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clanoffetts · 3 years

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someday. | paz vizsla x fem!reader

chapter iv

masterlist

synopsis: Paz Vizsla finds himself stuck on Dantooine with a broken ship and no credits. Luckily, he finds you, a mechanic that will fix his ship for passage to Hosnian Prime. Over the course of your time together, a courtship blooms.

warnings/things to note: star wars swear words; reader has hints of PTSD that show up in this chapter, mentions of night terrors/nightmares and some alluding to depression; blatant lack of knowledge of ship mechanics; altering the canon timeline a little (my blog, my canon)

word count: 5.7k

note: i ended up moving a lot of Han and Leia stuff to the next chapter, so this one is a little shorter than I originally anticipated. still, I hope you enjoy!

Travels in hyperspace got very boring very quickly. The view out the windows was the same blue light, and there was no turning or swerving or other ships passing to break up the monotony. Sure, cuddling and holodramas were nice for a while but two days in, you were restless with boredom.

Paz, of course, was not restless. Occasionally he’d do some push-ups or pull-ups but you knew it was not the result of boredom.

“Kebiin’ika?” he asks, sitting down in the cockpit with you.

“Hmm?” You tear your eyes away from a book on your datapad to look at him.

“Wanna learn how to use one of these?” He pulls his vibroblade from his belt and holds it up. It looks very different from the one he gave you, there are no intricate markings on the one he holds.

“I think I’m going to be a slow learner,” you warn.

He laughs. “I’m patient.”

“I know,” you nod, remembering how he could just sit for a long time. “Alright. When am I learning?”

He gestures his arms out. “Right now. We can move the table and the couch.”

You agree, anxious to finally have something to do. You help him with the anchors on the round table and the booth-like seat around it, moving them up towards the cockpit. Paz carries the seat with ease, leaving you behind to grunt with the heavy metal table until he finally returns to help you, sliding it across the floor with one arm.

“Show off,” you huff, but he just chuckles.

“Go get your blade, mesh’la,” he commands. You turn and walk back towards your room, retrieving the blade from your bag where it was carefully wrapped in some fabric. You study it as you slowly walk back to the common area, taking note of the differences between yours and the one Paz had pulled from his belt earlier. The blade that was now yours had a beautiful handle made of some sort of dark stone, embellished with gold metal. The blade had intricate carvings on it as well, one you recognized from Paz’s armor as well as many you didn’t recognize. It seemed important, almost like an heirloom, why’d he give it to you?

You return back to the common area and find him just standing there, waiting. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply.

He’s holding a wooden blade in his hand now, it’s dull and chipped in some places. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he explains. “You don’t have a body of beskar.”

“Right. But I don't want to hurt you either,” you say, though you didn’t think you could hurt him if he tried.

He knocks his knuckles on the chestplate. “Mesh’la, beskar is one of the strongest metals there is. Resistant even to the weapon of the Jedi.”

You were a little shocked, first at the mention of Jedi, and then that beskar could hold strong against the swords you’d heard of the Jedi carrying. You’d seen Luke Skywalker’s on his belt, but never seen it ignited. You knew Leia trained with him often and now had one of her own, but you never asked to see it. “Oh,” you say. “Then I guess I don’t have to worry about you.”

“Right,” he agreed. “Now, what do you know about fighting?”

You recalled your very brief ‘lessons’ back on the rebel base. “Shoot the guys in white.” He looked a little confused. “The stormtroopers,” you explain.

“Yeah, I picked up on that part,” he says. “That’s all they taught you?”

You nodded. “I was a mechanic, love, not a soldier.”

“Alright. Well, maybe that’s best,” he says. “No bad habits to unlearn.” You agreed with a nod. “Ok, first thing is your stance.”

He begins moving your body around, your arms and hips and feet, positioning you for the form he thought would be best for someone your size. He was murmuring things to himself but you had no clue what they meant. You also had no clue how you were supposed to get into this exact stance in the middle of a fight, but you let him do it anyway.

“And then you’d take the blade and jab me here,” he says, gesturing to his stomach. “Won’t work on a man in beskar, but most people won’t have beskar. Or any armor, for that matter.”

He continued showing you moves, small self defense ways to get out of bad situations. He made you run sequences with him, but they made you feel a little useless. Yeah, if he let you win you wouldn’t learn, but, Maker, a win was needed right about now. It’d been three hours, you were sweaty and defeated.

“I have a man in beskar,” you say, defeated yet again, laying on the floor. “So do I really need to be proficient with a blade? I’m obviously not doing well.”

He cocks his head at you, sitting down against the wall next to you. “Kebiin’ika, I won’t always be there. Besides, you are doing well.”

“I’m doing awful, Paz, don’t lie. I haven’t even gotten close to winning.”

“Because I’m a Mandalorian, mesh’la,” he tells you. “I’ve been training with a blade since I could hold one. You’ve been training with one for three hours, and I promise that you’re doing great.”

You hum out a thank you and then sit in silence for a moment. Your eyes wander back down to the blade vibrating in your hand, studying the markings. “Why’d you give me this one?” you ask. “The pretty one, I mean.”

“It was forged from some of my mother’s armor,” he says. “House Vizsla and Mandalore’s markings are on the blade. Armorer made it for me when I was fourteen, when I put my armor and helmet on for the first time.”

“Your mother’s armor?”

He nods. “They both died, my buire, when I was thirteen. Armor is passed down through families, this armor has been with us for as long as anyone can remember.” He doesn’t expand on his parents’ death, and you don’t pry. The wound still seems fresh, and you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s because he’s never had anyone to talk to. Mandos don’t seem like that type.

“And you trust me with it?”

“Of course I do,” he says. “Weapons are a part of my religion, mesh’la. A part of who I am, especially that blade. I wasn’t just giving you a blade.” You knew it had been a show of vulnerability, but not one so great, so full of trust.

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? So you just leaned into him, ignoring the annoying press of his armor into your side, relieved at the coolness the metal provided.

You’re not sure how long you sat like that, lost in thought. Paz broke the silence, “We should probably eat and rest. We’ll be in the Hosnian system in ten hours.”

It set in as you watched Paz make soup for lunch that you’ll be seeing Leia soon. You hadn’t kept up with her life in the tabloids, that’s not what she would’ve wanted nor what you wanted. You wanted to know everything, to spend days in her house on Hosnian catching up. But you didn’t want to keep Paz from his home. And yet, you didn’t want to find out what would happen when you and Paz arrived back at his tribe, how they would react to you, an outsider.

As boring as it was, if you could stay in hyperspace forever you wouldn’t need to find out. But you wouldn’t be in hyperspace forever, and you will find out, but for now you push it out of your brain and focus on Paz as he brings soup over to the recently re-anchored table.

“Here you go, mesh’la,” he says, sitting the bowl down. “Mandalorian specialty.”

And it was special. Full of spices, ones you would’ve never put together, and vegetables, it was hearty. You slurped it up quickly, before excusing yourself to take a shower so Paz could eat as well.

The shower was nice after your sparring (if you could even call it that), the hot water felt great on your now sore muscles. You had a hunch that trying to move the table contributed to that just as much as the knife fighting.

“Paz?” You called as you exited the ‘fresher, now in pajamas. You weren’t too tired, but you knew it was important to make the transition from Yavin time to Hosnian time, and once you were cozy in bed, it wouldn’t be long before the tiredness set in.

“I’m coming!” He called back, and sure enough he appeared, holding something in his hand. “Made you this while I ate. Well, I altered it.”

He holds out a leather sheath that holds the vibroblade. It’s identical to the dark brown one that still sits on his belt, but this one has a shorter belt, and the leather fits the blade snugly. “Thank you, Paz,” your voice is breathy at the gesture.

“If you’re gonna fight someone with it, you’ve gotta have a way to carry it,” he says.

Before you realize it, you’re on tippy toes, placing a kiss to the cheek of his helmet. “It’s lovely, Paz, thank you.”

He slips past you into the ‘fresher for his turn in the shower as you admire the craftsmanship. Where he shortened the belt and tapered the sheath, the stitching got uneven, but you didn’t mind. The stitches were made with care, with kindness, with love.

As Paz stripped off his armor in the ‘fresher he felt heat rise up in his body. You’d kissed his helmet. He’d never seen anyone do that before. It was adorable and there was a small mark left on the cheek of his helmet by your lip balm. As the water heated in the shower, he stood and studied the mark of your lips.

You were settled on the bed when Paz emerged from the ‘fresher in his sleep clothes. He always looked strange with the helmet and none of his other armor on, but it was endearing. You had the sleep mask in hand, a precaution that Paz insisted you didn’t need, but one you took anyway. “You ready to sleep, mesh’la?”

“Yeah, I think so,” you say. “C’mon.” You pat the spot on the bed next to you. The cold of hyperspace is starting to create goosebumps on your skin, and Paz Vizsla is basically a furnace. He moves wordlessly to turn off the lights, watching as you slip the mask over your eyes. The click and hiss of the helmet sounded through the room, barely audible over the hum of the ship.

The bed dips down as he climbs in, sheets rustling as he settles himself. You lay on your side facing where he would be, but you weren’t sure how he was laying. Extending an arm, you tried to find him.

“Need something, kebiin’ika?” He asks as your hand lands on his stomach.

“Just looking for you,” you murmur. He gives you a little chuckle and places his hand over yours. His hand is large, and it engulfs your small one easily. “Night, Paz,” you whisper.

“Night, mesh’la.” His voice is a low rumble in your ears, and combined with the warmth he’s brought to the bed, sleep comes easily.

The chrono is cruel the next morning. You got enough sleep, sure, but it was cold when you got out of bed and stumbled into the cockpit where Paz sat. He swiveled around in his chair to look at you, still in your pajamas. “Good morning, mesh’la,” he greets. “We’ll be there in two hours. There’s some cereal in the kitchen, if you’d like it.”

You did like it, the sugary cereal didn’t seem like something Mandalorians would keep on hand, but you were glad they did. You excused yourself back to the bedroom, going through your things and picking out jeans and a t-shirt. For a brief moment you wondered if it was nice enough to meet with Leia, but you quickly dismissed the thought. Leia didn’t expect an ornate gown, you knew that.

You and Paz moved about the ship, preparing for the landing and preparing the ship to sit dormant in a hangar for at least a few days. Every so often, Paz’s gloved hand drifted to the side of his helmet, where your lips had pressed the night before. He watched as you folded your clothes in different ways so that they’d fit comfortably in your backpack. He watched as you bit your lip, studying the ship to make sure nothing you’d need had been left behind. The same lips that touched his helmet. The heat rose in him again, culminating in his face, making the helmet uncomfortable.

“Kebiin’ika,” Paz says to distract himself. “Where’s your vibroblade?”

“In the cockpit.”

“C’mon,” he says, gesturing you into the cockpit behind him. “Wanna see what it looks like on you.”

You shuffled into the cockpit behind him and he threaded the belt of the sheath through the belt loops of your jeans, fastening it around your waist. He takes a step back, looking at you with your new weapon.

“Very badass,” he says and you laugh, the both of you taking your seats.

Finally, the ship jolted out of hyperspace. The stars, the planet, and all the other ships in the system were a welcome change from the monotony of hyperspace. “Ready, kebiin’ika?”

“Born ready,” you reply, grinning at him. There’s a giddiness welling inside you, not only that you’d be seeing Leia but that you’d be in a huge city again, on a Core planet. The years spent in the Outer Rim were peaceful, but sometimes you just want to be surrounded by people.

You were cleared to land on a platform in the heart of the city, Korrie said Leia requested C-3PO be sent for you. Her way of making a joke, you figured. The workers of the hangar would take care of the ship once you’d landed, and you knew Paz was less than thrilled at handing his ship over into the hands of strangers.

“We’re guests of the princess,” you remind him before you disembark. “They won’t hurt your ship.”

“The princess doesn’t know you’ve brought a Mandalorian,” he retorts. If you could read minds you’d know he was terrified of ruining your trip to Hosnian Prime by simply being there.

But you couldn’t read minds. Instead, you weren’t really sure why that mattered, sure you’d heard of some bad feelings towards Mandos in the Outer Rim but you couldn’t see why that would carry over into the Core. But that didn’t matter at the moment, you needed to get off the ship and into the speeder with the droid.

You were the first to step out of the ship, the Mandalorian strangely meek behind you. Everyone in the hangar seemed to suck in a breath as the armored man stepped out behind you, all motion stopping momentarily as everyone took in the sight of a Mandalorian. It reminded you of when Paz first walked into town on Dantooine, the whole town halted for a moment.

“Miss! Miss!” A mechanical voice is calling across the hangar.

“We’re coming, Threepio, give us a second,” you say, pushing on through the oglers towards the golden droid at the mouth of the hangar. The speeder is state of the art, blue with no top, perfect for the kind weather of Hosnian Prime.

“I’m afraid I was only expecting one person,” C-3PO says as he ushers you two into the speeder. “Though I suppose it won’t affect anything.”

Paz looks at you, and you can only guess he’s rolling his eyes. “This is my Mandalorian friend, Threepio,” you say. “He brought me here.”

“Splendid.”

“How’s Artoo?”

The speeder pulled out of the hangar, exposing you to the breeze as you sped over the city. “Artoo is with Master Luke,” the droid began, continuing on in excruciating detail about how the astromech’s wiring is performing.

“That’s nice, Threepio,” you say finally, cutting him off halfway through his opinion on the best replacement for R2-D2’s outdated thrusters. “I think I’d like to enjoy the scenery for now. In silence.” You heard Paz exhale in relief next to you, the Mandalorian was close to losing his practiced patience with the droid. C-3PO had that effect on some people.

“Very well then. We will be arriving at the Organa estate in fifteen minutes.”

You looked out over what was now the less busy parts of the capital city, the further away from the new Senate building, the quieter things got. No wonder Leia liked to live so far out of the city. You found your mind drifting from the scenery to what Leia’s home may look like. Would it be in the typical, Alderaanian minimalism style? Or is she too much like you, pushing away reminders of home? But Alderaan was so much more to Leia than just home.

The speeder stopped on the steps of a fairly small place on the far outskirts of the city. It was a sleek white on the outside, boxy in shape like most of the homes you’d seen so far on the planet. Paz drew in a breath next to you as the two of you exited the speeder, C-3PO leading the way to the door.

Once inside, you knew Leia was not, in fact, like you. It was like you’d stepped back into a home on Alderaan. The art on the walls evoked Alderaanian style, the white furniture and gray accents were the tells of an Alderaanian decorator.

“Y/N!” Leia calls from a hallway at the back of the foyer. “And...another guest?” Leia’s hand went to her belt, you weren’t sure if she was searching for the safety of a blaster or her lightsaber, but neither was there.

You step forward, ahead of Paz. “This is my, uh, boyfriend, Leia.”

“Ma’am,” Paz said with a bow of his head, not sure if that was the right thing to say.

Apparently, it wasn’t, as C-3PO stepped forward. “It is ‘Your Highness’ upon the first address of the conversation. After that it can be ma’am, princess, or senator.”

“Oh,” Paz said. “Sorry, Your Highness.”

“No, no,” C-3PO started, but Leia cut him off.

“Hush, Threepio, it doesn’t matter,” she says, still eyeing Paz. “Leave us, Threepio.” The droid almost seemed like he would protest, but the look in Leia’s eyes told him not to, so he shuffled out of the foyer and deeper into the house.

Leia motioned for you to come to her, and you did, wrapping her into a hug. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Leia said into your neck. “But why in the nine Corellian hells would you bring a bounty hunter into my home?”

You step back and look at her. “He’s not a bounty hunter-”

“Well,” Paz says from behind you. “Not right now, anyway. I only do it out of necessity for my people, ma’am.” You’re slightly taken aback, but take care not to show Leia. Not yet, anyway. It hit you that you’d never really inquired more about the work that had brought your Paz to Dantooine.

Leia looks torn. “You know what one of those Mandalorians did to Han. To me, to Luke.”

“Boba Fett?” Paz asks. He’d heard of the princess killing Jabba the Hutt. He’d known it was Fett’s work. Hell, there wasn’t anyone in the Outer Rim that didn’t know.

“You knew him?” Leia is growing hostile again and you aren’t sure what to do.

Paz shakes his head. “Fett had never even been to Mandalore. I can assure you my people are not like him.” Paz knew that was a bit of a lie, but he hated to screw up this reunion for you. “I’ll give you my weapons while I’m here, if that’s what you want.”

“No,” Leia says, her guard dropping. “I know you’re not a threat. Not to us anyway.” And then she looks at you, then back at Paz. “C’mon, I’ll show you to your room and you can put your stuff away.”

You follow her through the house, and you aren’t sure how to feel. It feels like Alderaan, the decor, the climate, even the smell somehow, and it’s welcoming for a moment until you remember that this isn’t Alderaan, and nothing will ever be Alderaan, no matter how well curated. But you trained your eyes on Leia, her hair wrapped in braids upon her head, a comfortable white sundress fluttering about her as she walked.

“Here you are,” she says, leading you into a brilliant room, furniture white, though some pieces tinted with blue. The bedspread is blue, the curtains are blue. All pale and deep shades, the room is calming. “Blue’s still your favorite right? Figured this would be right up your alley.”

“Yeah, blue’s still my favorite,” you smile. She’d remembered.

“I figured as much. Considering you chose a mountain of blue to be your boyfriend,” she quips, and you roll your eyes. Paz felt his face get hot under the helmet again. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend, he repeated in his head. “Oh, will you be needing a room, too?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so,” Paz tells her. “Unless kebiin’ika would like me too.”

You shook your head. “He’s with me,” you say as you toss your backpack onto the bed. “Paz, I’d bet you’d like some time without your helmet. Maybe Leia and I can go somewhere else to catch up?” Paz got the hint like you knew he would, and he nodded.

“Great,” Leia smiled, taking your hand and pulling you out of the room. “Through here,” she says, walking through what you assumed was the master bedroom into a study.

The study was cozy, full of actual paper books, and warm colored furniture as opposed to the stark white of the rest of the house. Han’s doing, you assumed. “Your home is gorgeous, Leia,” you tell her as you sit in one of the large chairs.

Leia drapes herself on one of the couches and her dress settles around her stomach, where her hands clasp atop it. She sees you staring at her belly and smiles. “I’m pregnant,” she says.

“Congratulations!” You exclaim, and she thanks you. “I swear that wasn’t there when I commed you a few days ago, though.”

She giggles. “My clothes are good at deception.”

“Taking notes from Amidala, I see,” you joke, and she laughs.

“I did actually ask for Rabé’s help. She was my Amidala’s wardrobe mistress,” Leia says. “But enough about me for now. Since when do you date Mandalorian bounty hunters? And why does he call you kebiin’ika? You don’t have a bounty on you-”

You laugh, cutting her off. “It’s a nickname, Leia, I promise I don’t have a bounty on my head. And, well, it’s a long story,” you say.

You’re not sure how long you sat there, telling Leia of your time on Dantooine, all the way up until the day that Paz came into town, and when you’d landed on Yavin, and when he’d given you the blade.

“You’re kidding! He gave you a vibroblade? Where is it?”

You pat your hip, and unsheath the blade. You move to sit next to Leia on the sofa, holding it out for her to see. “These markings on this part of the blade are his house markings,” you say, “And these are just Mandalorian, I think.”

“So, is it like an engagement ring?”

You shook your head. “No, no, I don’t think so. But from what I gather...Mandalorian courtships usually mean marriage.”

“You’re ready for that? You’ve known him, what? A week?”

You sighed. “No, I’m not ready. But I think I could be. Someday.”

“I hope so,” she says. “He makes you happy. A lot happier than the last time I saw you.”

“Leia...I just, I don’t think I can be involved anymore,” you say, the winds of the Naboo lake country gently whipping through your hair. “Now that we’re not fighting all the time, I’m thinking a lot more. About Alderaan, about everyone we’ve lost.”

Her hand was soft on your back. “I know it’s hard,” she said. “But if you take this position in the New Republic you can help so many people. And you can build a house that feels like home. Like Alderaan, just like Sabé made her home like Naboo.”

“I can’t Leia. I can’t make a fake Alderaan and pretend it’s ok. I won’t,” you say. “I have dreams of Alderaan that break me. Dreams of Yavin that break me. Dreams of kriffing Endor that break me. You’re asking me to break myself again for a kriffing committee.”

Leia’s cheek landed on your shoulder. The tears fell from your face now, and by the feeling of her cheek, she was crying, too. “No,” she whispers. “You can’t break. I need you, a lot of people do.”

“They’re going to have to learn to live without me for a while, I think.”

“But, whenever you’re ready, you’ll come find me, right?”

“It’s going to be a long time, Leia.”

“But you’ll still come find me. I don’t care if it’s four weeks or forty years, you could show up at my doorstep and I’ll hug you like I always have.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I am a lot happier. I worked through some things. Some things can’t be worked through, though.”

“Alderaan,” she murmurs, leaning into you. “I know. That’s why I love this room so much. It’s so Han, so Corellian, and so not Alderaan.”

“Didn’t take this as a smuggler’s style,” you joke.

She laughs a little, too. “He doesn’t have a style. I think this is Lando’s doing, Han just put his name on it.”

The room did seem to have Lando’s taste written all over it, though you could guess Lando would rather not have Corellian furniture in his house. Your eyes drifted back to Leia, her hand absent-mindedly stroking her stomach. “When’s the little one due?”

“Four months,” she said. “It’s a boy.”

“A boy with a name?”

“I’m thinking ‘Ben’,” she says. “After Ben Kenobi. Han was thinking ‘Bail’, but I don’t know. I like ‘Ben’.”

You smiled. “That’s a nice name,” you say. “Besides, a Skywalker needs a Jedi name.”

“Right,” she agrees.

She sits up to face you now. “Will you train him?”

“No,” she says. “I’ll let Luke do that, when he’s ready. And when little Ben is ready. It was never my destiny to become a true Jedi. That was always Luke.”

You smile at her. “You know Mandalorian armor is invincible against a lightsaber?”

“Beskar,” she says. “Yes. It’s very strong. I saw a staff made of beskar once, back on Alderaan when I was little. In a museum, I think.”

“That’s what Mando wears,” you catch yourself before you say his name, replacing it with the one-size-fits-all nickname.

She laughs. “Mando isn’t his name right? That’d be awfully unoriginal.”

“No,” you reply. “But Mandalorian religion, it’s...it’s interesting territory. I know his name, though.”

“What’s he look like?” She asks with girlish intrigue, the gossipy voice usually reserved for teenagers poking through.

“I don’t know. And even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

Her brow furrows. “You’ve basically agreed to marry him and you don’t know what he looks like?”

“Ok, first, I agreed to court him.”

“Same difference,” Leia interjects.

You roll your eyes playfully. “And, second, it’s against his creed to remove his helmet unless we’re married.”

“Oh, maker, I can’t believe you’re going to marry someone for just a kiss, not even dic-”

“Leia!” You cut her off. “Your son can hear you, you know. Through the Force or whatever.”

She lightly hits your arm. “Not how the Force works, dear. And you know I’m right.”

“You aren’t right, your highness,” the nickname annoys her to no end, and that’s exactly why you employed it. “He’s sweet to me, Leia. He even taught me how to fight with this thing yesterday.” You pat the vibroblade on your hip.

“Mandalorians must be patient. I remember when you tried to learn to shoot a blaster,” she smiled with nostalgia at the ‘lessons’ from Yavin IV. The marksmen gave up quickly on teaching the mechanics how to fight.

“Ok, I wasn’t that bad,” you tell her. “And my Mando says I’m doing very well with the knife, thank you very much.”

“Oh you’re in love,” Leia said. “I can see it in your eyes. Kriff, before long you might look like me!” She gestures to her pregnant belly. “Do the Mando babies pop out with the helmet on? That might be an issue.”

You let out an embarrassingly loud laugh at the thought. “Maker, Leia, you’re getting ahead of yourself.”

“Seriously, though,” she says, putting a hand on your knee. “I’m glad you’ve found him. I think he makes you glow.”

It was well past lunch time when the two of you ventured out of the study again. You’d barely scratched the surface with Leia, but the morning’s talking had already made you tired. “Threepio, we’re hungry,” Leia said as she led you into the kitchen. “Ah, Threepio, you sure you aren’t a mind reader?” The table was set for three, some kind of elegant sandwich and soup combo awaited you.

“Do we invite Mando? Since he can’t really eat with us?”

You nodded. “I’ll go get him, if that’s ok? Don't want him to get lonely or something.” You walked back out of the kitchen, picturing Paz sitting on the edge of the bed still as a statue.

You knocked on the door. “Paz? It’s me. Can I come in?” It was a moment before he answered, and then you let yourself through the door. He was lounging on the floor against the bed, your datapad in hand. Not at all what you pictured.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, holding up the datapad. “Wanted to catch up on that show. I’ve been a little confused.”

You giggled a little at the thought of a big bad Mandalorian itching to watch a holodrama. “It’s alright, love. Would you want to come sit with Leia and I while we eat? I think she’d like to get to know you as much as she can.”

Paz wanted to say no. He wasn’t a social man, especially not after the tension between him and Leia from earlier, but he knew it meant something to you. So, he climbed up off the floor and followed you into the kitchen.

“Master Mandalorian,” C-3PO greeted as Paz walked into the dining area. “Uh, su cuy’gar. Olarom at yaim Organa-Solo.”

“I can speak Basic, droid,” Paz says as he sits down.

“What’d he say?” You and Leia asked in unison.

“He said ‘welcome to the Organa-Solo home’ in Mando’a,” Paz translates.

Leia turns to the droid. “Where the kriff did you learn Mando’a?”

“I am fluent in over-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Leia said, and waved him off. “I don't know how I forget that.”

You took a bite of the soup, not as good as the Mandalorian dish Paz had made, but it was delicious nonetheless.

“Mando,” Leia says between bites. “I assume you’re from Mandalore. Do you still live there?”

Paz shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”

Leia looks at you, and then you look at Paz, silently trying to let him know that it’s ok to open up to Leia. It was ok for you, just not for him. Not yet, anyway.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“Used to.”

“Not much of a talker,” Leia murmurs to you. “You met my friend on a job?”

He nods. “More or less. I was coming home from one. Had to stop for supplies.”

“You have a family in your Tribe?”

Paz nods. “The Tribe is my family. All of them. We care for eachother.”

The lunch went on like this, and it was a bit tiring. Leia would ask a question, she would get an answer that did not satisfy, and then ask another. You wished Paz would open up, but you understood. Maybe, with time, he would, and Leia would approve of him. You didn’t need Leia’s approval, but you wanted it. You wanted her to like him, she was very important to you, just as he was.

Once the bowls of soup were scraped clean and sandwiches were gone from two of the three plates, C-3PO informed Leia that she was needed at the Senate building.

“I’ll be back soon,” she said as she tied an overdress around her. “Help yourselves to anything, alright?” She kissed you on the cheek and went out the door.

“I’m sorry I’m not good company,” Paz says as soon as Leia leaves. “It’s not in my nature.”

You shake your head. “Nonsense. She understands, even though it may not seem like it.”

“I am trying,” he insists. “I just can’t answer those questions.”

You take his gloved hand into yours. “I know,” you say, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. “I’ll explain more about Mandalorians to her when she gets back. And who knows? Maybe someday you’ll be an open book with her. Best friends with Princess Leia of Alderaan.”

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, voice dripping with uncertainty.

It had been a long time until Leia returned home. You’d wandered around the living room for awhile while Paz ate his late lunch, and then the two of you sat on the couch and watched a holo. Paz felt like he was intruding, and told you so many times, but C-3PO consistently reminded the both of you to make yourselves at home.

“I have prepared a dinner for the two of you, if you would like it.”

“Thank you, Threepio,” you say from your place on the couch. Paz had shed his cuirass so you could cuddle into his chest.

He released you from his arms and said, “You go eat first, mesh’la.”

“We can eat together. Take it to the room and sit back to back,” you say. “Would that be alright, Threepio?”

“You might spill it,” Threepio says. “But I suppose it would be alright. I will bring the trays to the Blue Room.”

You nodded your thanks, Paz standing behind you. He picked his cuirass up off the floor and followed you to the bedroom.

“Where we sitting, kebiin’ika?”

“Floor might be best,” you reply.

He nodded, lowering himself onto the floor and you followed suit. C-3PO appeared with the food on trays, handing them to the two of you and shutting the door on his way out.

The familiar click and hiss met your ears and you saw the helmet hit the floor in your peripheral. The food was a pasta with some vegetables. “Looks good,” you say.

“Indeed,” Paz agrees, and you hear his fork begin to twist on the plate.

As you are, your mind returned to your conversation with Leia. Her asking if you were ready for marriage. Paz told you Mandalorian courtships were short, it was a throwaway comment and you knew that, but it still hung over you.

“Paz?”

“Hmm?”

“Are...” you stop for a moment, wondering if you should continue. You decided to. “Are we going to get married?”

You couldn’t see Paz almost choke on his food, but you heard it. Once he recovered from his coughing he said, “why are you asking, mesh’la?”

“You remember when you told me Mandalorian courtships don’t last long? And that usually Mandos who court get married...”

He sighs. “That’s what it means for a lot of Mandalorians. But you, my love, are not a Mandalorian. Our courtship means what you want it to mean.”

“But we might get married?” You weren’t sure how shaky your voice sounded to him, but you hoped it wasn’t much.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Someday, I hope.”

You smile at your plate. Both of you felt the hot flame of love consuming your bodies, rising to your faces. “Someday.”

tags! @remmysbounty @ladyjenny19 @shadowsoundeffects13

#paz vizsla x reader #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla #paz vizla

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jokers-of-the-impractical · 3 years

Text

Brian Quinn Mini Series “I Found a Boy” Part 3 of 3

Part 1 Part 2

Content Warning: Implied Smut, Swearing

Word Count: 2100ish

The warm sunshine peeking through the curtains was a welcome contrast to the chilly weather that lay on the streets of Staten Island below you. You kept your eyes closed to savor the moment for just a short while more, but soon the serene beauty was interrupted by the sound of a beeping alarm clock altering it was now eight in the morning. You felt the bed shift next to you and knew Brian was turning to shut off the noise coming from your bedside table. The cats began to shift as well and leap down from their respective resting spots. As Q did so he leaned his face down and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, instantly a warmth began to rise to your cheeks. “Good morning sweetheart” he muttered out in a half asleep and still raspy voice with an adorable grin and messy hair strewn about his head. As he began to turn back over to get out of bed and begin prepping for the morning ahead of him, you wrapped both your arms around one of his and held on tight. “No. Five more minutes” you grumbled out. You glanced over to see him giggling to himself. He did his best to shimmy out of your arms but it was to no avail. Slowly you climbed on top of him, the satin of your pajama set grazing against his bare chest and boxers. You were not letting the love of your life and personal space heater get up this morning. You raised your head so that your eyes would meet his deep shining orbs lovingly gazing back at you. “Baby, I gotta go! Trust me the sooner I get to the production meeting, the sooner I get to come home and hang out with you.” You let out an overly dramatic sigh and slight chuckle escaped too.

“But Bri, why did they have to schedule a meeting on a weekend! I went to spend my day off with you.” With that you sat up with crisscrossed legs and crossed your arms across your chest. With the last word you let your lips pop out into a pout. He could tell you were joking around with him and sat up to make your eyes meet again. “Well… who knows Mrs. Quinn? Maybe once I get back we can reenact what happened late into the night.” He wiggled his eyebrows at you. “Of course Mr. Quinn.” With that he planted a deep and passionate kiss on your lips before he rose from the bed and started to get ready for his meeting. As you cozied back into bed to escape the cold you silently watched him in awe, how did you get so lucky? You looked down to the engagement ring he had placed on your hand three years ago, and the wedding band that had resided with it for just under two years. You didn’t realize just how lost you had been in your thoughts until he was facing you again, dressed and his signature iced tea with lemon in a travel cup in tow with his car keys. But the smell of the tea today sent your stomach on a tilt-a-whirl. “Well my love, I’m off. I’ll be back before ya know it!” You pecked his lips and he made his way back downstairs and out the door. As soon as you were sure he wouldn’t hear you, you jumped up and sprinted to the bedroom’s ensuite bathroom to release the contents of your stomach. After you had finished, you kept wondering why all of the sudden the smell of iced tea and lemon made you puke? Then it hit you. You started rummaging through the cabinets in the bathroom until you found the hot pink boxes you were looking for. You pulled out the pregnancy tests that the rest of the guys got you as a one-year anniversary present. After making sure they hadn’t expired and how to use them, you go to business, using both just to be sure. You finished up and set the timer on your phone. As you waited you brushed your teeth to get the rancid taste out of your mouth from the unfortunate wake up call you had a few minutes prior. Once the timer chimed letting you know it was time to check, you slowly grabbed both tests and flipped them over to see the results. Both of them were the same. You were pregnant. An immense wave of joy and excitement washed over you. Now you were even more excited for Brian to get home so you could tell him the news. You knew he would be in the meeting until around eleven-thirty so you decided to take a quick shower and find other ways to occupy the time. After the warm droplets of water relaxed your muscles, you put your hair up in a messy bun and decided to throw on an oversized sweater and leggings. You then grabbed some papers you had to look over and grade that were sitting on your desk as well as your favorite bottle of nail polish. As you made your way downstairs to the living room you stopped at the framed photo of you and Brian from your wedding reception. It was a photo from your first dance. There you stood in your spaghetti strap ball gown, and hair done is a style reminiscent of Brigette Bardot with Bri looking very dapper in a tuxedo, he had just told you some silly joke so you were both looking at each other laughing. You could still feel the emotions and see the love in your eyes and his, you remember how happy you both felt them, and know you had the joys of parenthood to look forward to. Since grading elementary school papers was a total breeze you were now sitting with the tv on quietly for some background noise with a freshly dry mani and pedi while curled up and reading a book. Suddenly, loud knocking echoed abruptly throughout the house. You put your book down puzzled and followed the cats to the door. You were expecting anyone, but you opened the door anyway thinking maybe it was Amazon. As the door opened you soon met a familiar pair of eyes, those belonging to a certain ex boyfriend named Dean. “Dean? What are you doing here? Wait. How do you even know where I live?” He shoved his hands into his pant pockets and looked at you with a sheepish smile. “Hey Y/N. Can I come in? I’ve wanted to talk to you for quite some time, and I finally convinced Natasha to tell me your address.” You let out an exasperated sigh, and motioned for him to come in. You made a mental note to call your friend Nat and chew her out later. You knew that she was still friends with Dean after your breakup, but heck she was one of your best friends and bridesmaids! Why would she tell him! You led Dean to the small table in the kitchen, he took a seat while you leaned against the counter. You brewed yourself a mug of hot cocoa to calm the fury and nerves coursing through you. “Do you want anything?” “Um yeah, can I have water?” You went into the fridge, pulled out a bottle, handed it to him and took your place across the table. “What do you want Dean?” the annoyance was evident in your voice. “I just wanted to catch up, see how you were doing.” “I’m doing just fine. How’s Andi?” When you brought up your ex best friend and the girl he cheated on you with, he slightly flinched. “I’m okay. We ended things years ago.” “Aw. I hate to say I’m not surprised. So no other conquests or flings?” He just shook his head. You had no idea where all of this sudden confidence was coming from, but you weren’t complaining. Throughout your relationship Brian had helped you grow even more and get even more brave and strong, if only he could see this now. “Are you still with that guy from TV? Nat told me it was pretty serious.” “Yeah I am still with Brian, in fact he should be back here soon.” You looked at him dumbfounded, did he honestly not know you and Brian had been married for almost two years now? You looked to see that the sleeve of your sweater was covering the rings on your finger. You went to slide the sleeve down to show him the rings, when he suddenly started speaking again while rising up from the table. “Look Y/N, the real reason I’m here is that… I know I messed up. But I’m here now, please leave this Brian guy and we can start over! I love you.” Now you shot up from the table too. “Are you kidding me! You think that after all this time you could just show up and expect me to take you back! I spent so much time crying over you and you didn’t care. Now that I am not only the best version of myself, but I am now happily with the love of my life you think you can show up, ask me to leave him and I’ll go with you? No! You can take all those crocodile tears and go cry me a river like I did over you a long time ago.” In all the commotion, you didn’t hear the front door open or close and the cats going to greet Q. Nor did you hear the footsteps making their way to the kitchen to hear what all the yelling was about. “Brian is the most amazing man in the world, and you will never be a tenth of the man he is! How dare you come here acting like you want me, now that I don’t need you or want anything to do with you.” Then a voice cut of your angry rant. “Aww baby! You really think I’m the most amazing man in the world?” You turned around to see your husband with a bag of Chinese takeout in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. You ran over and jumped into his arms, while he spun you around in a hug. “Honey you’re home! How was your day? I-” You were soon cut off again by Dean. “Wait, you two live together?” You turned your head back to Dean. “Umm yeah. Married couples usually do.” “Wait, you’re married!” Brian then chimed in. “Yup, going on two years. Wait are you Dean?” Dean shook his head, and Brain placed you down gently. “Dude I gotta shake your hand man, cause if it wasn’t for you being a total asshole and idiot I may have never met Y/N. And she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” He shook his hand vigorously. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I believe I have some lunch waiting for me and my beautiful wife. You can feel free to see yourself out.” With that Dean slumped his shoulders and began to make his way to the front door and you both heard the door open and close. You turned back to Brian and peppered kisses all over his face. “What’s all this for?” you motioned to the takeout and flowers. “Well, I felt so bad about you being here while I was in a meeting so one the way home I went to Chang’s and got our favorites, then I went by the flower stand and got these.” “Bri this is amazing! And I have a surprise for you too.” “Really? Well what is it?” You went back upstairs and grabbed one of the pregnancy tests and hid it behind your back. “Are you ready?” “Oh honey I was born ready!” “Okay, close your eyes, and stick out your hands.” Brian did as he was told and you placed the test gently into his hands. “Okay open ‘em!” Brian sprung his eyes open and looked down. He started at the test for a moment and then the gears started turning. Soon he was trying to get words out but couldn’t. “Y/N, are you?” “Pregnant? Uh-huh!” He grabbed you and picked you up again. ‘We’re gonna have a baby!” He kissed you yet again and set you down gently. The minute you were back on solid ground, his hands went straight to your tummy, and kisses soon followed. You both spent that evening cuddled up on your bed talking about the future until you fell asleep still intertwined and cats all around you both.

#brian quinn #Brian Q Quinn #brian quinn imagine #celebrity crush imagine #impractical jokers #impractical jokers imagine #imagine

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

❉ 139 Dreams (Molag Bal) Fascination

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Angst, Suggestive 16+, Romance ☁

Word Count: 3,629 ☁

Pairing: Reader x Molag Bal ☁

World: Skyrim ☁

Author’s Note: Am I thirsty as fuck for Molag Bal? Yup. Do I regret writing this and showing off how thirsty I am for Molag Bal? Nope. Highly inspired by the sexy ass images found here. And yes, I know technically none of the Daedric Princes have been given definitive genders, but I don’t care. I view them as men and if you want to see them differently, you do you boo.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

Thunder boomed loudly overhead, making you take pause as your eyes slid toward the darkening sky. You were currently on your way to Whiterun from Solitude, delivering an order of fancy clothes to Carlotta Valentia, who was hosting a party soon. Your mother had ordered you to do so, often using you as a free delivery service and offering you no choice nor reward for your efforts despite traversing dangerous roads in her name. You had mentioned borrowing the family’s horse in order to make the deliveries faster, but she didn’t want to risk her baby getting hurt.

‘Yet she sends her child across Skyrim with no protection,’ you scowled, kicking a rock to vent your frustrations. ‘What sense does that make?’

Thunder boomed again and with it came a sheet of rain. You cursed, doing your best to shield the bag of clothes with your body as you ran for cover beneath a large tree just off the road. What were you supposed to do now? If you continued on your journey, the clothes would surely be damp and possibly ruined, something you were sure Carlotta would not pay for. On the other hand, if you didn’t show up on time, she would report that to your mother who would then take out her anger on you again, which you knew would also happen if you delivered wet clothes.

‘No matter what, I lose here.’ You leaned your head back against the tree, closing your eyes as a headache began to throb at your temple. All you wanted was to be free, happy, but that was just a dream, you knew. If you ran away again, she would find you and make you pay dearly for wasting her time. The last time you had attempted to flee, she injured you so badly that you weren’t able to walk for a week.

A soft breeze ruffled your hair and you opened your eyes toward the sky. Despite the thunder still rumbling, the sun was now shining down on Skyrim. You waited a few moments to see if the rain would start up again before you decided to continue on your way, picking up your pace to make up for the lost time.

You made it to Whiterun without further incident. Though the bag had been a bit damp, the clothes inside of it were completely dry, much to your relief. You pocketed the two-hundred gold and started the trek back to Solitude but the closer you got to home, the more depressed you felt.

You had just reached the halfway point of your journey, just before Markarth, when you suddenly paused, turning your eyes to the sky. The sun was shining brightly, making you squint. “I don’t want to go home,” you muttered sadly.

“Then don’t,”

The deep, husky voice of a man startled you. You whipped around, eyes scanning around you for the source of the voice, but there were no signs of life, not even a deer or a rabbit. Your brow furrowed in confusion.

‘Have I gone mad?’ you wondered before shaking your head with a bitter chuckle. ‘No, my mind could never think up such a sexy voice like that.’ You continued on your way when the wind suddenly kicked up ominously.

“You dare to ignore me, mortal?”

You swallowed, realizing that the voice was, in fact, not in your head. “Who…who are you? Where are you?” Instinctively, your hand went to the dagger at your belt. It was a poor excuse for a weapon, but it was all you had to defend yourself with.

The man chuckled in a sultry tone and you felt your heart skip a beat. “I am the Daedric prince Molag Bal, lord of domination, god of Oblivion! And I want your soul.”

“My soul?” You breathed out. You knew you should feel afraid but… honestly, you didn’t. It couldn’t be any worse than what your mother puts you through, right?

“In exchange for your soul, mortal, I shall free you of the chains your woman has so tightly placed around your neck.”

“From one prison to another, huh.” You chuckled bitterly. “Forgive me for saying so, but that hardly seems like a fair trade.”

“You have some nerve, mortal, to dare speak to me in such a way.”

Your eyes slid closed and you forced your body to relax. “Just kill me and get it over with. Please,”

The voice was silent for a moment and you briefly wondered if you had been imagining the whole thing, and then he spoke again. “Hmm, fine. Let us come to a more… agreeable deal, then.”

Your brow furrowed. Why would a Daedric prince be willing to make a deal? “Like what?”

A black and purple cloud materialized before you, making you take a cautious step backward. Was he going to appear from that black hole? “There is a man that needs to be slain in my name, for he has been destroying my alters and smeared my name. He is a follower of Boethiah,” he spat the name as the smoke cleared to reveal a rusty spiked mace. “Take my mace and end his life. Show Boethiah that my followers are absolute and can not be bested.”

As if in a trance, your hand lifted toward the mace, head tilted to the side. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt, the metal surprisingly warm against your palm. It was quite heavy, but nothing you couldn’t handle after constantly lugging around large bags of clothes. There was something… strange about this weapon, about this whole situation. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t fascinated, but there was something you just had to know. “This is a trap… isn’t it?”

Molag Bal chuckled, a deep sultry sound that reverberated in your head. “If you complete this task that I have assigned to you, mortal, I will allow you to walk away with your life. And then, you will be truly free, just as you desire. My mace will be yours, and with it, you will harvest the souls of every enemy you slay.”

Everything within you was screaming at you not to trust this Daedra. Anyone with half a brain knew better than to do so, but what did you have to lose really? Your hand tightened around the weapon. Despite how dangerous, how powerful, it felt within your grip, it also felt so right, like you were meant to wield it.

“Tell me,” you breathed out. “What is the man’s name?”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

You stepped into the city of Falkreath, known for its expansive graveyard. The two itself was quite small, hosting only a couple of shops and homes. The guards watched you with weary gazes as you passed by, not knowing what your intentions may be. You offered them what you hoped to be an innocent-looking smile, not wanting any trouble from them.

You came to a stop in front of the inn, glancing up at the sign hanging above the door. ‘Dead Man’s Drink? How charming,’ The door creaked as you pushed it open, eyes scanning the inn. Only one patron was inside and he was passed out drunk against the table at the back of the room, snoring louder than anyone you had ever heard before.

Standing behind the counter was an Imperial woman with shoulder-length brown hair and matching eyes. She leaned forward on the counter, her hands flat on the wood. “Welcome to Dead Man’s Drink. We offer food for the hungry, drink for the thirsty, and sleep for the tired.” The words sounded so rehearsed as if she had repeated that same line dozens of times before, but you hadn’t been aware of Falkreath receiving that many visitors.

You approached the counter. “Hello, I was hoping you could help me locate a man named Hans Coralian. I believe he came through here quite recently.”

“A lot of people come through here,” she responded, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you looking for him?”

You glanced over your shoulder at the empty Inn, raising a brow. ‘I feel like that comment is a bit of a stretch,’ Your eyes met hers as you went over the options within your head. “He… He’s my father. I’ve been searching for him for such a long time, ever since my mama passed away…”

Her gaze softened considerably and she nodded. “Yes, he was in here two days ago, talking to some woman about something they needed to find, talking in real hushed voices.”

“You don’t know where he went, then?” You questioned, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Maybe,” She closed her eyes in thought, folding her arms over her chest. “When I brought them a second round of mead, I heard them mention Knifepoint Ridge, just northwest of town, but I wouldn’t go there if I were you. It’s supposed to be home to a group of Daedra-worshippers. Real dangerous.”

You offered her a kind, thankful smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I can handle myself. Good day.” As you stepped out of the inn, your fingers brushed against the mace attached to your belt. Something about having that weapon just made you feel so safe, so powerful. You hadn’t felt that way in such a long time and it was a welcoming feeling.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

You reached Knifepoint Ridge without issue.

As you climbed the hill, you quickly crouched down behind a large boulder when you heard people fighting up ahead. Peeking around, you noticed two men fist fighting in a circular ring surrounded by spiked wooden barricades. Several others stood around the ring and on the stone steps leading up the mountain, watching the fight with clear amusement.

“Who are you?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, whipping around with your back pressed against the boulder. Standing before you was a Dark Elf female and a Nord male, their eyes narrowed suspiciously. So much for the element of surprise. “Uh, well, I… I’m an adventurer, and I believe I got lost…”

The woman hummed, folding her arms across the black chest piece she wore. “We are lord Boethiah’s faithful. If you dare, you may test your mettle and join us in worship.”

‘Boethiah… well, at least I know I’m in the right place.’ You glanced at the Nord man. ‘He matches the description of Hans, too. It might be easier if I’m on the inside. Perhaps I can befriend him.’ Hesitantly, you nodded. “I’ve heard… great things about the Daedric prince Boethiah and, since the opportunity has presented itself to me, I wish to join you. Fate has brought me here and I shall answer its summons.”

She smiled slyly, licking her lips. “If it is so, and if Boethiah appears, then we will welcome you as one of us. If you wish to gain Boethiah’s attention, you must slay a thrall upon his shrine.” She pointed to the right, where a set of stone steps slowly curved upward, stopping where a tall statue stood on the edge.

‘A sacrifice? Where the hell am I meant to find someone to sacrifice?’ Your brow furrowed as you cautiously approached the steps, but a sudden, angry voice boomed across the open area, making everyone take pause.

“Defiler!” Roared a feminine voice. Suddenly, the Dark Elf started to seize, dropping to the ground and clutching at her chest. She gasped in agony before falling still. Several moments passed before her body stiffly rose up like a corpse from the grave, limbs unnaturally stiff and face contorted in rage as she looked upon you. “You DARE to bring that thing near my shrine?!” She wailed, pointing a finger at the mace. “Do you have ANY idea who I am, mortal?”

You opened your mouth to respond, to try and calm the raging Daedra by spinning a tale that you had simply found the mace and had no idea what it was or who it belonged to, but she wouldn’t hear it.

“Silence!” She snapped. “Do you know what we Daedra are, child?”

“You’re a god,” breathed one of the star-struck followers, his eyes wide as he looked upon his lord with awe. “Your voice, it’s so… beautiful, my lady!”

“I am a man, you foolish mortal.” Boethiah scowled as he waved his hand through the air. An invisible force flung the man backward, his body pierced on the spiked barricade behind him. “We Daedra are far more powerful than any god. And among my brethren, I am the most feared!”

Deep laughter echoed loudly throughout the clearing before a black and purple portal materialized beside you. You didn’t even have time to back away before a man stepped from the portal, standing at least two feet taller than you. His skin was midnight blue, white symbols etched across his chest and arms, and two sets of curved horns, similar to a goat’s but much thicker, jutted out from either side of his head. Eyes the shade of red rubies shined under the moonlight as he looked upon Boethiah with amusement, placing a clawed hand on his hip. His hair was short and messy, and as black as a raven’s feathers.

You couldn’t help but stare at him, your cheeks turning red. ‘He’s so gorgeous…’

“Dear Boethiah,” He drawled. “You are the most feared? Don’t make me laugh. You’re the least feared among us and you know it.” The corner of his lips tugged up into a smirk as he witnessed the rising anger within his face. “You’ve been sending your foolish little followers to destroy my shrines, leaving me with only two left. Now I will do the same to you. While your chosen champion hides out deep within the mountain like a coward, my champion will destroy your influence!” His eyes snapped to you and you felt your breath catch in your throat. “Y/N, I command you to take my mace and destroy the shrine!”

Your body reacted on its own, turning and taking off for the stairs before your brain could comprehend what was happening. You pulled the mace from your belt when Boethiah screamed out in anger, giving chase.

Molag Bal intersected him and he sneered. “With only two shrines, both of which are so very far away from this location, your power is weak, brother. You can not best me, Molag Bal!” The body he was in started to expand and morph, growing until it was the same height as Molag Bal’s. His skin darkened to the color of the midnight sky with hair as white as freshly fallen snow, flowing to his knees like silk. His eyes, completely white and full of anger, snapped to you.

You were halfway to the shrine when he appeared before you, swiping at you with his hand, nails as sharp as nails. With a squeak of surprise, you barely managed to dodge the attack but your foot slipped out from beneath you and you hit the stone, your wrist twisting at an unnatural angle. It was painful, but the adrenaline coursing through your body like fire kept the pain mostly at bay.

You scrambled to your feet as he tried to grab you, his nails slicing open your arm as you dodged his grip, stumbling up the stairs like a toddler who had only just learned to walk. There was only one thing running through your mind – destroy the shrine.

‘Just as lord Molag Bal ordered,’ you thought. A part of you didn’t want to let him down, but you didn’t know if that was because you hoped he would save you from your mother, or simply because you had fallen under his spell. It was probably a bit of both, to be fair.

Boethiah grabbed the back of your leather armor and tugged hard, pulling you back toward him. You cried out, trying to grip the stone beneath you but he was much stronger than you and you no longer had feeling in your right wrist. “This is where you die, mortal!”

A thick red fog filled the air, making it impossible to see more than arm’s length in front of you. Boethiah howled in pain from behind you, his grip loosening on your shirt. You could feel the will of Molag Bal urging you forward and with a cry, you mustered up all of your strength and pushed forward, feeling the leather tear and the cool night air hit the exposed skin of your back. You were breathing heavily as you booked it the rest of the way up the stairs, the mace poised to strike as you zeroed in on the statue.

“No!!”

Just as the mace made contact with the stone, you felt a sharp pain in your side, a cry escaping your lips as blood splattered to the ground around you. Using all of your fear, the pent up rage, and now the pain coursing through you, you raised the mace and struck the statue again. Chunks of stone exploded from the statue, flying in all directions. You closed your eyes on instinct and continued to strike at it until there was barely anything left.

Boethiah screamed from somewhere behind you, a scream so loud it made your ears ring, and the last thing you saw was a brilliant explosion of light, and then nothing.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

“Ow, my head…” A groan slipped past your lips as you came to, slowly opening your eyes. The room you were in was small, lit by the soft orange glow of cream-colored candles. They were nearly fully melted, offering only a few hours more of light. You shifted your body, feeling straw and leather beneath you. ‘This is definitely a bedroom, but… it’s not mine.’ You struggled to remember the last place you had been, but your memory was coming up blank.

The wooden floorboards creaked as a man wearing a dark robe entered the room, carrying a tray with two mugs of milk and some steaming bread. You could just barely make out his smile from beneath the hood. “It’s about time you awoke. I worried you would sleep the whole day away.” His voice was deep and aroused something familiar within you. He carefully set the tray on the table beside the bed before resting his hand upon your forehead. “Your fever is gone, that’s good.”

As he pulled away, you noticed the rich blue tone of his skin. Your brow furrowed in confusion. “I… I’m sorry, but… who are you?”

He looked upon you with surprise. “Do you not remember me, my love? Well, no matter. I’m sure it’s just the side effect of your illness.” The man smiled charmingly and reached out to stroke your cheek. “I am your husband, Mikel.”

“Mikel…” you whispered, hoping if you tasted the name on your tongue, it would awaken your memory, but nothing happened. Your brow furrowed in frustration. “Where are we?”

“Our home in Markarth,” he answered, taking your face between his large hands. “Trying to force your memory will do more harm than good. You should rest.” You seemed unsure about this, so he leaned down and claimed your lips with his. It felt like a fire erupted within you, flowing through your entire body like lava and it felt… amazing. Like nothing you had ever felt before.

A moan slipped past your lips and he smirked as he pulled back.

“Rest, my love.”

Your hand shot out, tightly grasping his robe to prevent him from standing up. “No,”

“No?” he quirked a brow, red eyes shining with amusement. “You dare to defy your husband, Y/N?”

“Stay with me,” you begged breathlessly. The fire was beginning to face and you wanted more, needed more. “Please,”

His tongue slowly slid across his plump lower lip as he shifted to hover his body over your own. “How could I dare deny such a request from my most treasured?” His voice was husky and low, reverberating around your brain. You clutched at his body, trying to bring him closer but he didn’t budge. “Now now, my dear Y/N.” He chastised, pulling your hands away so he could pin them both above your head, easily holding them with one hand. He hummed, pleased at the way your body yearned for his touch, slowly sliding his hand down your side. “We should take our time and savor our first union together, don’t you agree?”

You couldn’t respond, too pre-occupied with the firey haze that had invaded your mind. No one had ever had such an effect on you before and your body couldn’t handle it. It felt like you were losing your mind.

He clicked his tongue before letting his hand dip between your legs. The way your body arched into such a simple touch fascinated him and he wanted to find every single tic your body would offer to his ministrations.

Leaning down, his lips brushed against your ear, warm breath creating goosebumps across your flesh. “Say my name, Y/N.”

“Mikel – ”

“My real name,” he growled, tightening his grip on your wrists.

You moaned as pain mixed with pleasure. Images flashed through your mind so quickly, you could only see bits and pieces, but a name stood out among all of the images. Your voice was breathy as you met his red eyes, shimmering with want and amusement. “Molag Bal…”

He smirked, showing off a set of sharp fangs. “You are mine, Y/N, in every sense of the word. Do not forget that.”

Your only response was a sharp intake of breath as his body pressed flush against your own, bringing his lips down to claim yours in a heated kiss. His body pinned you to the bed, making it difficult to breathe, but you had no objections to offer.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: . ☁

📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

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redstainedsocks · 4 years

Text

What’s in a name

Warnings: Torture, sensory deprivation, solitary confinement, electrocution/electroshock therapy, punishments, sadistic whumper, institutionalozed whump, memory loss, identity erasure, noncon drugging, drugs that cause memory loss, hallucinations, brutal treatment, brief beating and manhandling, box boy universe, dehumanization, denial of food

Set during Kit’s training period. I originally wrote this for escape!week and the prompt “relapse” but it didn’t seem right for the tone of that week, so I wrote something else for that and decided to post this on it’s own! Thanks especially to @castielamigos-whump-side-blog for being so enthusiastic about seeing more of Kit’s early time, gives me confidence that this is, hopefully, wanted :D.

This one is particularly brutal, so heed the warnings, and if you don’t feel up to reading it I’m happy to give a quick rundown of the content to anyone who DMs me. But as it’s set in the past, nothing particularly plot relevant happens, so it can be skipped altogether.

This is the knock-off version of what WRU would do during training, if anyone is curious. The made up drugs for this universe that alter memory (among other things) still exist, and I’ve made use of them. Thanks and credit to the other writers in the box boy universe--especially @ashintheairlikesnow and @moose-teeth--for giving me lots of context for their procedures so I could learn the process and turn it into this non-WRU method.

Tag List: @haro-whumps, @theycomeinthrees, @whumpthisway, @samanddeaninpanties, @teachunks, @draganies, @pepperonyscience, @whump-it, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @untilthepainstarts, @galaxywhump, @kiretto-laorentze, @lonesome--hunter @slaintetowhump @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi

Word Count: 1.9k

He woke up one day and he just knew.

Maybe they’d let him sleep for too long. Maybe he hadn’t been on the right dose of the drugs. Maybe it had been too many days since his last round of the shocks and beatings that forced his mind to retreat into numb obedience.

Whatever the reason he knew, he remembered.

He used to have a name.

He didn't used to spend his days cowering in corners and obeying orders, looking up at the world from his knees, or on his back, or with eyes ringed with bruises. He didn’t used to be scared and exhausted all the time, just hoping to make it through the day without crying in front of a stranger.

He used to be a person.

And if he knew that, he could fight back. He knew the routines, the layouts, which guards were a softer touch. He just needed an opening, and he’d take it.

When the guard came down the row of cells and knocked their baton on the concrete wall dividing his cell from the next, called him pet and told him to get up—he refused. He curled tighter into the corner and balled his fists and ducked his head.

“I said up, trainee.”

“Not my name,” he growled out.

“What was that?”

“I said: that’s not my name, I have a name.”

“Do you now? Want to share with the class?”

He grit his teeth and glared. Just because he wanted to hold on to it and not tell this violently dangerous man, didn’t make it any less true.

The guard grinned.”That’s what I thought.” A radio crackled and the guard spoke into it. “Yeah, we’ve got a back-slider in row 4, yeah, being defiant again.”

A muffled voice spoke back.

“Will do, I’ll wait right here.”

He frowned, leant forward a little. No, this wasn’t right, when he disrespected them they’d come in and give him a beating, right there and then. And he’d decided he wasn’t going to cower, he was going to use it as an opportunity to get the upper hand. Shit, no, shit, he’d played his card too early.

Three more black-glad guards arrived, one man, and a woman. A trainer too, the mean one who had steel toed boots and a grey streak in his hair. They surveyed him and checked the chart hanging by his cell. He watched them all through the chain link as they talked about training methods, the pros and cons of every course of treatment while he got more nervous by the second.

“What is that you want, trainee?” The trainer asked eventually. “What were you hoping to achieve with this outburst? A little one on one time? Hoping to get more food, jonesing for the drugs we put in there? Come on, talk to me pet, what did that pea-sized brain think was going to happen here?”

“Nothing,” he snarled. “I don’t want anything from you, you can’t do this to me, to anyone! I want to… I want to go home, you have to let me leave.” He breathed hard through his nose and tried to quell the quiet voice that told him he didn’t remember where home was, that he had nowhere else to go. That was them talking; there had to be somewhere better than here.

“That doesn’t sound like something a good pet would say. And you’ve been such a good pet lately, you’re ruining your well behaved streak.”

“I’m not your pet, I’m not anybody's pet!”

The trainer smiled and it radiated such calculated hatred that it froze the blood in his veins. “Now we’re getting to the root of it.” The man gestured at him and turned to his colleagues. “He’s starting to think he gets to be a person.”

They all laughed, and he flinched. They sounded like hyenas, jackals, crows… all out for a piece of him, waiting to pick him apart and peck out his innards piece by piece by piece until there was nothing left but empty space.

“Right, okay. This has gone on long enough, throw him in the hole. We’ll see if that destroys these little illusions.”

His defiance wavered and he pitched forward onto his hands and knees as panic surged through him. The gate unlocked and they surrounded him, hands on his shoulders and in his hair, and batons swinging down on his back and legs. He fought, he fought with everything he had.

Like always, like every time before, it wasn’t enough.

“No! No, wait, please, please. Anything else, just, please, anything else.”

Maybe he was a person, but he wasn’t above begging. Not if it got him out of this.The hole was every trainee pet’s worst nightmare. He wouldn’t go there, he wouldn’t. He clawed at the walls, the metal doorframe, wrapped his fingers around the chain link at the front of his cell and clung until the wire fencing cut into his fingers. His blood made it slippery but he wouldn’t let go. One of them brought a baton down on his hands and he wailed. When they threatened to do it again, and break both his forearms, he finally let go.

****

The hole was nothing but a pitch black metal room. A storage container of some sort, or maybe just a large dumpster repurposed for the use. They would throw you in, slam the door shut, and then it was nothing but you and a black so deep you couldn’t see your own hands.

He slammed his body against the walls until his ears rang from the metallic clangs that reverberated around the room. He couldn’t do this again, the last time… he’d gone half mad.

He wouldn’t cry, the fear was too big to cry. It was larger than his tear ducts and it couldn’t get out that way. He couldn’t risk the loss of the moisture in any case. He had two bottles of water to last him for… however long they planned to leave him.

He paced for a while, one hand on the wall to keep himself steady in the dark. Four steps, five steps, four steps, two steps—cross the door—two more steps. Around and around.

The worst thing about the Hole was the conductive metal. It heated up so much during the day that by the afternoon it hurt to touch the walls and floor. It became so overheated that it felt like the air was sizzling, too thick to enter his lungs properly, pressing on his head until he felt like he’d burst. He laid on his back, tried to keep his bare legs and arms off the floor, so the barrier of his shirt and shorts was between him and the metal. The black swam around him in dizzying eddies as he sweltered and sweated.

Sebastian. Seb. Bas. Sebastian Rogers. That’s me, that’s me, that’s who I am. They’re punishing me just for remembering.

The dark and the heat made his angry behaviour seem even more pitiful. He could have just kept his name to himself, and done what they asked, and he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Relapse, they’d called it as they talked to each other. So he just had to get better again and then they’d let him out.

Getting better probably meant forgetting, letting it go. He wouldn’t let it go, he’d just tuck it safely away where no-one else could touch it. He’d just pretend, and they’d let him go back to his cell.

The day passed and he waited in trepidation for the night. For the temperature to drop until the walls felt like ice, instead of fire. In the few hours in between too hot and too cold he drank some water, and chose a corner to piss in, and then curled up and tried to conserve body heat.

There wouldn’t be much chance to sleep except in the dusk and early morning, when it was neither too hot, nor too cold. He tried, but it wouldn’t come, there was a buzzing below his skin that wouldn’t quit.

Probably something in the water.

He did cry then, a few dry-heaving sobs that turned to yelling, and more pounding on the door. The silence and stillness were deafening. He tap-tap-tapped on the floor just to hear something. Tapped the syllables of his name until it started to sound annoying and repetitive and he stopped.

He drummed out random beats and whimpered and groaned as he started to see white and colourful spots appear in the dark. They’d coalesce into other things before long, and he didn’t want to see; he pressed his hands over his eyes so that he wouldn’t.

Two cycles of day and night—blistering heat followed by icy cold— passed before they came for him, and he was delirious and grateful. Ready to lie and say he didn’t want a name at all, they could take it, he wouldn’t fight. He was willing to do whatever it took. But they didn't give him chance. They strapped him down in the treatment room and attached little nodes to his head and his body and forced round after round of shocks through his system. Pumped electricity into his brain and his nerves in concentrated shocks that made him disoriented and forgetful, stole his memory of where he was and why, for long minutes at a time.

After that he realised that they weren’t giving him a choice, they would take his unruly behaviour from him, not offer him the chance to give it up—they would make him good.

They dumped him back in the Hole, with fresh water, two packets of insubstantial food-paste, and the urine cleaned out. Still trembling from the aftershocks he crawled into a corner and clung to his meager rations. The water tasted funny, and he sipped it knowing it would mix with the shocks and do more strange things to his memories.

Mind warped and body aching, he curled up and tried to remember what had got him in so much trouble in the first place. Something about a name…a person with a name that he wasn't supposed to know.

It barely mattered whose it was, he wished he'd never thought of it all.

Sebastian wasn't worth this. Nothing was worth this.

Twice more he went through the same routine—two days—shocks—two days. Memories obliterated until he was empty headed and dizzy and so very, very sorry.

When they finally dragged him limp and mostly unresponsive from the darkness, he waved weakly to the hallucinations that he left behind.

He was better, he would be better. They asked and he grovelled for the chance to prove it. He’d messed up so badly, but he’d do better. His mouth wouldn’t form real words, just mumbles and groans from a parched throat and numb, swollen lips that he’d bitten to keep from screaming in the void of the Hole.

It didn’t seem to bother them that he was incoherent, that he tried was enough. He cried onto their boots, clinging with fingertips to the concrete so he wouldn’t slip away.

He left more than hallucinations in the dark. He left his defiance, his angry stubborn will. He left his identity, buried under hot stale air, where it would never be seen again. Left it to rot in the dark, where it never served him any good. Abandoned his old self, and knew he was better off for it.

He was a pet, would always be, had always been; he was nothing else, remembered nothing else. The darkness up ate his name so thoroughly, so completely, that he never even knew he’d offered it up to be devoured.

#Kit's Story #dehumanization tw #conditioning tw #pet whump #box boy universe #noncon drugging #hallucinations whump #torture tw #solitary confinement whump #institutionalized whump #sensory deprivation #memory loss tw #identity erasure #people as pets #isolated whumpee #multiple whumpers #withholding food #I keep expecting someone to figure out how I came up with his full name and come into my inbox and call me out for being a dork xD #but it hasn't happened yet...

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fae-fucker · 5 years

Text

Zenith: Chapter 29-32

I realize leaving y’all hanging for a whole year like that in the snark, where our beloved heroes Andi and Dex had just been shot in their empty little heads, was very cruel of me. You guys must’ve been just DYING to know what happened.

Quick recap: Andi & Co are space pirates. They are captured by Andi’s ex Dex and the father of Andi’s childhood friend, whom she “murdered” by landing a ship bad. He asks her to get his son, who is in a dank dark prison. Andi does the thing with the help of Dex and her ragtag bunch of generic archetypes.

We good?

Let’s go.

Chapter 29

We interrupt the 100% totally real threat of Andi and Dex being shot to death to have another boring-ass moment with Nor. She walks around in an underground lab feeling sorry for herself and thinking about how tragic her backstory is. We’re introduced to a two-headed scientist who could’ve been interesting in the hands of actually talented authors, but who doesn’t appear in the book after this point so she’s wasted. For some reason she’s also referred to as one person when the heads are clearly different individuals? Irl when there are two heads sharing one body the heads are different people with different names. You know, because the person is stored in the brain? Idk why Shinsay did this.

“Slowly, you dolt!” the right head screeched to the left.

The left head huffed in annoyance. “I’m merely trying to give our queen a glimpse of her new toy.”

“It’s a wonder I’ve been able to put up with you all these years,” the right head retorted.

“You haven’t a choice, my dear,” the left said back.

I think this is supposed to be funny, but all I can think if is how everyone’s dialogue sounds exactly the same.

We find out that this is where Nor’s people are developing the titular Zenith (except it’s not named yet, spoilers), and Nor wants to know if they’ve made any progress.

The two-headed scientist, Aclisia, says that the weapon is ready and that they only need a test subject. Did they develop this mind-altering thing without any previous test subjects? I mean I guess it makes sense that they’d need somebody unaffected by previous versions to test out the final product, but like ... Did the previous subjects die? That doesn’t bode well.

Anyway, the test subject they have is one of the guards on Lunamere, where Andi and Dex were in the previous chapters. Nor is displeased that the guard “let them go,” and I want you to remember this line:

“You had one of the Unified System’s most wanted fugitives in my prison. And instead of keeping her there, where she could have been persuaded to join the right side of the galaxy...you lost her. [...]”

File that away for future reference, my pretties.

Anyway, we end the chapter without even finding out what the drug does, because Shinsay love breaking their own pace and suspense because they have to rely on cliffhangers to keep people reading.

Chapter 30

Oh Christ oh God it’s our girl Klaren again. It’s year twenty-four and despite five years passing this woman is still all about how she’s destined to die and everything in her life is crap, which, idk, mood I guess?

Xen Ptera is losing the war and Klaren is sick because of all the poison air or whatever. The king wants her to hide because enemy troops are closing in, and Klaren takes another moment to think about how she wasn’t supposed to fall in love and yadda yadda.

Who’s ready for another Smaasism?

She wished she could go back. She wished she could change that passionate night they had shared, the careless days after and the tonic she’d forgotten to take...

tOnIC

You’d think in advanced space times they’d have more reliable birth control.

Also ... wouldn’t the king expect an heir anyway? Like, we’ve seen that even the title of “general” is inherited in this shitfest of a universe, so wouldn’t he eventually catch on and insist on having a kid? Or if she claimed she couldn’t produce one, surely there would be tech to get around that? Idk. For all the future-sight this bitch had, she sure didn’t have any common sense.

Klaren tells the king to take Nor and fuck off, and Darai says something about how she’s the strongest Yielded and how she must fulfill her duty.

Which apparently includes going into the battlefield, which is conveniently right outside the palace, and mind-control General Cortas into wanting to fuck her so bad he forgot she was his enemy.

Her husband was wrong.

Hope was not dead.

Hope, in the form of the queen’s sacrifice, had only just flickered to life.

This is framed as tragic and beautiful but she is about to mind-rape a man for years soooo get ready for some extremely uncomfortable shit.

Chapter 31

We’re back in Andi’s POV, except it’s still a fucking flashback. This time it’s to when Andi was still Kalee’s Spectre and lived with Valen and the other dingdongs. And then we get actually good writing?

During meals, when Andi and the other Spectres stood guard, she’d watch him curiously. Valen usually sat in the farthest seat from his father, hunched forward as if he were battling some deep, silent pain. Sometimes she’d catch him staring at her with his strange, unblinking hazel eyes, his paint-stained fingers gripping his golden fork like a weapon he didn’t want to use.

Like I’m into this. It’s showing and not telling, mysterious and intriguing without being on the nose, and for once Andi doesn’t have all the cards and knows what Valen is inside and out, so his character doesn’t become obvious. Like, he’s battling some pain, but he’s also reluctant to use a weapon? That could mean anything! In a good way!

This good chunk is also immediately ruined by the following descriptions, which point out that indeed, all the other kids talk about Valen and how WEEEEYOOORDDD he is, and how he’s constantly covered in paint, because that’s what artists look like, I guess. Catch me bodyslamming a freshly painted park bench to prove I know color theory.

We’re also told that Valen never got a personal Spectre for spooooooky reasons. He just doesn’t feel like a proper part of the family, ya know? I wonder that it all could meeeeaaaaaan.

This is all told to us just so we can revisit the part where Valen tries to stop Andi and Kalee from going on a joyride. Kalee insults him for a bit, and then Valen drops some more foreshadowy dialogue about how he hopes this birthday is everything Kalee wants it to be.

Subtle.

Chapter 32

OH MY GOD WE’RE IN LIRA’S POV NOW. YOU’RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE SHINSAY, WE KNOW YOU WOULDN’T MURDER YOUR PRECIOUS CELAENA AND RHYSAND RIPOFFS IN CHAPTER 29 WHEN THERE’S A BILLION MORE CHAPTERS LEFT.

Lira has been literally counting seconds since they left Andi.

Yeah.

She recaps everything that happened three chapters ago, saying they executed their secret plan with the “ultimate amount of finesse” before noting that despite obeying Andi’s direct orders to run, she feels like a traitor.

Your captain is in chains, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. You should be by her side. Instead, you’re running.

All you ever do is run.

I have literally no idea how this is even a little bit relevant considering that they’re waiting for Andi and Dex to return and aren’t moving anywhere. By the way, Andi and Dex are thirty minutes late. Which freaks Lira out because THAT WASN’T IN THE PLAN.

Her scales start freaking out and she’s about to overheat. Holy shit, how are you still alive?

Honestly, this is a pretty accurate depiction of someone with an anxiety disorder, but I think we’re supposed to think Lira is emotional or analytical or loyal or whatever. I doubt Shinsay have the finesse required to write something like this on purpose, so this just reads as incompetence.

Apparently Andi said that if they’re late, the girls are supposed to flee and save themselves, and Lira is starting to get antsy.

Ok so ... just moments ago you were worried about how you’re always running away. So why is your first instinct when your beloved captain is THIRTY MINUTES LATE to book it? Like. Calm the fuck down. Thirty fucking minutes, in space? Can you chill???

Lira whines more about how this is the second time this week that she’s second-in-command and she hates it. Hey why not give that responsibility to Breck, who’s always calming everyone down? Would that make too much sense?

Lira goes to her room to mope and angst about how she likes being alone. It’s riveting. She thinks about how this crew is her SOUL and how much she LOVES them. Which we can see by her sitting alone in her room thinking about how much she loves them, obviously.

She continues to angst about how her dad died of Space Plague, and her mom became a drunk because ... Idk, that’s what moms do in books like these. But lo, she and her brother got taken in by their Cool Aunt, who then wanted them to Do Things when they grew up, and Lira doesn’t want to Do Things, she wants to fly around and Crime.

So she left her home planet because her Cool Aunt wanted her to Do Too Much Stuff, and the weight of her expectations crushed Lira, who must soar the skies like the beautiful bald blue bird she is.

The other girls interrupt this godawful exposition dump by inviting Lira to play some Not!Pokémon. And we get this exchange, which I included in my review, and yes, it’s real:

“Hope is a raging asshole,” Gilly said.

“Explain to me, Gilly,” Breck said with a sigh, “how exactly can an asshole rage?”

Lira choked on a sudden, unexpected laugh. “I swear, the two of you. You were both born with my brother’s sarcastic soul.”

This bloated and repetitive nonsense that apparently passes for character development is interrupted by Alfie, who’s gotten out of the waste bay. We’re reminded that this ship doesn’t have any mechanics, because of course, and Alfie makes a reference about how the ship’s AI’s voice is turning him on.

It appears Lira has gotten a message from Soy to come and get Andi and Dex.

*sigh*

#eff reads: zenith

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psychokai1972 · 5 years

Text

The Boss- Part 19

The Boss- Masterlist

Part 18

CEO!Sebastian Stan x CEO!Reader

Word Count: 1529

Warnings: mentions of guns, violence, mentions of death, mentions of blood, language,

Summary: Y/N and Sebastian are co-CEOs of a successful company. Their relationship is not the best. It’s more a competition than anything. But eventually they’ll have to learn to cope with each other.

A/N: God, I wanna cry:(. On my birthday (27th October) I met a guy that turned out to be doing Erasmus with my college (he’s from Paris); and so, we clicked instantly and started having something (let’s say friends with benefits). Of course it was nothing serious, and I didn’t want to get attached to him, nor he to me; but I simply couldn't: he’s caring, soft, respectful, harsh when he needed. I mean, as if I had written him for a fanfic. Anyway, he goes back to Paris in a couple of days, and I don’t know if I’ll see him again until then.

Stupid Carla, she chooses them good but they always live in another country.

Anyway, I’m sure none of you cares about that.

I didn’t proof read it, sorry for any mistakes!

Comment, like it, reblog!Feedback is always appreciated!

Her eyes were wide open fixed on the liquid, thick and painting the kitchen with it’s characteristic red color, lost in it; around her, she heard nothing but silence, body unable to move, she couldn't feel the pain; she was in shock, her mind refused to process what had just happened.

A cry got suppressed in her throat, her mouth opened in surprise and fear, but no words or screams coming out. Her hands flew to her mouth, covering it; body shaking and eyes shining bright from the tears, a little bit of fading red in them; they darted to the lips in front of her , moving, telling her something, but she wasn't listening, she couldn't; not with the body beside her.

Unconsciously, her hand reached out to touch his face, still warm, he still felt as if he was alive.

“Ma’am.” The woman said, finally taking Y/N away from her mind. Y/N blinked a few times, looking at the woman, she didn’t know her; as well as the rest of the people in her house.

But she now realized something, the woman’s clothes, it was a uniform, a police uniform. The CEO looked around her, she hadn't even known so many people had got into her house, they all wore the same outfit; some of them were paramedics.

“They need to examine you, they need to check on the baby.” The officer said with a soft voice, not wanting to scare her even more.

“Sebastian...” Y/N muttered, looking at the body beside her. It wasn't him, it was Hanlon. She felt relieved, but it didn’t last long, not when she didn’t have Sebastian in her field of view. “Where’s Sebastian?” She asked this time louder.

“Please Miss Y/L/N, you need to try and stay calm, it’s bad for the baby to be altered.” The paramedic said.

Calm? That concept had been out of her system for a much longer time than she could remember.

“I need Sebastian, he-he’s my fiancé, I need to...” She panicked, so many people and not one that she knew. “I need to see him, please!” She cried and attempted to get up from the floor, but she almost fell if not for the officer and the paramedic catching her.

Y/N looked down at the source of the pain. “I think she sprained her ankle when she fell.” The paramedic said to the officer. “ Miss, we are going to get you to the ambulance and examine you, okay?”

But she refused, asking for Sebastian over and over again.

“Martin!” The officer called for one of her colleagues, she let go of her, going to speak with the other officer. “ Is Mr. Stan still here?” She asked him silently.

Y/N watched the interaction, wanting to know the answer before they told her.

“Mhm, no; they stitched him up,” The CEO frowned her eyebrows at that, thinking that something bad happened to him, “ and then Wilson and González took him down to the station to give statement.” Officer Martin concluded.

The woman let out a tired sight, and walked back to Y/N, she read the metallic plate on her chest, it read Smith. “Miss Y/L/N, he’s not here right now, I’ll personally make sure that they bring him to you, but only if you go with the paramedics.” Officer Smith tried to be as gentle as possible with her.

Y/N closed her eyes, she only wanted him, she only needed him in that moment, she needed his comfort; because he was the only one that could.

“Alright.” She nodded and sat on the wheel chair they brought, taking a last glimpse of Derek Hanlon’s lifeless body as they dragged her outside.

__________________________________________________________

“Do you have kids, officer?” She asked looking at the standing woman, tall and powerful beside her.

Officer Smith’s face contorted into surprise, not expecting for the CEO to talk; after all, they had been in that hospital room for an hour and Y/N hadn't talked much, only to ask for Sebastian.

“I do.” She answered, her face softening when she saw Y/N rubbing her belly, probably an unconscious action. “And, please, call me Samantha.” The woman smiled, sitting on the hospital’s bed beside her.

“How is it?Having kids I mean...” Y/N voice was tired, hard to hear.

A small smile formed on Samantha’s face, remembering when her sons were little. “It’s hard, mostly at the begging; it really is a wild ride. The first years, nights awake because of their crying; then they grow up and you still remain away when they leave the house, to make sure they come back. It’s worrying about them all the time, and I’m not going to lie to you, they can be a pain in the ass sometimes.” She laughed, pulling from the pregnant woman a smile. “But, you love them unconditionally, they bring a kind of happiness in your life that’s hard to find. As I said, it’s a wild ride, but it’s absolutely worth it.”

“I-I...” Y/N started, but the words got caught in her throat, silent tears falling. “I’m really afraid for rising this child, I've been through so much through my childhood tha-that I’m terrified of making the same mistakes as my parents.” She was talking about her greatest fear to a complete stranger, but it felt right, it felt as if she could trust in Samantha.

The officer looked at her sympathetically and grabbed her hand in her gently. “Sweetie, I can asure you that every first parent feels the same; and I don’t know you, but I can sens that you are a person with her feet on the ground that that you’ll know how to raise that baby just the right way."

__________________________________________________________

Sebastian sighed for the hundredth time, stupidity in it’s finest was in front of him in the form of a detective that seemed to be pulled out of a comedy.

“How many times do I have to repeat it? I was not working with Derek, wasn't trying to hurt my fiancée!” They were keeping him in the interrogation room, wasting his time, instead of letting him go and check up on Y/N.

“ There’s something sketchy about you, Stan.” Detective Ronald said, making Sebastian’s eyebrows rise to his hairline in intrigue.

“Something sketchy? I was the one that calle 911, the fuck is sketchy about me?” The CEO threw his head back and rubbed his temples. “ I was told I just needed to give statement, I didn’t know that implied an attempted murder investigation held against me.” He whispered for himself. “Listen man, the one person I love the most in the entire world is in the hospital right now, after she was nearly killed, she needs me; but instead, I’m here. I’m not guilty of anything, can I go now?” He looked at the man in hope that he would give up.

“Nope.” The detective said crossing his arms over his chest. “ So, you argued and she kicked you out, seems a to me as an excuse for murder.”

“I've told you already, we fought about the baby’s papers; but I wouldn't kill her for throwing me out.”

“And what would you kill her for?”

“Oh my god, why did I have to get New York’s dumbest detective?” He asked to himself, getting his hands to the head, he was desperate and annoyed. “Nothing! I wouldn't kill anyone, I don’t have killer tendencies!”

The detective was about to say something else when the door opened, a woman in her fifties coming in. “Alright detective Roland, I've had enough of your bullshit. This man is clearly innocent.”

“But captain!” The detective pouted as if he was a kid.

“I don’t care Roland, he can leave now.” The woman stated.

Sebastian smiled and stood up from the chair. “Thank you ma’am, have a nice day.” He said to her and left the room.

__________________________________________________________

“I wanted a coffee, but I found something else instead.” Y/N heard Samantha’s voice, dragging her out of the window’s view.

Y/N turned her head, her eyes instantly connecting with his ocean like ones. “Sebastian.”She breathed out, trying to move from the bed.

But Sebastian ran to her, covering her body in a tight embrace. “I’ll leave you alone.” The officer said with a smile on her face, and closed the door behind her.

“Oh god, you are alright..I-I thought that something happened to you, th-the-they said that you had to be stitched up and...” Her hands traveling his face, in search of any bruises.

“Shh, it’s okay, I’m okay.” He whispered resting his forehead against hers. “ Hanlon managed to fire the gun before the police got him, luckily he aimed at me, it just brushed my arm. God, I thought I was going to loose you both.” His voice cracking, his heart beating fast at the remembering of the events that had taken place just hours before.

“ I wa- I’m so scared, I thought that you were the body beside me, I still have him in my brain, coming after me, threatening James, threatening you. I’m terrified Sebastian, and he’s dead.”

The romanian caressed her cheek gently, taking in her beautiful features as if it was the first time. “Now I’m here, alright? I’m not gonna leave your side, we’re going to get through this, together.”

Part 20

MASTERLIST

The Boss taglist (open):

The crossed tags won’t work

@jacquelineisawkward @starkxpotts @crazybutconfidentaf @imagine-inc@sebbystanlover-vk @moonlightbae14 @projectxhappiness @sayernita @flopmalum @a-kiddo-with-a-doggo @lucille-lovely @missrandomista@thewhinersoldier @justmesadgirl @marie-is-in-the-dark @learisa @slender–spirit @fandom-addict-aesthetics @sellulii @lowkeysebby @p3nny4urth0ught5@nanna022 @ssweet-empowerment @faakelanadelrey @cheekygeek05@deanlenaz @inlovewith3 @queen-of-elves @randomfangirl1701@ultimategalaxyprogram @rahma29417 @hiddlestonstansworld@breadofjustice @i-just-wanna-live-gc @saltysebastianstan @picapicapicassobaby

@myfuturisticallysteadycollector

Permanent taglist (open):

@kapolisradomthoughts @bearsbeetsbarnes @casually-introverted @caswinchester2000 @tessvillegas @fakelchv@cuddlysteven@harryisbae101 @coffeebooksandfandom @princess-evans-addict

Sebastian Stan-Bucky Barnes taglist (open):

@mizz-kraziii @ria132love @ghostofcallum @void-imaginations @thisismysecrethappyplace

#sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #x reader #the boss #masterlist

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alicesaupairland-blog · 5 years

Text

21/11/2018 11:38 PM, As awake as the dead I can't sleep and I don't know what to do with myself so I might as well write it down on the Internet for a bunch of random people to gawk at. Well, what's happening to me right now is that, I feel this anxiety about how I'm deliberately skipping my exam today. Look, I can't take it anymore and no one will understand because it will take hours, probably even days or months to explain 24 years of bullshit that landed me in the position I that I currently occupy. But maybe talking to myself about it won't take as many hours, days or months. (Hold that thought, I don't understand why the font keeps changing on this god damn tumbler app) Anyway, tumbler please don't kick me off your app, I quite like writing in this manner, it's seemingly therapeutic. Agh there you go, the font is smaller again and my inner ODC, alter ego thing is now settled. Kay, look I'm doing this on my phone so it's absolute shit. I'm a much better writer on Microsoft word, you know, thesaurus is bae.

Now where was I?

I was right about to tell you about the 24 years of my life that are apparently inducing my body with enough anxiety to steal away my sleep, well that and also the fact that my sleeping patterns are fucked up, so I also took a 2 hour nap during the day.

Seriously! Let's be fucking done with the continuous small talk and introductions and also avoiding the fact that I don't know how to start this 24 year old long story, and just begin!

I set an alarm on my phone to wake up at approximately 4:30 AM to take a ViaVan to my boyfriends house and hide away with him till 2:00 PM because everyone, including my host family thinks I'm going to write my Real Analysis exam. Strange, I know. Now very briefly I will say that I got caught up in the fun of Amsterdam and all of a sudden its 2 and a half weeks away from my exams. I start to freak out, anxiety kicks in and I simply run away from everything, especially the exams.

"They're just exams! Doesn't make sense for her to freak out that bad over exams"

I know that's what you're thinking, but that is what makes this story so interesting. It's strange and peculiar. It's unique and it will give you perspective on-a bunch of stuff, that if summarized will ruin the story. So hush, hush dear your curiosity will be rejoiced soon.

Now back to the story. I'm going to pretend to be writing an exam and the only people who know I'm pretending is my boyfriend and his mum. (Sorry, pause again here's some in between information.)

I am Alice, and Alice does not give a flying fuck about what anyone thinks of the things I do say. Now I don't always say things, I am very careful about how and when I speak because when I do I am extremely, explicitly and utterly honest. There is no filter, precise enough to refine my thoughtful voice. I am flat out blunt and when I say what I want to say I think really clear and deeply (maybe too deeply) about it so if it hurts you, it was meant to, if it offends you, it was supposed to, if it arouses you don't be surprised and if it comforts you appreciate it. Now I've registered my tumbler name as my own, but who the fuck knows I even exist, all I have is a brain damaged boyfriend and a few euros a month. But I love and respect this brain damaged boyfriend very much so I'm going to call him Joey.

In approximately 5 hours and 3 minutes I will be getting ready to make my way over to a hopefully, warm and asleep Joey. I'm going to wake him up, only if he wants to. I'm going to hold him and make him feel taken cared of and loved. And then I will lay with him till I can tell what he feels like doing. Knowing Joey, he's going to want to fuck me, he will grab me and start pushing his hard dick against me. And I don't mind, I love it when a man wants me, but I love it more when a man makes me feel wanted. So maybe we'll fuck, and maybe if I'm lucky it'll last just shy of 4 minutes and no I probably won't get to cum. But for godsake I love this boy so much and I don't know what to do about the bad sex. Nor does he. And we have this conversation and argument almost every day I spend with him. He's really insecure about it and I love him too much to see him feel bad about himself so all I can do is encourage him. Although sometimes I feel like I need to stop this immediately or I will end up feeling used and that will change the way I look at him and I really don't want that but I just don't know what to do.

22/11/2018

4:46 AM, sitting in the ViaVan on my way to Joey

Sorry for the drift off but I fell asleep and content. Although just before that, I spent some time thinking about how to solve the sexual dilemma between Joey and I. And the only thing that I could think of is "try harder Alice". Anyway, I'm now on my way to him and am definitely over thinking the outcome of my anxieties and sexual frustrations. Can't wait to see what happens!

11:35 PM, Alice's laying some what comfortablely in bed

I don't know what my host mums, mum put in that pea soup but it's got me pooping and farting, as if I were back in SA and had eaten some extra hot Nando's chicken for dinner. I've been in Amsterdam for- I just counted 187 days and I've eaten everywhere and everything and never been sick not once. What on Earth, did she do to the food? It couldn't have been what I cooked. Everything I cook, from the spices to the freaking water us fresh and organic and that's a story for another day. Okay fuck this I cannot concentrate.

Something is up with Joey. I have really good intuition and I feel him drifting. He's with friends almost every night of the week, going out almost every night of the week and it's strange, it's all of a sudden. I don't mind, I want him to live his life but it's just odd. And Joey used to call me every single day. Every single day, like 3 times a day and now he calls maybe once a week. Its strange. I don't like it. And I need to figure out why.

Now I've got this uncomfortable, unsettling feeling within me and it's unfortunate because I had so many interesting things to write about. But this is how the cookie crumbles. The universe needs to balance out in some way and I guess after having such a wonderful day, here's the shit part of it that has to make it real. See, I don't feel the way I do because I'm an obsessive lunatic, I feel this way because Joey and I are extremely close and I can sense the gravitation of something being odd. One more thing, before Joey met me, he was a complete fuck boy, in fact the day he met me he thought he was going to get an easy fuck and then chase her away. Well it didn't happen and now we're together for approximately 117 days. (That's almost 4 months). Is this what happens around 4 months of being in love? You just start drifting? I just don't understand because today, in the morning, it was incredible with him. We had great sex and we did it twice, we had great food, he walked me to the bus stop and waited with me for the bus (which was a 20 minute waste of time because I thought that the tram wasn't working but it was). Its just confusing. It's like he's completely in love with me and then completely forgets me. Well he does definitely have brain damage. I don't know, it's just unusual.

So I'm not good at this blog thing and I don't know how to really do it but here's my first post. There'll be more to come, I promise.

Oh bloody hell I forgot to continue with my 24 year old long story.

Anyway, good night, ill carry on with it tomorrow.

XXX

Alice

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musicallisto · 6 years

Text

☠ Boy Meets Evil (Noah Marshall)

Still crying because of ILITW. Forever crying because of ILITW. Inspired by this BTS song (a bop, 10/10 would recommend).

word count: 4500+ words

summary: A sneak peek into Noah’s thoughts, feelings and memories throughout all of his life and the most important events he’s faced. An agonizing descent into the depths of a tortured, screaming mind, playing hide and seek with sanity and fragments of a destroyed yesteryear.

warnings: Used my F!MC Devon for this, but there’s no romance. Basically only angst, when will I write fluff; mentions of death, crying, depression, therapy, blood and mental health issues.

“Good morning, Noah. How are you?”

He doesn’t respond. Why would he? What can he say? How can he put into words the inflexible void that has taken the place of his heart in his chest, of his brain in his skull? How can he answer? How can he express all the poisonous tears, all the skipped meals, all the insomnias, all the ringing laughter echoing through the walls of his ears as if she were still here, right behind him?

The old man seems to notice his uneasiness and his reluctance to answer, and doesn’t insist. He observes the fragile-looking, worn out little boy, shyly swinging his legs back and forth on the padded chair too big for him and trying his best to avoid all eye contact with the doctor. There’s something dreadfully harrowing in seeing this brown-eyed ragdoll, with tear-stained cheeks and trembling fingers. He has no doubt Noah must have been a lively, cheerful little boy, now only reduced to a shell of his former self.

“You look a little thinner than the last time I saw you. Have you been eating? Do you want a cookie, perhaps?”

“No.”

The psychologist wistfully sighs, but reaches out to grab a cookie from the packet and delicately place it on the desk, almost creating an invisible barrier between him and his patient. Patient. The word itself seems so sad to the old man, and infuriating to Noah. Under all the layers of numbness, all the cotton filling up the great blankness of his chest, he knows he hates being called a patient, because that implies he is sick, and he knows he is not. He is fine. He just has to let the news sink in. He just has to understand his sister is not coming back and wait for time to do its healing. That’s what adults say, don’t they?

Then why does it sound so fake?

“Have you tried to write down your thoughts, as I advised you?” the doctor asks with a soft smile he wants to be as welcoming as possible.

“Yeah.”

“And what did you think of it?” he rebids, a twinkle of hopefulness buried deep under his professionalism.

“It sucks. Writing about how depressed I am only made me even more depressed.”

Noah’s tone is perfectly neutral, and he still isn’t looking directly at the psychologist, as if he wished nothing more than to be anyplace else than in that office.

“It is only one part of the process,” he calmly explains. “What matters most is not the thoughts. It’s what you choose to do with them. You can let them possess you. Have the last word. Overpower you. Or, you can overcome them. Burn the journal where you wrote them, for example. You could let the spiral blow you away. But wouldn’t it feel nicer to blow the spiral away?”

“Yeah. I guess. But that’s not gonna bring Jane back,” he spits in a murmur after a few seconds of silence.

“Nothing will ever bring Jane back, and we both know it. She has left this world, but she has not left your mind, nor your thoughts. She has not left your heart, and never will. Noah, I don’t want you to stop thinking about your sister, to forget her, to move on as if nothing happened. I want you to combine your sister with good memories instead of bad ones. You’re a clever boy, I know you underst-”

“You weren’t there,” he suddenly rises, his voice sharp and eyes sharper, terrifyingly sharp for an eight-year-old boy. “You weren’t there when she was lifted off the ground by that thing and when it broke her neck and she fell to the ground and wh-”

“Please, Noah, there was no thing, it was an accident, just a regrettable accid-”

“It wasn’t an accident! She was murdered! By that thing - whatever it is!”

“You’re still confused and it’s perfectly norm-”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAW!” he yells.

“Noah,” the old man gently states, barely above a whisper, contrasting with the furious, uneven breathing of the little boy in front of him. “Noah, I know you’re still scared, but-”

“I’m not scared,” the brown-haired kid hisses through gritted teeth.

The mere mention of those three little words are enough to provoke violent nausea in his stomach; he shakily grasps the cookie and takes a mouthful of it. If he closes his eyes and gnashes his teeth hard enough, he can imagine everything is under control and he is tearing apart the shadow murderer with his own teeth.

When he sees her approaching, frantically looking for a seat in the crowded gymnasium, he knows he can no longer run from her and turn his back on what has happened years before. He’s always known it would be inevitable, that he would have to deal with this dreaded conversation, the apprehended reminiscence he has feared for ten years. He thought it would be easier to avoid the memories, the false condolences and the pitiful, hypocritical gazes thrown at his direction, if he completely shut her out of his life, if he completely shut them all out of his life. It’s the hardest decision he has had to make, and not a day goes by that he doesn’t feel remorseful, that he doesn’t wish he could come up to her and talk to her about anything, anything stupid, really; about that amazing book he read last week and he’s sure she would love, or the dog he saw in that garden and reminded him of her adoration of canine furballs, or the ridiculous amount of homework Mr. Cooper has been giving them all throughout last year. But it’s impossible, and what ends up completely destroying him is how sorry she looks when she turns to him with a pleading look in her chocolate eyes. How sorry she looks to be begging to sit next to the broken, twisted weirdo that used to be her best friend, her partner in crime.

“Hey, Noah. Do you mind if I…?”

“Knock yourself out,” he exhales and she sits next to him.

He never would have imagined these would be the first words he would tell his childhood best friend after spending all of those years purposefully avoiding her.

She doesn’t seem to feel the excruciating tension between the two of them as she engages a simple conversation with him, as if they had been friends forever, as if they didn’t have to catch up years of silence. He lets out the most aching sigh of his life and continues the casual discussion with Devon, trying not to show the convulsion of his palms. She’s talking about Lucas, and he responds with one of his infamous sarcastic remarks; he’s well aware he’s biased, he shouldn’t be so bitter and especially not to those who have done nothing wrong, but when Lucas’s cheerful voice rings in his ears, his patched-up heart fills with disgust and resentfulness. Does he even remember? Does he even remember him? Does he even remember Jane? How can he look so popular, so untroubled, so carefree… happy?

And that’s when he hears it.

He hears it and by the looks of it, he’s not the only one.

The voice. The voice he has had nightmares of, the voice he’s heard every single night of his life, distorted and crooked, creaking like a rusty door struggling to open, barely audible, right in the crook of his ear and something that desperately feels like a frozen breathing on his neck. And deep down, deep, deep down, something oddly familiar, something strangely recognizable and almost… dear?

“Everyone… plays… together…”

His heart skips a beat and his breath hitches in his throat. He refuses to believe it. He must be hallucinating. He must be dreaming. He must have fallen asleep during Lucas’s speech. It must be some twisted joke, some immature prank pulled on him, a back-to-school thing. It can’t be. He can’t be.

Unable to move any muscle, he looks at all his former best friends oh so slowly. And that’s how he knows he’s not hallucinating.

Devon’s dilated pupils, staring at the door but not seeing anything, ghostly tears stuck in her eyes; Ava’s trembling chin and lips, as if she were on the verge of tears; Stacy’s white knuckles, her unnatural shivering and gripping her pompoms; Lily’s parted lips, achromic cheeks, wide-open eyes, a drop of sweat running down her temple; Andy’s too rapid blinking and his nervous glances all around, especially behind him as if he were afraid of something over his shoulder; Lucas’s clamming hands and his unusual gulping.

They have all heard it.

They all know what it means.

And before Noah can even breathe properly again, before he can even swallow down the nervous ball of saliva caught on his tongue, his very own voice rings in his ears as if he were talking to himself.

Are you scared now, Noah?

For the first time, his habitual reflex, his automatic response - I’m not scared! - sounds fake, because he’s not telling anyone. He’s telling himself.

The streets are remarkably cold, or maybe it’s his sick mind playing yet another trick on him, altering his perception of reality. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he’s getting pretty tired of it. Ten years with a tangled mind is starting to get on his last nerve.

He can’t believe his mother. How can she tell him those things every day of his life, repeatedly without ever growing tired of mentally abusing him, of destroying the very last remainings of his psychological stability? Does she even believe them? Why does she always apologize, bow her head in silence and look up at him with pleading eyes, a deer in the headlights, begging his pardon as if he weren’t her biggest mistake? As if he weren’t nothing but a waste of space? Why does he believe her every time, hopes she will change for the best, that it is the last time that same old argument will break out, that he will finally be able to take a walk with her and buy her this necklace she’s been discreetly eyeing for a while - why does he keep on longing for a chimera, a cloudy fool’s paradise?

He can’t believe his friends either. He can’t believe their selfishness, their egocentrism, their lack of consideration for him. Do they only talk to him because they pity him, because he’s that lonely, brooding and grieving teenager, cloistered and mistreated? Even Devon! He thought- he thought that out of all of them, he at least really meant something to Devon.

And of course, he hates being alone and the streets are so empty without a true friend to walk them down with, it’s probably the reason why he suddenly feels colder and lonelier than ever.

He’s starting to regret storming off and leaving his mother on his own so abruptly, but he’d be damned if he admitted it out loud. He’s starting to regret storming off and leaving his friends on their own so abruptly at Britney’s party, but his hubris is one of the few things he treasures and can’t crack. He wishes he could stop being hostile at his friends for having progressed in ten years, but he’s so stuck in his own grief, his mother’s endless screaming and insulting, his own venenous spiral of thoughts that he can’t help expecting all the others to mourn Jane with him. How could they play that stupid game in front of him, how could they not be outraged after Britney’s proposal, how could Devon, out of them all, accept to condescend to do such childish idiocy? Especially given how harmful she knows it is for him, for her, for all of them? It feels as if they have spat on his little sister’s grave, so many years later, and their perjury is a hard pill to swallow for Noah.

Especially Devon’s.

Devon. The most egotistical of them all, and the one he cares about most.

He doesn’t realize his absent-minded footsteps are leading him to the gray road and gray sky crossing through the woods.

“Sick of this...,” he mumbles angrily, kicking a pebble out of his way, watching it with some sort of immature triumph when it disappears in the shrubs. “It wasn’t my fault... It wasn’t! Stupid b-”

A twig snaps somewhere behind him. He freezes, heart racing. If he were in his normal state, he would not be anxious and would have ignored the noise, especially in the middle of a forest, but a bizarre and disagreeable impression of being observed won’t leave him alone since he’s entered the forest by mistake. Like a pair of predator eyes are staring at him from behind, piercing his neck just like the destructive fangs of a snake...

“It’s just a squirrel, Noah. Just a squirrel...,” he half-heartedly whispers to himself, trying to stabilize the furious galloping of his heart.

What can it be, if it’s not a squirrel in the middle of the woods? It can only be a squirrel, right?

His heart a shriveled animal cradled in his throat, he uneasily turns towards the source of the sound... and comes face to face to the unmistakable ghostly silhouette of the charcoal creature, standing at the edge of the trees.

“Noah.”

Its whisper is solemn yet jittery, as if the thing were uncertain of what to say, of how to approach the teenager. He, on the other hand, knows exactly what reaction to adopt. He yells and runs. Runs as fast as he can, his heart a pounding drum, a roaring thunder, and when he looks over his shoulder... Redfield has barely moved. Noah comes to a dead stop.

“...wait...”

And suddenly, Noah is not scared. His fear vanishes as soon as the spectral voice reaches his ears, and he firmly marches forward, blood boiling in anger. His fright has been replaced by pure hatred, indignation, and his insatiable thirst for vengeance. All his life, he’s been running away, and he’s tired of it.

“What... What do you want? Huh? What do you want?!”

“Noah... Don’t be sad...”

“What the hell?! Are... are you comforting me?!”

“... not your fault...”

His ire doesn’t die down. It can’t dry up anymore. He’s been bottling it up for far too much time. His words come out harsh, breathless, raw, bloody, lethal. He can’t control anything anymore; he’s done controlling, he’s done biting back his distress.

“Yeah, no kidding! It’s YOURS! All of this is YOUR FAULT! You killed my sister! Or don’t you remember?! JANE! Her name was Jane, you bastard! And you MURDERED her!”

And when Redfield, looking almost sorry, shakes his head and points at his chest, murmuring a barely audible “no... Jane is here...”, Noah swears his heart skips a beat, but he’s so used to being lied to that he will surely not accept any glint of hope, especially not from his sister’s murderer.

“What... what are you talking about? What do you mean, ‘Jane is here’? Here where?!”

As Redfield is about to answer, a ray of sun cuts through the canopy and burns his shadowy figure, making him wince and withdraw more profoundly into the woods. Noah stretches his arm, motioning him to stop, almost wanting to grab him, to learn something, anything. Now that the monster has mentioned Jane, he can’t leave without his crucial knowledge.

Or maybe he’s just going full crazy.

“Hey, no! Stop! What does that mean? Where is Jane?!”

His voice is uncontrollably trembling at this point and he does nothing to master it. He’s never felt so cold in his entire life, not even when his eyes fell on Jane’s dead body, twisted in a terrifying angle in that cave, so many years ago. He’s waiting for an answer, a secret, a gesture, not even a word, just a reaction.

He never gets it. Redfield vanishes from view, disappearing into the penumbra of the woods, leaving him shaking and alone in the middle of the road.

“What the hell? What the hell?!”

He knows it could be one of the hallucinations - he’s gotten quite a few when he was younger, immediately after Jane’s death, and although they completely left him when he was twelve, it’s still more plausible than what he thinks he understood from Redfield’s halting speech.

And yet...

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, for the first time in a decade, Noah feels something he had forgotten. Something that oddly enough doesn’t feel bittersweet on his tongue. Something that he hates, something that he’s taught himself to manipulate with the utmost precaution, for it is the most dangerous of feelings.

Hope.

And for the first time in a decade, deep down, very deep down, way deeper than he can reach, Noah is not scared.

The tip of the knife quivers against the small of Devon’s back, thrusting inside the folds of her dress. She’s shaking; he can feel her trembling right next to her, very well aware that if she makes the tiniest of brusque moves, he will not hesitate to assure his grasp on her, even if it means making blood run.

Actually, he will hesitate, but she doesn’t have to know that.

He doesn’t pay attention to the carving in the stone, just at his feet, to the new words that have replaced the name he’s known for so long. The wrong name he’s been using for the entity. He doesn’t pay attention to her name chiseled on the floor, fearing it could make his determination burst... he leads Devon downstairs, where he’s made sure all of the others are sat and waiting for him. It’s the last step, the very last step for the only solution there is... hopefully, the very last step before he can meet with his sister again.

“Noah, I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?!”

“Trust me, everything will make sense in a minute.”

“How can I trust you when you’re pointing a knife at me?!”

“Devon, please. Just walk.”

She doesn’t even sound as outraged as she was a few seconds before, as she should be, as he would be in her place, just terrified. And he’s never felt so guilty, an indestructible, nauseous blade ready to slit his throat if he dares to get sentimental. He doesn’t understand why she doesn’t hate him, or at least doesn’t act like it, and it’s probably because of the ferocious-looking cutlass pointed at her ribs anyway, but just for a moment, it’s enough for him to give him courage.

The dim lighting of the cavern quickly comes into view, and Noah shudders. Despite having been there many times since Jane’s death, there’s still something mystic and untouchable about this place, something he’s afraid of profaning. And when all the people he was happy to call his friends look up to him, invisibly tied to the glacial chairs, eyes burning with rage, incomprehension, and disgust, he knows - he knows there’s no turning back. Not anymore. He can’t back down because things will never be the same, however he exits the cavern.

Everything that follows up goes down in a blur. He can’t quite remember what happens in all details, maybe because of the darkness of the room or of his mind, but the burns against Stacy’s skin, the spiders crawling up Andy’s torso, Jane’s twisted smile and spectral claws tearing Dan’s last remainings of sanity, Devon’s screams, filled with fright, sobs and violence are forever branded on the blank canvas inside his mind. And he’s convulsing on his electric chair, and he’s cantillating the same spell over and over under his breath as if it could change anything as if it could change the situation. “Only way... It’s the only way... Only way... Only way...” And everything is a chaos of yelling, of crying and of laughter, the laughter of a ten-year-old ghost, eight-year-old child and a thousand-year-old animosity, until all of his friends are engulfed by the thousands of shining eyes in the dark of the cave.

Next thing he knows, he’s right before Devon’s pleading, terrified eyes, a knife above her head, ready to strike, ready to immolate his poor little lamb to the terrific laughter of a kid.

And she’s talking but he can’t hear her; the weight on his chest and the weight in his hand are far too much and far too loud. Her words come out muffled, as if she were captive underwater, unable to reach his heart, to cross through his reinforced concrete chest.

Until she cries out.

“Noah, please! There’s nothing left to save! You’re stronger than that... stronger than her!”

And that’s when the reinforced concrete chest cracks. That’s when his mouth dries and his eyes light up, finally watching Devon aghast in front of him instead of just seeing her, finally seeing the bloody knife prepared to cut through her stomach rather than just feeling it, seeing it’s a monster licking its lips in anticipation for the delicious meal it’s about to have instead of an inanimate object.

He is about to cause everything he’s been reproaching his friends for ten years. He is about to become a murderer for the second time, thinking he can kill his former crime with a new one.

And his heart bursts and his eyes are frozen and his mouth ajar when he drops the knife to his side, its jingling bouncing on the cold walls of the cavern.

“D-Devon... I’m... Oh my god... I’m so-so sorry... I’m...”

He can’t find the words. Suddenly, he is a traumatized eight-year-old sitting uncomfortably in front of an indiscreet therapist, forgetting his emotions and the words that come with them, unable to discern the difference in the explosion of colors, smells and tastes in the blazing fury that just escaped his heart.

He reaches out to her, hands and heart empty, to graze her, make sure she is here, she is real, that it is not one of the countless nightmares he’s had. She withdraws, of course, shriveling like a wounded prey, her eyes wandering back and forth between the knife and Noah’s horrified expression. And Noah’s never hated himself more than he does in this moment, with Devon practically hysterical in front of him, cradled against the cold side of the grotto and trying her best to disappear from his view.

“Devon... I didn’t mean to...”

His voice cracks. He knows very well no words could ever mend things, no words could ever stitch the injuries he’s unjustly caused to his best friend, in the cavern and every day of the past ten years.

No words can, but maybe one last gesture, one final move before turning off the lights and being put to sleep might.

“Devon, I’m so sorry... I must... I must redeem myself... All of this was my fault... I-”

“No,” she pleads, and his heart aches when he realizes she would still be willing to prevent him from sacrificing his life in spite of everything he has ever done to her, everything he has ever done to all of them and himself in the first place. “No, you- you can’t do that. I won’t let you...”

“I have to,” Noah assures, oddly calmer than he expected, as if he had accepted his fate, as if he had already relinquished. “It’s only fair. I have caused all of this...”

He turns to face Jane’s curious eyes, her head tilted to one side just like a cat who doesn’t understand what’s going on. He turns to his sister, or at least the shell of what she was and everything that’s left of her, turning his back to Devon and takes a deep breath. He wishes he could smile at the ghost, tell her everything is going to be okay, that he will take her place and repair all the bad he’s done, that she will finally be free and she will reunite with her mother again, but something inside of him doesn’t believe it.

“I have caused all of this and I will fix it,” he completes, his voice sharp and determined.

“No!” Devon screams; he hears her trying to get up, but she’s still weak and trembling, and he won’t let her intervene anyways. “No, I won’t let you take her place. I should be the one doing it, I sh-”

“You’ve already done more than enough. All this time...”

His voice is soft, silky - certainly not the one you would expect from an eighteen-year-old giving himself to the games of a demon.

“All this time, I blamed you for being the reason why everything fell apart in the first place. I should’ve realized sooner that you were the one who was keeping everything together.”

He steps forward. Devon doesn’t say anything; he hears her suffocating through her sobs, and he tries his best not to think about it, not to let the shrill cries weaken his determination. Even Jane is silent, her mouth slightly open, her devilish blue eyes piercing right through Noah’s soul. Is that it? Will she trade her place with her brother’s? Will they ever both know peace?

Noah carefully kneels in front of the monster. Suddenly, they are not a terrorized teenager and an ancestral demon anymore; they are a brother and sister that fate, time and pride have torn apart.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Noah, I’m scared,” is everything Jane’s ghost-like form is able to murmur, contrasting with all the horrors she has said and done in the past weeks.

“I know. I’m scared, too.”

It feels good not to lie, for once.

And Jane breaks down into sobs, and Noah engulfs her in her arms and it feels almost agreeable to be holding the mere concept of darkness in the vague silhouette of his sister for the first time in a decade.

“Shh. It’s okay. Why don’t you rest now?”

It’s not long until his own tears wet his cheeks too.

“Let me take over for a while.”

His words die out in the shadows that collapse against his whole body, swallowing him entirely.

And as the cave shakes and the rocks fall down, blocking the only pathway that leads to the exit and Devon and her friends shakily flee out of the crime scene, the secret is sealed with the entrance of the cave.

Behind the rocks lies the secret of the boy who met evil.

#playchoices #choices #pixelberry #it lives in the woods #noah #one-shot #writing #i destroyed myself with this #probably not the best idea to post a noah os a few hours before the ilitw finale #but i wanted to #so there ya go #love the angst!! :)#noah marshall #mywriting

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absentgoji · 3 years

Text

looks like i missed DID awareness day? i had no idea it was on 05/03.

here are some questions you peeps are answering and i think it would be a good exercise to do so too, right now. then do it again maybe in a couple months.

i know you're asking each other by ask, but i dont have any followers so i will just answer them all by myself.

DID Awareness Day Questions:

What is one thing you wish everyone understood about DID? no, it is not like split , nor any other representation in media. no, its not noticeable (or, at least, not easily noticeable). people with DID are not multiple persons inside a body. people with DID are not 'survivors', 'fragmented heroes', or whatever romantic nickname you wanna call them. we are people who have to deal with a mental illness because of past trauma we wish we hadn't been through. people with DID are not doing this for attention: believe me, id rather have to deal with any other thing than not knowing myself, not being reliable. not everyone shares the same experience, each person deals with their disorder in a different way. however, DID has very specific symptoms we all do share, even if we describe it in a different way.

Are you in therapy? What is your experience with therapy like? yes. im in therapy, but i dont really find it helpful for this specific disorder in my case. i may see a different therapist soon because mine, even though they did diagnose me, has been treating the disorder tangentially. anxiety, adhd and depression were their main concerns. it took them some months to get to it, putting the pieces together (memory loss, derealization, depersonalization, distorted feeling of self, me talking about myself as if i was talking about a different person), and when they finally did, we worked directly on it just for a few months, then moved on to other things and we only get back to it occasionally.

Do you have an inner world? If you do, what is it like? i know i do have one. at this point i dont know if i made it up or if it was there from the beginning. i dont really 'go there' anymore. its nothing very logical, but more like different locations my different shades like to be at. when i talk to myself in a more active way i can usually find me (them) there. but its been a while since i last did that. i will address this in a different post.

What is communication like between you and the others? Do you have any particular systems set up to help with communication? writing. if i feel like i have something to talk about, i will write about it and probably answer to myself when i feel i have a different opinion. sometimes i will tell my friends about something and they remind me about that opinion later on. its not their work and i dont do it on purpose, but i know thats one of the ways i have of knowing what my other shades feel like. communication used to be better, but at some point i decided i did not want to have that approach to this anymore and i just stopped trying to communicate directly.

Has any conventional advice for DID ever not worked for you (journaling is unhelpful, can’t visualize an inner world, etc)? trying to make a scheme about how this works has been quite a mess, at least for me. i learnt (through tumblr, mostly) many things i had to unlearn. i learnt there were categories (protectors, etc.), and my shades didnt really fit the labels. i learnt that the same triggers make the same shades come out, but, for me, it might not happen that way. noticing stuff didnt work the way 'it was supposed to work' was harmful and i would stress so much about it. if this was supposed to be logical, it wouldnt be a disorder in the first place.

What does “safety” mean for you? feeling free to talk about me in any way i want to, not being afraid of making people feel uncomfortable or cringe, having them accept me as i am. i dont want anybody to pity me, handle me with special care nor anything. i am a normal person and i want to be treated as such.

Do you have any introjects? How do you feel about their source? How do they feel about their source? no.

Do you have any non-human alters? no

Is there anything that makes you feel like your experience with DID is “different” than what you see other people with DID talk about? all of the above, i think. also memory loss, maybe. the most common approach to it i usually get to read about is full blackout, 'alters' not knowing what others did, etc. in my case, while that can and has happened, is not the most common scenario. i dont remember if it used to be different in the past. ive been in therapy for like three years now and my memory has definitely gotten better. now i can describe three types of memory: - things i do remember. - things i dont remember, but i know. - things i dont remember, and i dont know.

Who is the most likely to get into a fight (physical or verbal?) Who’s the most likely to try to patch things up afterward? i would say my most problematic shade is purplish (i havent decided if i want to go back to using names again) and the one thats there to fix things right after is red.

Does anyone wish they could make big changes to your body’s appearance? yes. in most of my shades i identify as a woman or a nonbinary person with a feminine leaning presentation, but there are a couple of them that makes me really want to start transitioning. its pretty uncomfortable.

Choose some parts/alters and describe each in 5 words or less. i will answer to this question once i decide how i want to describe myself.

What does dissociation feel like for you? stuff happens and my brain just cant grab any thought. its hard for me to talk. im thinking about many things and none at the same time (crossed conversations). nothing is real. if im in a room, theres nothing outside the room and the walls, floor and furniture are fake. sometimes i am fake. people are not real and i can be careless about the way i talk to them because i dont believe it will have any consecuences (its a dream, right?). if dissociation is strong enough, my senses dont work well. i cant hear well, food doesnt taste like anything... (this is just my brain not being able to process whats happening, i believe).

How often do you think you switch? as of today, i have no idea. i dont usually notice the exact time i do, but some time later, when i catch myself thinking in a different way or doing someting 'out of character'.

Do any of you experience body dysphoria or dysmorphia? see number 11!

How many parts/alters do you think you have at this time? this is something i also stopped doing. it makes no sense, in my case, to try and keep count of them.

If you have younger parts/alters, what makes them happy or excited? i dont have any part that's significantly older or younger than the 'core?' one.

Do you consider yourselves to be covert or overt about having DID? covert. im really self conscious about it.

Do you experience denial often? How do you react when you experience it? all the time. i try to tell myself i have nobody to lie to, and that theres no point in pretending when theres no one around... so why would i fake it?

What grounding methods or skills work best for you? Do different skills work better for different parts/alters? relaxing, talking to someone, receiving some comfort and ignoring the fact that im dissociating are the things that work best for me. i usually check tiktok or twitter, listen to some music or talk to my partner til i feel better. if i dont, taking a shower also helps.

What does “recovery” mean for you? i dont know yet. i think 'being a single shade' is not possible for me, because i know that DID is not a disorder that can be healed, so i just hope i can learn how to live healthily this way.

#did #osdd #did awareness #some qs #idk #dissociative identity disorder

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justsomebucky · 7 years

Text

Flashes (Part 3)

Summary: Soulmate AU. “The fault, dear Brutus is not in our stars, / But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” - William Shakespeare (Julius Caesar)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2,012

Warnings: language, fluff, angst, it’s actually kind of optimistic???

A/N: Well, I did it…at least I tried. The lovely @minervaem challenged me (sort of) to do an angsty story. I’m warning you now, it’s not gonna be pretty.

Reader has her first flash, and stumbles upon some intriguing information...

Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

This is really freaking weird.

That was your first thought when the flash started, and it wasn't an exaggeration. While Natasha had always described her flash scenes as having radiant colors, your first flash wasn't quite so dazzling.

Everything was very surreal and hazy, as if there was a filter over your eyes that muted each color. You were still standing on a street in New York City, but you didn’t recognize it at all, nor did you understand its significance. Shadows and shade covered most of the street.

You squinted, scanning every direction for any hint or clue as to what you were meant to be witnessing. There was a whole lot of no one and nothing in particular. What good is a flash if it doesn’t actually help you?

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a slight movement – one of the shadows seemed to move ever-so-slightly. You turned your body slowly, focusing on the corner and mentally pleading with your brain to tell your soulmate to just freaking show himself already.

As if someone heard your thoughts, the silhouette of a person came into view. Your breath caught in your throat as you realized that you were staring at a man in an all-black suit…or was it a uniform? You studied his form carefully, raptly tracing every detail and mapping them in your memory.

Yeah, it was definitely a uniform.

The hard lines of his clothing showed off his muscular arms, broad chest and shoulders, a fit waist, a pair of thick thighs…

You tried to move closer but found that your feet were fixed in place. You were voiceless when you tried to call out to him. Natasha had always described herself in more of an observer role, having previously mentioned that she couldn’t interact with Clint, but you tried anyways for your own piece of mind.

Well, this sure as hell didn’t seem fair. There was actual man candy standing in front of you, and you couldn’t even interact with him. Shouldn't you get some kind of special deal because you missed out on flashes for so long? Some kind of two-for-one special? You deserved extra-long, extra-detailed flashes for all you'd been through.

The man shifted, placing his hands in his pockets as he turned his attention to something or someone you couldn’t see. As he turned, you noticed a small badge on the sleeve of his shirt.

NYPD.

Much to your dismay, your flash ended as abruptly as it started, leaving you dazed on the sidewalk in the light of day.

So, your soulmate was a police officer?

Natasha was going to be so freaking jealous!

You longed to go back and see him again, or see what else you could figure out. Now you understood all the smiles Nat wore when she was having a vision; there was no other feeling like it in the world.

Since you finally had a flash, it meant your soulmate was alive and nearby. You were so overwhelmed by the mere idea of him that you collapsed to your knees right there on the sidewalk. All your life, you’d been told you were incomplete, but you’d never quite believed them until now.

You buried your face in your hands and wept for yourself, for your soulmate, but most of all, out of sheer relief.

Once you picked yourself up off the pavement and managed to calm down, you called Natasha.

You let her speak first, knowing that she was probably bursting at the seams to tell you about her progress. She informed you that she was still waiting for Clint to come out of a meeting after having two more flashes in the last three hours. According to her, if she didn’t see his face in the next twenty minutes, she was going to go into the board room and drag him out by his ‘sexy arms.’

“So anyways, what’s new? Did you find that Vision guy yet? Get any wackadoo mojo going?”

“Nope. He went out of business or into hiding or something.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” Nat’s motherly voice was in full force. “I know you really wanted this to work. What are you going to do now?”

It was now or never. “Well…I, uh…I had a flash anyways…about five minutes ago.”

There was a brief pause of what you presumed to be stunned silence, and you bit your lip, waiting for the fallout.

"OHMYGODYOUHADAFLASH?" she shrieked. “Really? You’re sure? You’re not in some weird café where a hippie named Sunflower slipped you something, RIGHT?”

You cringed, pulling the phone away from your ear to try to spare your hearing. "Yes, I had an actual flash. It was...it was incredible, Nat."

“This is crazy! I am so excited for you! Who did you see? Were they hot? Wealthy?”

“It was a man. I didn’t see his face, but I saw his uniform,” you supplied, finally letting yourself feel excitement alongside your relief. “He’s with the NYPD.”

“Ooooooh! I could totally see you marrying a sexy cop.”

“I have to find him first, Nat,” you reminded her, a small smile gracing your lips. “And since this is a huge city with a ton of police officers, I’m not exactly sure where to start.”

“Well, start in the freaking city, of course! We can think this through.”

“I don’t know. It was different for you. You had a lot more to go off of when we searched for Clint’s name and photo.”

“It’ll be all right, Y/N. Reason it out like you always do. Your little impromptu trip must have finally triggered the connection, but I wonder why the distance was a factor. Maybe there’s more to his story than we could have ever guessed.”

“Maybe.”

Natasha was silent for a moment, but you knew she was still on the line because you heard people talking in the background. "Start with injuries," she suggested finally.

"Injuries? Like a head injury?"

"Yeah, like...he was MIA for over a decade, right? Something had to happen to make your connection weaker, to make it go silent for that long."

Nat made a damn good point. "I guess I could try the public library," you mused. "Maybe they have access to old newspaper archives.”

"It's a start, isn't it? Better than going to every police station until you have more flashes. Let me know what you find out, okay?"

"You got it. Thanks, Nat.”

“By the way, Y/N…” Natasha’s voice was wobbly now. You could tell she was emotional now that your news had sunken in. “I’m so freaking happy for you. You deserve love more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

You were a woman on a mission.

Now that you’d seen him, knew he was real, knew he was within reach, you’d be damned if you were going to let a silly thing like knowing absolutely nothing else about him stop you. Nat was right; there had to be a reason for his prolonged absence, and it was probably the key to figuring out who the heck he was.

The public library was easy enough to find, and they did offer guest passes to use the internet. A man with a very important-looking library badge handed you a pass, then politely told you that you had thirty minutes of free internet usage.

You had thirty freakin’ minutes to narrow down the search for your soulmate.

No pressure.

The first newspaper archive pursuit yielded way too many results, so you narrowed your search.

You were able to get it down to six major results that were within the time frame between what should have been your flash age and now. Five of the police officers listed had died as a result of their injuries, and of the two who were still alive, one was a woman. Since you had seen your soulmate already, you ruled her out.

That left one profile. Your stomach was churning, your nerves completely frayed as you clicked on the last news link.

"Sergeant James 'Bucky' Buchanan Barnes, NYPD," you whispered to yourself, scrolling down slowly. “A Profile in Courage.”

The article stated that when he was thirteen, Bucky was the only survivor of a car accident that killed his parents. A drunk driver had crossed the center lane on a highway and hit the family’s sedan head-on.

Doctors put him in a medically induced coma to try to save his life after significant brain swelling was detected. Once he regained consciousness, it took nearly two years for him to fully recover his mobility, followed by several more years of extensive physical therapy.

Eventually, he was released to the custody of a neighbor, Mrs. Sarah Rogers. She had been designated as his legal guardian in the event of his parents’ death. Her son, Steve, had gone with his adopted brother Bucky to police academy.

Well, that answered at least two of your questions.

Bucky had obviously either been incapacitated due to the coma during his flash age, or his injuries had been too extensive to allow any connection to occur at the time.

He also was able to have a great job with the police department, no questions asked, because he had clearly received an official medical exemption to the soulmate status laws.

Your heart ached for him. You wondered if he went into law enforcement because of that life-altering car accident. You wondered…

The article went on for a while, detailing his education, his time at the academy, and the event that caused him to get a commendation in the first place.

Nearly a year ago, Bucky single-handedly saved a woman and two of her neighbors in Brooklyn. The perp was the woman’s own abusive husband. He’d been drinking, and had come home and tried to kill her. She managed to get away by hitting him with a frying pan and running to the next apartment over for protection.

Lucky for everyone, the neighbors had heard him shouting the moment he came home, and had already called the police. Bucky was in the area, so he responded to the call quickly. That night, he took a bullet in the shoulder to take the man down, disarm him, and get him in handcuffs.

Sergeant Barnes sounded too good to be true.

When you scrolled to the bottom of the page, there was a picture of Bucky shaking hands with the mayor with a bright smile on his face. He had the best smile, with little laugh lines and a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes.

Damn, you were lucky.

It amazed you, too, because you’d never considered yourself lucky like this before, never thought you’d been given the best of anything. But Bucky…

You were absolutely head over heels in love with Bucky Barnes. You were the epitome of the heart eyes emoji at this point, and you didn’t even mind it. It was stronger than anything you’d ever felt for anyone before, and for that, you were grateful.

God, how many times had you sat around wishing for this? The endless longing, the tears, the discrimination, the lonely nights…all of that would soon be distant memories, leaving room for new memories you would make with Bucky, if he’d have you.

If Natasha could see you now, she’d be thrilled, but she would also be sure to get a dig or two in, considering how much you’d teased her about Clint.

Hopefully you'd measure up to his standards, too, at least enough to deserve a man like him. After all, he had turned tragedy into triumph. You...well, you did the best you could with the circumstances you were given. That’s what soulmate connections were supposed to do, though, weren’t they? Your soulmate was supposed to make you want to be your best self, and help you achieve that through your partnership.

There was no way that you were going to let your insecurities keep you from meeting him. Both of you had waited far too long for this connection.

It was time to meet your soulmate.

Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

PERMA TAGS: @sprinkleofhappinessuniverse @minaphobia @amrita31199 @aenna-4 @ailynalonso15 @psingh97 @sofiadiaz04 @mirkwood---princess @lilasiannerd @coffeeismylife28 @capdanrogers @melissalovesmusicyay @hollycornish @northscorpio @gallifreyansass @ancchor @vaisabu @alurea-actually @hailey-a-s @buckyswinterchildren @cleanslates @minervaem @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @winterboobaer @kjs-s @hardcorehippos @jay-birdbitchez @rchlnwtn @seeyainanotherlifebrotha @aeillo @whyisbuckyso @crownie-sr @neverbeforgotten @givemethatgold @notsoprettykitty @punk-rock-princess-626 @dracsgirl @giannastoico @cosmic-avenger @rockintensse @angelicshinigami @heytherepartner @simplyme8308 @ria132love @dolthiac @feelmyroarrrr @assbutt-son-of-a-bitch @johnmurphys-sass @wishingtobelost @nolaimagines @decemberftw @imamoose @kcsavege4134 @indominusregina @kittthekat @smkunz613 @actual-bucky-barnes-trash @miss-jessi29

Story Tags: None this time! only one part left, sorry!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes reader inser #bucky barnes au #modern bucky barnes au #AU!buckybarnes #au!bucky #bucky au #james buchanan barnes x reader #angsty bucky #just-some-drabbles #flashes story

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jacksgreysays · 7 years

Text

Twelve Sessions, 1/? (2017-01-20)

Mandatory therapy.

And that's just.

Well that's just fucking peachy, isn't it? After the absolute clusterfuck that this entire month has been.

Eating like an asshole college student, living off of cheap ramen and energy drinks. Sleeping only when the sheer weight of exhaustion threatens to smother me to death.

At one point I literally forgot how to count to ten, but that was fine considering all you need to keep the beat is an eight count and there are only five people on my team.

Were.

But it's all fine.

Now I get to waste an hour every week talking to a stranger who's just doing this to fill some bullshit quota from the court.

Mandatory therapy.

Like any amount of therapy can fucking help.

---

"Wow," says what's-her-face, I don't need to know her name, just the time and place of these damn meetings, "You look fucking exhausted."

"No shit, dumbass," I spit back, before the words catch up to me. Fuck. Is that going to get back to the judge?

... wait a second. Is she even allowed to talk to me like that?

"Today's meeting clearly isn't going to do fuck-all for anyone," she says, calm, and maybe this past month has altered my brain to the point where I can't even hear normal sentences without cussing being sprinkled in. Auditory hallucinations. That's a thing, I think?

"Take a nap," she says, waving over at the deflated, lumpy turd of a couch. It looks like she scavenged it from the curb, or ransacked some color-blind old lady's dumpster.

It doesn't smell like it, which is something at least; I check before taking a seat directly in the middle.

"What, really?" I ask, before tipping over to lay across the couch.

"Well I'm pretty sure you're not going to tell me shit, so you might as well," she says with a shrug. And, well, yeah. She does have a point.

Another wave, this one dismissing, "I'll wake you up in fifty minutes."

Normally, I can't sleep around strangers--definitely not without my team to watch my back--but it's as if now every time I get anywhere near horizontal my brain just switches off. The quiet and, admittedly, soothing sounds of paperwork don't help much either.

I try to stay awake--pretty sure I even manage to do so for ten minutes--but it's as if I just blinked and suddenly what's-her-face is calling my name and waking me up. Good instincts, to not touch me. I don't know what would've happened.

"Nap time's over, Mister Ives," she says, and there's something about it that just.

"Don't," I cough out, throat clogged and gritty with even that little amount of sleep, "Don't call me that."

She sends me a look, unimpressed and annoyed, "I'm not fucking calling you Apex."

She may as well have slapped me. "Not that either," because I don't need that shit right now, "Just call me Curtis, Jesus fucking Christ."

"Well that's not my name," she says, and that's... is that a fucking joke?

"I'm Simone Tallis. For when you get sick of calling me what's-her-face in your head."

Lucky guess.

"Now get the fuck out of my room. This session's up."

A/N: This is a highly fictionalized example of counseling. This does not reflect on anyone in real life. This is not an appropriate way for a therapist to speak to their patient. Nor is it polite for a patient to speak to their therapist this way.

Basically the equivalent of "do not do this at home," except for therapy.

#jacksgreyson #writing #original fiction #twelve sessions #curtis ives #simone tallis

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woohooligancomics · 6 years

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Zen and the Cult of Personality: a ComicsGate Story

You can't be a comedian and be afraid of people insulting you. And if stand-up or really any live performance is part of your act, hecklers are a fact of life. Performing live comedy and not expecting occasional hecklers is like working for the Fish and Wildlife department and not expecting bears, or not expecting drunks at a bar, or being a storm trooper and not expecting to get force-choked by Darth Vader.

I've talked about heckling before, but I haven't talked much about the hecklers themselves. Hecklers are a bit like internet trolls, although they're actually a bit worse, even cult-like. You see, internet trolls aren't bundles of narcissism, sadism and sociopathy like hecklers. ;)

As a comedian, if you ignore a heckler it ruins the enjoyment for the rest of the audience, so you have to do something. Most comedians fight snark with snark. Unlike internet trolls, hecklers often just won't give up, so it becomes a kind of roast-battle where the comedian and the heckler fire back and forth, competing for the most creative and entertaining insults. "Yo mamma so dead, you attended her funeral!" This is the most challenging part of performing live comedy because you have to be really creative on the spot, and while they're not quite the same, internet trolls can offer a substitute for us to practice against.