ok I hc Sirius as about 5’10

And while I don’t know how tall you are

Just know that he will borrow your clothes

Maybe like a shirt or a jumper

Or some skirts

And of course you’ll steal his stuff

It’s honestly very cute

He loves your glasses

Sometimes you’ll fall asleep with them on, and he’ll gently take them off and put them on your nightstand

Sometimes, when he wants to be a little shit (which is all the time) he’ll steal your glasses and comment just how bad your eyesight is

You and Sirius 100% do each other’s hair

You find new ways to style it or new scrunchies and stuff to use

Man, you two are ADORABLE TOGETHER

Because you have access to the Hufflepuff common room, you get to help the Marauders map it out and you get to search for secret passages and rooms

Honestly, you guys are a cute couple, that just works well.

Hope you like it and thank you so much ❤️❤️❤️

#spxllcxstxr 300 followers

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clarkesrifle · 4 years

Text

You, Me, Us

The Haunting of Bly Manor Spoilers below the cut (fic)

Chapter: 1/4 -- The Final Night at Bly Summary: Jamie and Dani had nine blissful, wonderful years together. It would never be enough, but it was more than worth it. Rating: T Warnings: Major Character Death A/N: This is unedited. It was written when I had no sleep for more than 36 hours. Whoopsie.

ao3

“YOU WON'T FEEL IT,” Rebecca whispered to the young girl. “Okay? I’ll…I’ll feel it for you. I’ll just tuck you away, one last time.” Her heart was broken. For so long, so long ago now, she had put effort into this child’s education, her rearing…and now she was resigned to watch her die. “Go ahead, love. You let me handle this part.” Rebecca already knew what would happen. She had felt the burning ache of water creeping into her lungs, slowly and then all at once. The horrible, terrible burning. The taste of rotten algae and dissolved flesh on her tongue. She feared water so immensely now, but for Flora….she’d go through it again. She knew what would happen. She was prepared. It wouldn’t take any of the pain away from her, but she was ready for it this time.

For a moment, she indulged herself in anger towards her former lover for leaving her to drown on her own, alone. He cowered away, pussied out in the final moments. She died, unwillingly, terribly, alone.

Rebecca refused to let Flora go through the same pain.

“Let me in,” the former Governess said to her student, her friend. “Let me in.”

“It’s you. It’s me. It’s us.” Flora was gone.

☾

THE WATER OF THE LAKE WAS FRIGID, unlike anything Dani had ever felt before. Her throat throbbed, her voice was hoarse and she struggled to make a noise louder and more coherent than a moan — she had just been strangled, after all.

Flora, Flora, Flora. Her mind only went to Flora. She had failed Miles so horribly. Peter was all that was left. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t let Flora sacrifice herself for her. She was so young — so much to live for, so much more to see.

And drowning….

Drowning was such an awful way to die.

Flora, who had just previously been screaming for help, had fallen eerily silent, as though she were already gone. Perhaps she was. Please, Dani pleaded with herself to hurry. To move faster despite not being able to take in enough air. Her legs and back were battered from the Lady’s ascent up the stairs.

Dani had seen Rebecca enter into Flora, pushing the child into the “forever home,” as Peter had called it. Both children were supposedly gone, but Dani wouldn’t allow it. She’d personally organize a fucking exorcism if she had to.

Without real thought or reason other than pure instinct, Dani forced the words out of her mouth with such strength she knew not that she had.

“It’s - It’s you.”

The air couldn’t pass through her mouth properly, the words wheezed yet were powerful nonetheless.

“It’s me.”

Flora’s chin grazed the water now. Dani was running out of time, and quickly. Another step and the girl’s nose would be underwater.

“It’s us!”

The Lady turned, and Dani felt her stomach lurch with both disgust and terror at the sight of her face and utter hope that perhaps it had worked. Please, please, please. Jamie called out for Dani in the distance, but the blonde was so hyper-focused on the girl that she did not hear.

The spirit walked closer to her until she was very well inside of her. Dani felt the entirety of her composition changing as she welcomed in her new housemate. A pool of rage entered into her stomach, deep within, untouchable yet still noticeable.

Suddenly, Flora was in her arms. Dani felt her mouth move but she was unsure of the words she was saying. She felt the water move behind them as Jamie ran into the lake and crushed them both into a hug.

The water was freezing, the spirit inside of her colder and darker, and Dani was unsure if she was in the midst of a panic attack or hypothermia, but she stuttered and repeated the same words over and over again into Flora’s ear.

Jamie spoke, but Dani couldn’t register what was said over her own swirling emotions, but when the gardener pressed her forehead so gently onto her own…it quieted. For a single moment, it all quieted down.

The Gardener helped the girls out of the lake, where they reunited with Henry and Owen.

“Hannah, where’s Hannah?” Owen forced himself to speak. Henry couldn’t quite meet his gaze…

The owner of Bly Manor rubbed Flora’s head affectionately, looking down at his niece — daughter, not that he would ever tell — and nephew. He supposed the best course of things was to tell them all the next day after they’d had time to rest and to process, and perhaps better understand all that had gone on in recent weeks with the housekeeper, who lingered just like the rest of the dead.

☾

JAMIE TURNED THE COLD WATER ON. They were both covered in foul algae. They needed to get it off, otherwise, she was sure that they’d never get the stench off of their skin for the rest of time.

Jamie did put them both in the shower because of the smell, and she told Dani, who had gone quiet after they had left the edge of the lake, as much. What she didn’t tell her was that she had heard that running water helped ease shock.

The au pair sat down onto the tile directly under the stream of the water. She blinked. Dani shielded her eyes and looked up as Jamie slowly turned on the hot water before leaning down onto the tile next to her.

“You don’t have to take off your clothes,” Jamie whispered as she draped her hands off of her knees. “If you don’t want to.” She couldn’t help but feel so painfully awkward in this situation. What should she say? I’m sorry you’ve let a vengeful, murdering ghost into your body, but you smell. “Can I…can I wash your hair?”

Dani looked at Jamie’s hands for a moment, wondering how they’d feel on her so intimately. She nodded her head, but didn’t say a word, she just turned around so that the water would hit her back and not her side.

Tenderly, slowly, as though she were afraid to set her off, Jamie pulled all of Dani’s hair towards her back, letting the water hit it completely and rise out some of the dirty lake. Jamie had brought the shampoo and conditioner into the shower with them and globbed a large amount into her palm. Rubbing it between her palms, she gently placed them into Dani’s blonde locks.

Brown bubbles fell off of Dani’s hair and swam down the drain and Jamie watched it go away, praying that it would be the last time she saw any part of that lake. For her profession, she had to keep her nails trimmed back so that there wasn’t much dirt trapped beneath them by the end of the day. Instead of scratching, she rubbed Dani’s scalp with her fingertips.

Jamie touched Dani’s chin gently, tilting her head back so that she could rinse out the rest of the shampoo. “Guess it’s more efficient this way,” Jamie tried to tease, but her usual flirting tone sounded more dower tonight. “Got your washing and your hair done all at once. Who needs a launder anymore, anyway?”

It pained her to hear Dani not respond. She missed her smile. That big, goofy, sweet smile that made her stomach jump when she first caused it. Jamie had been proud of making her smile. She felt shame in not being able to, at the moment where perhaps she needed to the most.

Rubbing the conditioner between her fingers as she had the shampoo, Jamie generously applied it to Dani, who was overcome with such an overabundance of emotions that she felt numb.

The only thing that Dani could think — the first thought to pass through her head for the hour — was how good it felt to have Jamie wash her hair.

The process was repeated with the conditioner, and Jamie tried to excuse herself from the shower so that Dani could disrobe and wash the rest of herself, but a hand caught her wrist. “Stay,” Dani could barely whisper. “Please.” Her lip quivered.

Jamie could only nod her head. Dani stood, and despite the heat of the water, she couldn’t stop shivering. One by one, article by article, Dani took off her clothes with some gentle help from the Gardener.

Not how I expected to take off her clothes for the first time, Jamie thought to herself. Out of respect for both Dani and for the situation, Jamie didn’t let her eyes go any lower than the flowering bruises on her neck. She wanted so desperately to reach out, kiss them, make them go away, but she knew that only time could do that.

The soap had been kept in a shower caddy, which she applied vigorously to herself, scrubbing herself red and bloody in some places. Dani wanted to scratch the Lady out of her body, scratch the remnants of the lake, the horror, everything away. Jamie grasped Dani’s wrists, placing her forehead onto the blonde’s. Gently, as though saying I’ve got you, you’re safe, Jamie rubbed her nose against the au pair’s.

I’ve got you, Jamie thought to herself. I’m here.

After Dani finished cleaning herself, she did not want to be left alone, not for a single moment. Jamie undressed, showered, and they stayed inside of the tiled walls until the water turned cold and then some.

Jamie helped her friend — lover, partner, it was still unsure — dress in a nightgown, and tucked her into bed, kissing her forehead gently. “Please stay,” Dani said once more, begging her with both her words and her eyes. “Stay.”

Looking through Dani’s wardrobe, Jamie grabbed the nanny’s winter pajamas and threw them on quickly before crawling into bed next to her. Dani felt freezing still, and she quickly huddled against Jamie for her warmth and for her comfort.

Soon, Dani fell asleep to the feeling of Jamie running her fingers through her wet hair.

☾

THE NEXT MORNING, Owen looked down upon the curled-up body of Miss Hannah Grose. He maintained his composure for a short while before crumpling inside, emotionally concaving upon himself. His breathing faltered and he found himself doing something that he hadn’t done even when his mother had died.

He bargained. He pleaded.

But none of his thoughts, nor his aching heart, nor his pleas for her return did much more than die at the bottom of the well as she had.

His mother — well, that had been a long time coming. Owen had long accepted the fact that his mother had died and left a shell that looked and sounded like her behind, inhabited by something other, someone different.

Hannah, on the other hand, had just been alive. He had just seen her not an hour before, beautiful in the moonlight but distraught at his being there. Would that truly be his last memory of her? Of her telling him that he wasn’t meant to be there? Of her foolishly trying to protect him from a ghoul when she had been the one needing him?

How long had it been? Had it truly been her, or an apparition? Her curious spaciousness and sudden quirks in those final weeks would make sense to him later, but in that moment all he could feel was inconsolable grief.

Did she know? He asked himself as he dug his fingers into the well’s bricks as though it were the only thing keeping him standing — it was. Did she know?

Did she know?

Of course she did, he realized. The thought had been implanted in his head so quickly and without warning, it was as though Hannah had placed it there herself. She knew.

As the others, five blokes from town who had volunteered, came, bringing gifts of rope and condolences, Owen insisted on being the one to rappel down into the well himself. He may not have been there in her final moments — had she been scared? — but he would be there for her final journey.

The well stunk of wet and earth and death. He was unsure if it was naturally this way or if this was the smell of human rot. The way down was long. Long enough to kill, deep enough to fear. When his feet touched the bottom, he was careful to not harm her. The thought of harming a corpse, long disposed of, was almost laughable. Yet, he respected her in death as he had in life. He reached down and closed her eyelids. He couldn’t bear himself to look at her eyes, for fear of what would be there.

Owen gently grasped the woman who should have been his Parisian partner, his co-restauranteur, his…well…. At that moment, he couldn’t smell the rot. Instead, he smelled her perfume. He smelled the smoke of the bonfire not so long ago yet so distant now. He decided, then, that his Hannah Grose would not be a bone he threw to the flames. He would feel this. Permanently.

The group of men above him pulled and heaved their combined weights all the way up the well. Finally, after God knows how long, Hannah was free.

She knew, Owen told himself.

She felt the same.

Strangely, The Batter Place never had a speck of dirt within its walls. The whole of the restaurant was pristine in its cleanliness. If one ever cared to watch, they might notice any leaves or twigs that may have been tracked in underfoot being gently rolled out as though pushed by a breeze.

Miss Grose was immortalized upon the walls of Owen’s restaurant, next to his bedside, and forever within his heart. She quite liked it there. It was warm. He was warm.

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baskervilleshound · 4 years

Text

Her Cookies Were To Die For (PART 5)

((I am so unbelievably sleepy rn. BUT this story must continue TONIGHT! because I said so. so there ;D

also a huge thanks to @fedoraspooky for helping me work out the inner conflicts of Snatcher’s past, and the ol noodle ghost himself!))

As Snatcher rested upon the cool dock, he closed his eyes. Deep breaths. That would help.

Wait…he didn’t have to breathe. That would be a bit pointless, wouldn’t it?

Snatcher let out a deep sigh of agitation as he felt his entire body cramp up. He couldn’t believe the pain in his abdomen- he hadn’t felt anything like this in decades. Pain in general had been something that he forgot the feeling of, and gladly so. This was rather miserable, and he was not enjoying what it felt like to experience it once again.

His stomach throbbed and cramped. It felt as if something were tied around him, pulling tighter, and tighter, and tighter…

The pain felt all too familiar. Snatcher’s mind wandered back to when Vanessa had purposely given him food poisoning once before.

---

That morning, Vanessa had seemed a bit off. She was fidgety, and frustrated, and far more clingy than usual. When the Prince had sat down at the table, he had noticed his darling Vanessa staring at him intently as he went to take a bite of his food.

It had been as if she were waiting for something, the Prince had thought.

After taking a nervous swallow of his first bite of bacon, he tilted his head and said,” Vanessa, dearest…is there something the matter?”

Vanessa slowly shook her head, smiling.

“Oh no, nothing. I was just thinking is all. Does your breakfast taste good this morning, my prince?”

The Prince nodded and smiled. Vanessa smiled back, almost to the point where it gave her dimples. For some reason, this had unnerved him.

Later that day, the Prince began to feel ill. He had needed to go to the Royal Library to get some of his things before he would leave to go abroad for his studies, however, instead, he ended up almost completely bedridden.

The vomiting had been incessant, so much so that he had needed to keep a chamber pot in his room, next to his bed. Vanessa had stayed by his side, stroking his hair and rubbing his back each time a wave of illness hit him. She barely left him alone…she refused to.

The Prince found this endearing and kind of her, considering that he was such a dreadful mess. That is…until one night as he slept alone, he heard a few of the servants talking about how Vanessa had insisted to be the one to cook his breakfast the very morning he fell ill.

She never cooked. She was a queen. Cooking was the job of the castle’s chef. However, for whatever reason, that morning…she had suddenly decided that she would do it.

The realization struck the Prince’s heart like an icy barb. Without warning, tears had stained his cheeks. Vanessa had done this to him. She was mad at him for loving his food so much, and maybe even for insisting on getting an education.

Those thoughts stung him as he sat up in bed, wiping his eyes. What was he doing wrong…? Vanessa’s mental state seemed to be getting worse by the day, no matter what he did, and now…she was beginning to turn on him.

Sniffling, the Prince leaned over the bed and wretched. Getting worked up and crying had only upset his stomach even worse.

In a few minutes, Vanessa had appeared by his side in the darkness.

“Oh no, my prince…you’re being ill again. I’m so sorry you’ve been feeling so dreadful,” she cooed, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

The Prince had shrunk back from her touch. His face had become as white as a ghost’s as he gazed at her. He could have sworn her eyes had glinted red in the moonlight in that very moment.

“What? What’s wrong?” Vanessa gasped.

“I…I..um, I don’t want you to see me like this, p-princess. Please, leave me to do this alone,” the Prince had said, stumbling over his words before wiping some sweat from his forehead. “Please I…I don’t want to give you nightmares, my dear.”

Vanessa must have been able to see the fear in his gaze, because in seconds, her eyes grew hollow and dead. She knew that he knew what she had done to him.

The Prince swallowed hard as Vanessa stared at him in silence. A few tears streaked down her cheeks, and she turned away.

“I’ll leave you alone if you want me to,” Her voice had been dripping with ice.

And with that, Vanessa vanished into the darkness, and shut his door behind her. The Prince did not sleep that night, and never would get a good sleep in that castle ever again. He simply lied there in the dark, moonlight pouring through his window as pale as dry bones.

---

Snatcher swallowed hard. He was shaking as his claws gripped at the edge of the dock. His chest felt as if it were ready to explode after recalling that awful memory.

He found himself staring at his reflection in the water. He stared menacingly at his shaking form. He couldn’t believe he was allowing himself to be so weak. He was absolutely furious about it.

Don’t be weak, he hissed to himself. You have a forest and inhabitants to protect. How DARE you be this weak.

The angrier Snatcher got, the more sick he began to feel. After a few moments of stewing over those memories, and letting that hurt and anger build, that pain and nausea he had been feeling finally hit its breaking point.

Digging his claws into the dock and propping himself up with his long arms, he arched his back and threw up bits of bacon, and quite a bit of bioluminescent blue goop. However, this time, it was much more than before. The sky rumbled angrily with thunder as pink lightning began to steak across the clouds.

Once again, it seemed that Subcon itself was stressed over the fact that its guardian was aggressively ill.

Snatcher stared down at the blue goop that was now spread across the top of the water in horror as it began to separate itself into what appeared to be the shape of blue flames. The lights of those who had passed on…and then had been swallowed by Snatcher, himself.

Yes, the ghost was vomiting entire souls, and quite a few of them.

Snatcher could barely think or even speak. The gagging simply refused to stop as it felt as if some sort of invisible string was being pulled tighter and tighter around his waist. He felt as if something was trying to tear him right in half!

Involuntary tears slipped down his face at the feeling of such severe pain. He hadn’t felt it in so long. This was terrible, and to make matters worse, he couldn’t get himself to stop spitting up souls. He was losing his power…and rather rapidly!

However, everything stopped the moment Snatcher felt something touch his back. It was as if time itself had stopped.

It was Vanessa there trying to comfort him again- the twisted witch! Snatcher just knew it!

“Don’t touch me, Vanessa!!” Snatcher shouted in a voice as loud as thunder before smacking whoever had been touching him off of the dock, and straight into the water below.

In an instant he heard a cry…but it wasn’t Vanessa’s. It was Hat Kid’s, instead.

The small girl was now covered in muck and was fighting to break free of the terrible hands that grabbed her the moment she hit the mud.

“ Wha-?! Kiddo?!” the ghost wheezed when he realized who he had actually smacked into the water instead of Vanessa.

#ahit #ahitsnatcher #a hat in time #a hat in time snatcher #a hat in time hat kid #hat kid #ahit prince #subcon prince #subcon forest #queen vanessa #a hat in time queen vanessa #her cookies were to die for #my writing

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imaginaryelle · 4 years

Text

Turnabout and Start Again: part 6 (~3k)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 (Thanks, as ever, to @morphia-writes and @miyuki4s for betaing!)

The first time Wei Ying recognized him through the soul bond, it had been with a kiss. A kiss Lan Wangji had bestowed during a momentary lack of self-restraint on Phoenix Mountain, and which had exploded in his face like a mistimed firework. Wei Ying had startled under his hands, under his lips, and the soul bond had surged through the both of them at once and he’d said Lan Zhan on a gasp, and Lan Wangji had—panicked.

And run.

A soul bond couldn’t be set aside as mistake, or a childish crush. A soul bond didn’t care about Clan, or Sect, or personal ambition. A soul bond would tether them together for the rest of both their lives and beyond, could drag them both into ruin like so many past tragedies.

By the time he’d regained control of himself, by the time he’d calmed enough to touch that thrumming connection under his skin with wonder and tentative hope and seek Wei Ying out again, Wei Ying had moved on to other concerns. He never referenced the bond. Never mentioned it. Never deliberately touched Lan Wangji again, no matter how close they stood.

Not until now, his fingers curled around the pulse in Lan Wangji’s wrist.

He does not send Lan Wangji away.

“Lan Zhan,” he says again as he sinks slowly to his knees, so that they are face to face, no longer making himself a barrier between the world and whatever threat Lan Wangji might pose. His eyes are wide, and wet, and searching. His lips part, as if to speak again, but something changes in his face and his mouth closes to a thin, grim line. He turns Lan Wangji’s wrist in his hand and looks down at the curse mark.

“Liang Feihong must have been truly desperate,” he says, “to trade his life for revenge, and risk your soul alongside it.”

Lan Wangji goes cold. Even the soul bond’s warmth can’t penetrate the ice forming around his thoughts, sharp and burning. He’d known Liang Feihong must have given up his life, of course. That knowledge had been inescapable. And he had known that the curse was a strong one; there would be physical damage, and spiritual damage, if he could not counter it. But to damage his soul—he had never thought a Lan Sect follower, any Lan Sect follower, even one who had left voluntarily, would stoop to such dangerous, corrupting methods.

Wei Ying’s grip on his wrist tightens.

“It won’t happen,” he says. “Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, I promise, it won’t happen. I won’t let it. And for a Lan Sect follower to do this—whoever wronged them must be truly terrible so we’ll just find them and—”

“It is Jin Guangyao.” Lan Wangji finds Wei Ying’s eyes again in time to watch his face freeze for a moment.

“Ah … that’s…” Wei Ying blows out a sharp breath. “I suppose that explains why you didn’t go to Zewu-jun. And Lianfang-zun is Chief Cultivator now, it’ll be tricky to—” He must see some of Lan Wangji’s confusion because he stops again. “Let’s get this dealt with,” he says of the gash on Lan Wangji’s palm. “A lot has happened in thirteen years.” He smiles again, a bit wry, a bit self-deprecating. “Have some more tea, Lan Zhan, and I’ll tell you.”

Lan Wangji drinks more tea and lets Wei Ying spread ointment over his palm and wrap talisman after talisman around his wrist—each one slightly different from the last, each one a fruitless attempt to counter the cursemark—and listens. Wei Ying’s account is unfocused, more of a scattering of anecdotes than a structured history, the whole of it peppered with sly jokes and soft laughter. Lan Wangji gathers, from stories of cultivation conferences and family meetings, that the post of Chief Cultivator is one of a mediator, bestowed upon Jin Guangyao in the wake of Nie Mingjue’s untimely death. That the Four Great Sects have found a new balance, a triad of Yunmeng-Jiang opposite Qinghe-Nie and Gusu-Lan, with Lanling-Jin caught in-between.

He learns that Wei Ying knows of no particular reason Liang Feihong might have sought revenge on Jin Guangyao.

“But we’ll figure it out,” he promises, half his concentration on brush and paper, trying to craft something that won’t crumble to ash on Lan Wangji’s skin in only a few breaths. Lan Wangji does not share his confidence; if Jin Guangyao’s supposed crimes had even been hinted to those closest to him, Lan Wangji is certain his brother would have investigated the claim.

Wei Ying makes fresh ink, and produces a cloth-wrapped box of mushroom-stuffed baozi, and brews one of the medicinal teas—“to boost your spiritual energy, I’m sorry, I know it tastes awful”—and tells more stories. He speaks of Wen Sizhui’s promising archery skills, of Jin Rulan and his young siblings, of Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan, a tale of soul-bond sacrifice with a much happier ending than their own. Of Jiang Cheng, who has largely recovered from the wounds he suffered at Nightless City.

“Wen Qing really is the best doctor alive,” Wei Ying says, smiling and fond in a way that makes something in Lan Wangji’s chest twist. “She has apprentices now. Honestly at least half of Yiling-Wei’s disciples join for her. Nothing to do with me, no matter what Zewu-jun thinks.”

He sobers suddenly, and sighs.

“I think that one will last a few hours, at least,” he says of his most recent talisman, the edges slicked down to Lan Wangji’s arm with ointment and ginseng tea. He breaks the seal on the door with a snap of his fingers. “I should let you sleep, Lan Zhan. It’s so far past nine now. I remember how you used to sleep so precisely.”

Lan Wangji is tired. Has been tired. But he has spent so long wishing for this: to sit with Wei Ying, and speak with him, and hear him laugh and watch him smile without the strife that so often confuses things between them. For things to be easy, even if the ease is mostly born of Wei Ying’s propensity to talk with very little encouragement. He finds himself reluctant to give it up.

Wei Ying is watching him, he realizes abruptly. Exhaustion must be clouding his thoughts: the ward has been deactivated; Wei Ying has dismissed him. He should leave.

He stands, and bows his departure. “Thank you,” he says. It seems the safest option.

“No need.” Wei Ying waves the words away. “Not between us.”

He pours the last of his wine and looks into the cup, and nowhere else. Lan Wangji does not let his own hesitation drag at his footsteps as he leaves.

Lan Wangji wakes to find his clothes returned, clean and mended. His muscles ache, and his thoughts are murky with doubt and poor rest, but working through his morning drills in the cool dawn mist soon clears both pain and cloudiness. His spiritual power is stronger than he has come to expect from this body—perhaps due to Wen Qing’s tea, or Wei Ying’s skill with talismans. It’s reassuring, to work his body in the sheltered space between the inn and its outer shed and feel energy surge under his skin again, even if he isn’t putting it to use.

“Are those the Lan unarmed forms?”

He looks up to see Wen Sizhui watching him from an upper-story window, and finds himself suddenly self-conscious of the slightly-halting movements that are the best this body can manage.

The boy ducks his head. “I’m sorry,” he says with a bashful smile that is much like Wei Ying’s, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I only wanted to tell you that Zhou-shimei and I would welcome your company at breakfast, if you wish to join us. It should be ready in not too long.”

Lan Wangji nods, and Wen Sizhui makes a point of turning away from the window. It takes a moment for proper stillness of mind to return, but Lan Wangji finishes the set; it is the practice that matters, the education of muscle as well as mind and spirit. Audience is irrelevant.

Wen Sizhui has ordered a simple meal of congee and jiaozi, and he and Zhou Xiuyang prove to be Lan Wangji’s only companions for the meal, both of them already dressed for traveling. The rest of their party, he comes to understand, are accustomed to sleeping later.

“Wei-zongzhu asked us to meet with you,” Wen Sizhui explains. “We were hoping you might know more about this.” He offers a note in Wei Ying’s hand; Ask our guest where the complex he found is and scout it out. Be careful.

Lan Wangji frowns.

“He will not go himself?”

“Later,” Wen Sizhui assures him. “He’ll bring you and Jin Ling and Liu-shidi when we’ve found a good vantage.”

That is … better.

“There is a ward,” Lan Wangji tells them. “There may be guards, now.”

“You think they’ve increased their protections,” Zhou Xiuying observes, and he nods confirmation. “What sort of place is it?” she asks, frowning in confusion.

“A prison,” Lan Wangji admits, and realizes he had failed to reveal the whole of his circumstances even to Wei Ying. The surprise and solemnity that wash over their faces at least soothes one worry that had begun to nag at his thoughts: such measures are not considered more common now than in his previous life.

They do not ask why he was there, or show any new sign of distrust. Perhaps Wei Ying’s good opinion is enough to allay such thoughts. Instead, Wen Sizhui asks for details of his route, which he provides: the river he followed, the landmarks he remembers, the arrangement of buildings in the compound itself. They do not linger; as soon as they are certain of their path and their meal is done, they mount their swords in the inn’s yard and set off, flying north.

It is not the first time Lan Wangji has caught himself longing for Bichen, these last few days, but the pang he feels at being rooted to the earth as they soar away is deeper than before, now that his body shows signs of true recovery.

He meditates on the inn’s cramped porch, out of the way of other patrons, keeping his spine straight and his face turned toward the sun’s morning light. After an uncertain stretch of time the talisman on his wrist crumbles to ashes and he startles; his spiritual power recedes as if drawn by a sucking tide; a sudden drain that slows to a steady trickle after a few breaths and leaves him at the same smoldering level of power of the last few days.

The sudden lack feels like darkness rising in his throat, overtaking his mouth and eyes and mind. First spirit, then body, then soul; that is how the curse will consume him if he cannot satisfy it. If he cannot destroy his brother’s closest friend and last-remaining sworn brother, a man who he does not even know for certain has done wrong.

No. He has put his trust in Wei Ying. Wei Ying has already found a way to delay the curse’s effects. They will find a solution.

The sun is too hot on his face, his neck, his shoulders. He resumes meditation through movement in the breezeway; the horse whisk forms, even though he no longer carries the whisk itself. Bichen would not be useful to him now, no matter what comfort he might draw from his sword’s presence. Nor is his guqin likely to respond in his current state. It will take time to form a golden core. If he is able. If he has time.

When he executes the final spin, Wei Ying is leaning against the side of the inn, finishing a few last bites of his baozi and watching. Lan Wangji straightens his robes, and Wei Ying glances away and back, a small smile on his lips.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he says, though Lan Wangji asked no question. “I was going to ask after that talisman, but it can wait.”

Lan Wangji joins him under the porch’s eaves, pushing up his sleeve as he walks to reveal his bare arm.

“Ah.” Wei Ying inspects the cursemark with careful fingers; the heat of his hands is palpable, but he never quite touches the mark. “How long did it last?”

“Until an hour ago.”

Wei Ying makes a considering noise. “Did you notice any change if you used spiritual power?” He pulls a new talisman and the pot of ointment from his own sleeve, and starts slicking the talisman’s edges.

Lan Wangji shakes his head. “I did not use any.” He had been reluctant to give up the feeling, before the first talisman degraded, and apprehensive of the possible result, after.

“Really?” Wei Ying looks surprised. “Hm. Well, we can do some tests when we get back to Yiling. Provided you want to come back to Yiling?”

It is an indirect sort of invitation, but still appealing. The only other place he might go is Cloud Recesses, although—“Wen Sizhui and Zhou Xiuying are investigating to the north,” he says, part reminder, part inquiry.

“And I still intend to join them as soon as I get a signal,” Wei Ying assures him. “I’m just hoping we can make it back, after. Jin Ling’s expected at Lotus Pier by tomorrow, and Wen Qing will send out a search party for us eventually.”

Lan Wangji keeps his eyes on Wei Ying’s hands as they wind the talisman around his arm and carefully empties his mind of other thoughts. It is good Wei Ying has friends who care for his safety.

“Have you eaten?” Wei Ying asks as his hands fall away. “Jin Ling and Liu Weixin have a table inside, if you’re hungry.”

“I have eaten.” He can feel his spiritual power settling—not returning, not yet, but at least no longer siphoning away.

Wei Ying nods, his eyes on the yard, not Lan Wangji. He bites the inside of his cheek, one hand moving to Chenqing at his waist. Then he turns with a smile, sudden and broad enough Lan Wangji can’t be certain it’s genuine.

“Want to see something fun?” he asks, and darts into the yard without waiting for a reply.

Lan Wangji follows.

“It took me ages to get this right,” Wei Ying is saying as he carefully clears a stretch of ground of sticks, rocks, and straw. He draws a needle from his sash and pricks his index and middle fingers. “Stand back a bit,” he instructs, and Lan Wangji obediently retreats again. Wei Ying closes his eyes, standing still and straight and then executing a slow spin with his bloody fingers outstretched. As he returns to his starting point concentration draws a furrow between his brows, and he sets an array in the hard-packed earth with a quick, crisp movement.

Lan Wangji studies it, walking a slow circle around its border under Wei Ying’s expectant gaze.

“Transportation?” he asks, finally, and Wei Ying grins again, obviously genuine this time.

“Better than a talisman,” he boasts. “The array can take more people.” Requires more people, he doesn’t say, though Lan Wangji can read it in the array clearly enough. More cultivators, or an anchor of some sort. Wei Ying crosses his arms, smug. “With this we can visit that complex and get home without hours of flying.” He grins wider. “And without making Jin Ling spend a night in the woods.”

Lan Wangji cannot stop the snaking thought in his mind that this is only one more tool Wei Ying uses to hold off insistence that he return to the path of the sword. It is only a treatment of symptoms, of course. Quick travel is an advantage of sword cultivation, but not its purpose.

He does not voice that thought. It can do nothing but drive Wei Ying from him, now. And transportation, by array or talisman, will certainly be more comfortable for Lan Wangji himself, who had not quite allowed himself to think about the necessary arrangements for traveling as far west as Yiling.

“Why do you nighthunt so far from your Sect land?” he asks.

“So close to Gusu, you mean?” Wei Ying looks rueful as he picks his way out of the array. “Personal favor. The Yang Sect was having some issues with fierce corpses preying on forest travelers.”

Lan Wangji frowns at him. That Wei Ying is particularly suited to dealing with fierce corpses is obvious, but Yiling is still quite distant, more distant than either Gusu or Lanling, and it is not as though Lan Xichen would begrudge a small clan the aid.

Wei Ying does not seem to notice his expression.

“It’s a shame we ran into Zewu-jun, really,” he says. “Now it’ll probably come out that Yang-zongzhu asked me, and she’ll have to deal with extra patrols anyway.”

“Patrols?”

Wei Ying shrugs, one-shouldered and wry. “One of Lianfang-zun’s suggestions. If a smaller sect encounters a problem they can’t solve alone, larger sects are encouraged to offer assistance rather than risk a sect’s destruction or something even more dangerous building ferocity. It looks good in theory. Sometimes it even works well. But a lot of the smaller clans resent—ah!” He pulls a talisman from the cross of his yi. It burns blue between his fingers. “That’s Sizhui’s signal. Here, here.” He waves Lan Wangji to follow in his wake. “Stand here,” he says, pointing to a section of the array. Lan Wangji steps into the spot obediently, stooping a little to better examine the working. His spot designates him a passenger only, no spiritual input required.

When he looks up, Wei Ying is just standing outside the circle, watching him, a faint smile on his face.

“Sorry, sorry,” he waves his hands and backs away. “It’s just—it doesn’t matter. Stay there a moment. I’ll get Liu Weixin and Jin Ling and be right back.”

Lan Wangji nods his understanding, and watches him return to the inn, and waits.

to part 7

#wangxian #mo dao zu shi #wangxian fic #turnabout verse #mdzs #alex writes

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